#AND I CUT OFF MY NOSE JUST TO SPITE MY FACE AND I HATE MY REFLECTION FOR YEARS AND YEARS

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

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[lunar-years]

Listening to Taylor Swift The Archer again and thinking about Roy Kent. As one does.

[neallo]

the archer by taylor swift is one of the most melloest songs ever written btw. if you even care

[ivytwines]

i am so taylor swift the archer coded its like she stole it direct from my diary. that bitch.

[feyriejane]

I went to go make a little vent playlist on Spotify and I got hung up on one song that I had to play on repeat and just cry to. I think I needed it though.

[mattsbows]

nurse!reader. . .babying matt while he's sick ♡

"this is so stupid," matt groaned, pulling the comforter closer to his red nose. "i was literally fine yesterday."

you hummed softly, popping a cold and flu tablet out of the plastic and passing it to him. "that is the way sicknesses tend to work." you chuckled.

your boyfriend groaned, laying his head back against the pillow after he had taken the medicine. "i hate this." he groaned before being cut off by a chesty cough.

"you gotta stay hydrated, sweetheart. it'll get rid of the cough," you told matt, brushing some of his hair off his sweltering forehead. "hot tea, water, or juice?"

"mmmm, root beer."

"i don't think root beer is going to hydrate you. besides sugar isn't good for your immune system."

matt huffed, clearly agitated with his illness, despite the fact that it was a common cold. "why do you know everything? you're like a walking nursing textbook."

"i did go to nursing school. look at the RN next to my name." you giggled.

in spite of himself, matt found a soft smile creeping onto his face at your giggles. he was beyond lucky to have you, and he was even more lucky that his sickness had decided to wait until one of your days off to rear its ugly head.

"i guess some hot tea would be nice, please." he mumbled, throat wheezy from all the congestion.

you smiled at your sucessful attempt to get matt to relax. "one hot tea with extra honey and lemon coming right up," before you left the room, you laid your cheek against your boyfriend's warm forehead. "fever of 101.2." you stated.

"since when are you a thermometer?"

"wanna bet?" you challenged.

all throughout nursing school and even now in your job, you'd found that you had a special skill for being accurate in checking temperatures nearly all the time, even with just the touch of your hand. you plucked the thermometer off matt's nightstand, sliding it under his tongue and waiting for the beep.

"101.3!" you cheered as the device beeped. "i was close."

"okay, okay. you were right." matt chuckled, letting out a sneeze.

"try to rest, baby," you mumbled, planting a kiss on his stubble-covered cheek. "i'm gonna go make your tea and get a cool rag for you."

matt pulled the covers around himself more as he watched you leave the room, wondering how on earth he had gotten so lucky to not only have a nurse as his girlfriend, but the best nurse as his girlfriend.

a note from the author: i literally love nurse!reader sm, she's my baby<3 i hope you all enjoy ♡

❁ tags: @mattsdemi @purpledragon222 @slxtarchive @natashad0627 @quinnysnursery @tyummyz

© mattsbows

[mediumgayitalian]

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———

Hades’ favourite thing to rant about is how much his family forgets about and sidelines him. Nico has literally never once given the lecture his full attention, because why the fresh fuck would he subject himself to that, but he discovers, lying facedown on the floor of Cabin Three, that he must have internalised enough of it to remember some key points.

He is loathe to admit it, but Father is right. How come the Poseidon cabin floors are so nice and comfortable? The floor of Cabin Thirteen sucks. Whenever he has Floor Time in his own cabin, he gets bruised and cold. Injustice.

“Could you suffer quieter? I’m trying to study.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

“I’m not the one groaning in misery.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

Percy sighs heavily. There’s a loud thud as he snaps his textbook shut, and the creak of mattress springs as he shifts.

“You’re so fuckin’ irritating, you know that?”

“Coming from you,” Nico says indignantly, pushing up to glare at him. Percy makes a face back. “I am here, having a crisis, being vulnerable in front of you —”

“Oh my gods.”

“— like you suggested, to rebuild our tenuous relationship —”

“I wish the prophecy had killed me. Either one, I’m not picky.”

“— and you are studying! Nose in a book! You hate reading! You are doing this just to spite me!”

“I am doing this to pass my classes,” Percy snips. “Someone should send you to public school. You need to experience that particular level of hell.”

“Experienced hell already, thanks. Don’t need a redo.”

“Tartarus references don’t shut me up, Zombie Boy. I’ve been there too.”

“Ugh.”

Percy rolls his eyes, turning back to his textbook. Nico contemplates rolling back on the floor to Ruminate and Think (after the second failure in a row he has a much to think about, like what the fuck is he supposed to do, should he even fucking bother, is he doomed to life without love, etc, etc) but finds himself, instead, sitting upright. Watching his — friend. Watching his heavy frown, listening to the bit-back curses and the crinkle of pages when he holds the book too tightly.

He’s moody, today. Sullen. Ate his breakfast in silence and stomped off to the sword fighting arena, raising hurricane downpour around the open theatre to deter anyone from joining him. Coincidentally, Annabeth has not been seen all day.

“Are you okay?” Nico asks quietly.

Percy shrugs, glancing over then glancing quickly away. “Fine.”

“I mean. You flooded half the camp. So.”

“Just drop it, Nico. If you’re going to stay in here, be quiet.”

Nico bites back the automatic, scathing retort. Be quiet, Nicolò! Lalalalala! Don’t tell me what to do! Ugh! I hate having a little brother! Yeah, well, I hate you too!

A quick, cut-off choking sound cuts through his thoughts. He looks up, startled, to find Percy’s face red, to find him swiping angrily at his cheeks.

“Woah,” he murmurs, climbing hastily upright. He ignores the loud chanting in his brain telling him to leave, the discomfort swirling in his stomach at seeing someone cry, seeing another man cry, instead hovering awkwardly. Percy shrugs off the hand he touches hesitantly to his shoulder, and Nico holds it there, suspended, in between and outstretched.

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

Nico hesitates. Of all people, he…nobody wants Nico around, when they’re —whatever Percy is. Upset. The only thing he can probably do is make it worse.

But what can he do? Leave him? Get Annabeth? Jason? None of it seems right. Instead he stands, frozen, hand still half-outstretched, eyes wide.

“You can —” He clears his throat. “Um. Did something happen?”

Percy shrugs. His eyes remain glued resolutely to his textbook, although the pages are wet and warped.

“Cause you can tell me, you know. I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything.”

Gods, he is so far out of his depth. Could Kampe come back and attack? That would be easier to deal with. Nico could handle that.

“I don’t —” the pages of the textbook crinkle under Percy’s grip — “it’s fucking stupid, is what it is.”

Hovering is not the right call. He knows that much. He scans the cabin, evaluating his options — sitting back on the floor feels like a bad plan. He doesn’t think any kind of touch would be welcomed, nor is he entirely comfortable in giving it. He doesn’t want to crowd. He doesn’t want to seem too distant.

Slowly, carefully gauging Percy’s reaction, he sits on the bed, across from him. He leaves the textbook between them, letting Percy keep pretending to read it, and tucks his legs up under his knees. He fiddles absentmindedly with his ring, chewing his lip every time Percy sniffles.

“Why’s it stupid?”

Percy shrugs again. Nico resists the urge to shake him. How does anyone deal with this shit? What the hell is he even supposed to do? He’s not Jason. He’s not Annabeth. Hell, he’s not Will, who seems to read emotions intuitively, who seems to know exactly what to do when someone is scared, when someone is upset. Even when someone is angry. He tries to imagine Will, in his position. Sitting across from a crying Percy Jackson, saviour of the world. Yesterday, one of the younger kids had tripped and scraped half the skin off their arm on the basketball court. Will had been there with a soft smile and gentle, glowing hands, speaking quietly and cracking small jokes until the kid was laughing again. Nico tries to imagine that here, soft words and lighthearted jokes. It doesn’t seem right. Would he — touch Percy’s wrist, like he did with Clarisse? Drag the fight right out of him?

Is Percy even angry? Nico has seen him angry before. Murderous. Fuming.

He’s never seen him cry.

Percy’s voice is like palms scraping hard over sharp gravel stones. “I made Annabeth cry this morning.”

The way he says it makes it hard for Nico to actually understand his words. His tone of voice is — volatile, is the best way he can describe it. Loathing. Based on the curling self-hatred dripping from the sentence Nico would assume he’d tried to kill her — he says I made her cry like he doesn’t deserve to live for it. Like he’s hoping to be punished.

“That happens,” Nico says. He swallows. “When you — love people.”

He and Bianca made each other cry a lot. He just never — stopped, never gave her half a second. Sometimes she looked at him and he knew she wanted to hit him. She never did. But he knew and she knew he knew and sometimes it would well up in her eyes, and she would lock herself in the bathroom of their room and turn on the sink and cry and cry and cry. And it ached something nasty in the cavity of his chest.

Percy sneers at his hands, flexing his fingers. “People who love you don’t make you cry. That’s just — hurting. That’s people who hurt everyone around them.”

Nico frowns. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says venomously. “I’m supposed to be — I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to keep her safe, keep her from people who cause her pain.”

“People like you?”

Percy nods.

Nico drags his teeth over his bottom lip. He thinks of bleeding fingers clinging to a tiny shaft of rock, thinks of dangerous green eyes, hard voices; thinks of a thick web clinging to a broken ankle and an abyss. Thinks of promises and oaths and choosing. Thinks of falling. Thinks of letting go.

“People who want to harm Annabeth do not jump into the Pit for her.”

The pages of Percy’s textbook have started to dry. The ink has bled, dark splotches in perfect circles. The fountain bubbles gently behind them, mattress creaking under shifting legs.

“You don’t understand what I —” He pauses, swallowing. “Did, down there.”

“D’you hurt her?”

“…I scared her.”

“Oh, well — Christ, Percy! Is that really what this — brooding is about?” He scoffs. “No shit you scared her!”

“…What?”

Percy looks at him, wide-eyed. Nico rolls his eyes.

“Aw, when you were fighting for your life in the place meant to tear your essence into atoms, did you do things that make you question your personhood? Your morals?”

“I —”

“Of course you did, dumbass! Of course you —” he takes a breath, trying to organize the jumble of thoughts in his brain — “of course the physical manifestation of darkness and distortion made you act differently than you would usually, Percy. Of course it — affected you. Gods. Of course you’re struggling.” He flicks Percy’s knee, looking at him with exaggerated exasperation. “Use your brain, why don’t you.”

A small smile quirks the corners of Percy’s mouth, although it fades as quickly as it comes. He wipes his face with his sleeve, breath shuddering.

“She didn’t scare me, though.”

“Not even once?”

“Not in the same way,” Percy admits. “I was scared, once, when I looked at her. In the death mist. But that wasn’t — her, you know? She could never scare me.”

“I mean,” Nico wrinkles his nose, trying to articulate, “I think that’s kind of abnormal?”

Percy tilts his head.

“I just mean that you have a very high threshold, Percy. For…what you’ll tolerate from people you care about.”

“Everyone has that.”

“Not in the same way you do.” He taps his knuckles, considering. “Tell me the truth — if Annabeth stabbed someone to death in front of you, in total cold blood, would you help her hide the body?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. He shrinks, a little. “Oh.”

Nico rushes to assure, placing a fleeting touch on his wrist. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I don’t think. It’s just —” He shrugs. “I’m used to scaring people, too. I don’t mean to. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what I — do, it’s not intentional.”

Percy opens his mouth, but Nico stumbles on.

“But you’re not — a monster, Percy, gods. No one thinks you’re a monster. Especially not Annabeth.”

Percy wiggles his finger under his watch strap, turning it tightly around his wrist, cutting off the circulation. Nico watches but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not, either.”

Nico blinks. “Huh?”

“A monster,” he explains. “You’re not, either.”

“Oh.” Nico shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No, I mean it, dude, I — look. Listen.” Percy sighs. “You got baggage. I put some of it on you. I’m sorry.”

Hands around his — throat — angry, angry eyes — harder — bruising — you promised! you promised! you promised!

“It’s fine.” A pause. “I did shit to you, too.”

“It’s not fine. And I know you did. We can still —”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He sighs again, a long, defeated sound, and curls in on himself.

“One day you’ll forgive yourself,” Nico murmurs. “One day I’ll — me too, I guess. Me and you.”

Percy smiles tiredly. “And we’ll be okay?”

“No. You’ll still be annoying.”

He snorts. “Whatever. Drama queen.”

“Oh, I’m the drama queen, Mr. I Don’t Deserve To Be Loved.”

Percy snorts. He turns back to his textbook, fiddling with the dried page, and snorts again, trying to duck his head. Nico bites the corner of his mouth, hard. Percy glances up again, and Nico meets his eyes, and they —

Gods, they’re bad at this.

But suddenly Percy can’t choke back his laughter, and it’s wheezing and self-deprecating and still kind of teary and Nico is laughing, too, because thank the gods that shit is over. Percy’s red-cheeked and Nico is red-cheeked and neither of them are going to look at each other for a week, Nico’s sure, but for now he can roll his eyes at Percy’s melodrama and dodge his embarrassed shoving, and it’s fine.

“You should talk to Annabeth,” Nico suggests, when the giggling has toned down.

Percy picks at the torn-up skin around his nails. “Probably.”

“Are you going to?”

“Why were you lying on the floor?” Percy asks instead. It is the least subtle subject change of all time, but Nico takes it as the hint it is and drops the subject. It’s not his business, anyway. They’ll talk. He knows Annabeth better than to think she’ll let it fester, at least.

“Oh, you know. Crushing weight of being alive, mortifying ordeal of being known, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Oh my gods. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Well, serves you right then, you selfish bitch.”

Percy snorts. “What, I cry all over you and now it’s your turn to vent?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it works. Transactional and eye-for-an-eye. Exactly as friendship should be.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Percy says, but he can’t tamp down his smile any more than he can stop his eyes from rolling, so there. Nico is exactly as funny as he thinks he is, thank you very much. A regular comedian.

Percy snaps textbook closed and sets it on the bedside table. “So.”

“So.”

Nico squirms. Suddenly he’s not sure why the hell he came in here in the first place. Are the floors in Cabin Thirteen really that bad? Surely not. Surely Floor Time didn’t have to be in Percy’s cabin.

(He blames Father for this. He’s horribly nosy. No doubt he’s passed his nosiness onto Nico, irregardless of his lack of DNA, and made Nico the way that he is. He can’t think of a single other reason he ducked into the cabin after lunch, when Percy still hadn’t shown his face.)

“Dude, come on. You came in here and whined and huffed and made a nuisance of yourself for literally forty minutes, and now that I’m giving you the attention you begged for you don’t want it? Nuh-uh. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill about,” Nico protests, “gods, can’t a man just complain in peace —”

“Ha! Not sure you can call yourself a ‘man’ if you’re voice is still cracking, squirt.”

“I literally hate you. Not joking.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Percy raises an eyebrow. “Well, since my guts are already spilled out and flopping all over the floor —”

“Disgusting.”

“—so it’s your turn, now.” He pokes Nico’s bicep. Nico bats him away, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, scooting over to put more space between them. Thankfully, Percy doesn’t follow, and he exhales, settling his back against the bed frame. The mattress springs creak again as he readjusts. “You can tell me, you know.” Nico can hear the smile in his voice at the cheeky repitition. “I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything. Ahem.”

“You’re so annoying.” Nico picks at a loose thread in the knees of his pants, looping it around his finger.

Will thinks ripped jeans are stupid. He hadn’t said so outright, when Nico came back from his Aphrodite-Cabin-enforced shopping trip, but Nico had noticed his pursed lips and deliberately schooled face. When he’d pressed about it, pestering him until he’d given up with the very southern passive aggressive if you like, Nico, I love, don’t you worry about it answer, he’d gotten a forty minute rant about jeans that “sold less jean for more fuckin’ money” that made him laugh until he cried.

He yanks the thread and pulls. The hole widens.

“Oh my gods, you’re actually whipped. Is that what this is?”

Nico flushes. “Shut up.”

“It is!” Percy grins widely, wicked delight in his eyes. “You are literally thinking about him right now! You might as well be kicking your feet! You —”

“Shut up, Percy, gods.”

“I’ve never seen you so red,” he says instead, because he is incapable of following instructions. His smile fades, face softening into something more pensive. “You must really like him.”

Nico shrugs. Is that what he feels for Will? Gorgeous. I’ve been crushing on you forever. He likes a lot of people. You always know just what I need. A lot of people aren’t Will.

“He’s not scared of me.” No matter how much he fiddles with it, the metal of his ring is always cold. Cold hands, he supposes. He never heats up much. “Or. intimated. Creeped out. He thinks I’m —”

He clamps his mouth shut. A bubble of something expands in his chest, growing out of his lungs, past his shoulders, pushing his throat closed. He swallows, hard, trying to shove it back, but — Nico! Hey! You think I couldn’t stand to see a friendly face? No way, Death Boy, no more Underworld-y magic for you! I can literally feel you fading! My hands are still shaking — here, feel.

“Gorgeous?” The smile on Percy’s face is teasing, but much softer than before. “I heard he — said.”

Maybe it’s the redness of Percy’s nose that hasn’t quite faded, or his still-puffy eyes, but finally the bubble pops, and Nico sighs, tipping his head back until it rests on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes. After a beat of hesitation, callused fingers brush through his hair, ruffling it, lingering awkwardly before pulling away. He smiles.

“Yes.”

“…Really? He just up and told you, that he had a —”

Percy stumbles on the words. Nico peeks one eye open and grinning wryly. “Yeah. He’s a hell of a lot braver than I am. Or maybe he’s just shameless.”

“He was always really intense about being your friend.” Percy screws up his face, tilting his head as if envisioning it. “I didn’t understand what that meant, at first. I didn’t get…the reason? Behind it? If that makes sense.”

“You forgot about gay people,” Nico says drily. “I know.”

“This is true,” Percy admits. He grins, sheepish. “That’s an L on my part. Every time me and Annabeth went looking for you he’d somehow know about it and ask us a bajillion questions when we got back. I just thought he was really into necromancy, or something, but now it’s like…damn.”

Nico covers his eyes with his hand, fighting back an embarrassed smile. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering. There is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you.

“You’d think it would be easier to get him to go out with me, then.”

“It hasn’t been?”

Nico throws his hands up. “No! He doesn’t — I got him flowers, Percy, and he ground them up to make a poultice. He thought the rock I got him was a bribe. I open every door for him and I always pull out a chair for him at counsellor meetings. I make sure to stand up first when we’re sitting together and offer him a hand. I don’t know what else I can — do, gods.” He makes a noise of frustration, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m being as obvious as I can be. What am I gonna have to do to get him to realise? Fuckin’ — tattoo his name on my forehead?”

Percy slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out his pen. He twists it around his fingers, fiddling with the cap, picking at the plastic casing. He uses the end of it to trace mindless swirls on his thigh, which Nico can’t help but feel is dangerous. One wrong move and he better hope Nico can drag him to the fountain fast enough to stabilize him. But his eyes are far away, teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“There is a chance,” he says slowly, “that he…knows.”

Nico frowns, turning to face him properly. He looks resolutely at his lap. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I — well.” He does finally uncap his blade, staring at the soft glow of the bronze, rubbing his thumbnail over the leather handle. “I. Knew,” he says haltingly. “That Annabeth liked me. I —”

Nico watches him carefully. This is…news, to him. He didn’t keep up much on camp drama about the two of them — for obvious reasons — but he hardly had to. Even during his brief, one or two day stops at Camp, Percy and Annabeth gossip was impossible to avoid. People talked about them constantly, about how much they obviously cared for each other, how oblivious, especially, Percy was. It used to give him a twisted sort of hope.

“You…knew? And you didn’t do anything?”

Percy winces. “She got frustrated with hiding it. She kissed me, once, before I blew up St. Helens. And I just —” He shrugs. “I couldn’t believe that someone like her would want anything to do with someone like me.”

It’s impossible to miss his meaning, to miss the self-directed bitterness at the end of his words. Nico recognises it because he practically invented it. Someone like me. Someone disgusting, ugly, unworthy. Someone bitter and twisted and wrong. Someone so undeserving.

“I think Will is like me,” Percy continues softly. “That — insecurity.” He says the word quickly, like he might be able to hide it in the rest of the sentence. “I think he thinks very highly of you. And I think it’s hard for him to believe that you want to — to lower yourself, to be with him.”

“That’s inane,” Nico argues. “He’s — bright and kind and smart and — he’s fucking everything, what is he —!”

“He grew up a healer in a camp full of warriors. Full of talented people,” Percy murmurs. “When you’re surrounded by people who know what they’re doing, it’s easy to feel like a loser.”

Nico opens his mouth, closing it again. On principle he doesn’t agree with Percy. It doesn’t make sense. Every single person at this camp has relied on Will in more than one way for as long as he’s been here — as long as he’s been healing them. How could he not know what his purpose is? How could he not realise his talents?

Ace bandage, sound and unwound. Hard blue eyes, self-directed sneer. I’m just a healer.

“He’s not a loser,” Nico says eventually. “I don’t think he’s a — loser.”

Nico thinks he’s quite a bit more than that, actually. In fact if all words in the any language he knows, ‘loser’ is probably the least apt to describe him.

“How do I make him realise? Make him —”

Percy shrugs. “Took Annabeth several years and I still think I’m — well. I still struggle. You’ll have to be patient.” He glances over, and that mischevious smile is back on his face, the one that promises trouble and guarantees Nico an excuse to kick him. “Or, you know, you could just tell him that you think he’s bright, and kind, and smart, and beautiful, and —”

Nico does indeed kick him. He falls back against his pillow, laughing, curled against his side.

“I did not — I did not say beautiful,” Nico says hotly, “that was not on the list, you total jackass —”

Percy only laughs harder, no matter how many times Nico kicks him.

———

next

[y-rhywbeth2]

In fairness, if I were BG3 Viconia I would also hate Shadowheart's guts. You spend 100 years in loyal service and then get thrown aside because Shar will not stop trying to make this girl Sharran.

And she is. Terrible. At. It.

'Mistress, we've had to send her to have her memories reset for the fifteenth time this month.'

'Mistress, she won't stop defending the trans girl no matter how many times we remind her that she's supposed to be driving her into misery and isolation to better embrace your teachings. We keep telling her that acceptance of diversity and befriending minority groups is Selûnite behaviour and she's still doing it.'

'Mistress, she's cooing over fluffy animals again. She just saved another cat that got hit by a cart. Now she's trying not to cry over it.'

'Mistress, she cannot lie to save her life and I'm convinced it's inherent and immutable. I've been training her for 30 years and she still keeps outing herself as Sharran in public. It's basic doctrine!'

'Mistress, this is a complete waste of res- no, I'm not questioning you! ...but it's been 30 years and we're using up so many torture implements and spell components putting her back on the right track, I'm sure temple funding could go to less taxing things?'

'Mistress, p l e a s e.'

But Shar cannot be convinced she's ever wrong and is determined to prove that she's inherently better than her sister and will cut off her nose to spite her own face; so Viconia has to keep pushing that boulder uphill. Time for re-education session #984!

I mean it's horrible for Shadowheart, but it's also so hilariously stupid on Shar's end. Sure she might win and corrupt Shadowheart, but oh my god this time and effort could've gone to better use.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: You get what you give

For this round, drabbles are written based on a random choice of character and image from this pinterest board. Pls feel free to keep adding to it.

Character: Andy Barber

Prompt

Warnings: this drabble includes elements such as mentions of alcoholism and cheating. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

Andy Barber.

You'd know him anywhere but you didn't expect him there. The tight-ass, straight-laced family man in a place like this. His department store suit stands out on the dingy bar. So does the woman grinding in his lap. She's not his wife. 

He has one hand on a pint of foamy beer and his other on her ass. He encourages her with a growl as she nips at the air before him. The tension is palpable. 

Your hand rests on your phone as you hide on the gloom at the other end of the bar. Your vodka tonic is forgotten as quickly as the shitty day you hoped to drown in it. Your thumb hovers above Laurie's name, hesitant, calculating. 

Andy fucking Barber. 

That jackass with the side eye. You're not stupid. You heard what he said about you. He didn't realise you were in his bathroom, that you were witness to yet another row with his long tortured wife. 

Well, you might be a goddamn drunk but you're not a fucking cheater. The only man in your life is the bartender.  

You flick away your contact list. Instead, you tap the camera icon and swipe into recording mode. You carefully angle the lens up to catch the screen. Yoi watch through the screen as the woman straddles him, grazing her fingers through his beard as she draws him into a sloppy kiss.

Oh yes, it's very messy indeed. 

🍺

You expect chaos when you hit send. It isn’t thoughtless or spiteful. The truth is the truth. As he always says, honesty is the greatest virtue of all. You always roll your eyes when he goes on his exhaustive lectures; often treating Laurie no different than their son. 

‘Sorry, Laurie. I didn’t think you’d believe me but proof is in the pudding.’ 

Maybe there is a bit of spite left in you. You hope she’s happy now. Andy may have been right about you but you were just as on point about him. Let it burn, you might just smell some of the ashes as they settle. 

Days pass. No response. You don’t expect one. You were surprised she didn’t block your number when she cut you off. You wouldn’t have blamed her either. But you can still hate them all. 

It’s not Laurie, it’s him. He shows up at your office. You sit behind reception where you always do and tuck away the flask you keep in your bottom drawer. Shit. 

“Hello, sir, how can I help--” 

“Don’t fucking do that,” he points over the top of the square desk and grips the edge, “you know why I’m here.” 

You can’t help a smirk. You wiggle a pen and innocently tap your bottom lip, “I’m sorry, did you have a meeting with one of our agents?” 

“You are fucking low,” he snarls. 

“Ah, yes, but seems like we frequent the same gutters,” you sneer back. “She looked young. Did you check her ID? You might not just be a creep, you could be a criminal, Mr. ADA.” 

“Fuck you,” he bends over the higher shelf of the desk, “do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done?” 

“Mr. Barber,” you reach for the phone, resting your hand on the receiver, “if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to call security.” 

He quakes with rage as his face turns red, “you’re a fucking bitch.” 

“Might be, but at least I’m not a cheater--” 

“Alcoholic slut,” he sneers. 

You lift the receiver and hit speed dial. You stare him down as you do, “hi, Joey, yes, I have a client here who’s a bit... aggressive, do you mind coming up here? Thank you.” 

You wink at Andy and put the phone down as you sit back. He glares back at you and stands straight. He puffs through his nose like raging bull. 

“Just you fucking wait,” he threatens as he retreats, “you ruined my fucking life. I’m gonna burn yours to the ground.” 

[girlwithadragonheart]

Chapter 11 - A Touch of Spite

This story contains major spoilers for Dragon Age the Veilguard. Read at your own discretion!!

Kalais x Lucanis

Summary: Now that Lucanis has finally admitted his feelings, Spite wants a turn with Rook. Rook and Lucanis plan to crash a party

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Swearing, tension

A/N: I have nothing to say about this one. Just enjoy

Chapter 10 DATV Masterlist Chapter 12

After speaking with Solas and then the rest of the team, I sat alone in my room. The Lighthouse was quiet, and for once, my mind mirrored that silence.

The reflections of the aquarium moved across the room, painting it in a blue-green glow. I was sitting on the edge of my bed-slash-sofa, lost in the movements of the fish behind the glass, when a knock came at the door---soft, tentative, yet deliberate.

I frowned slightly. No one usually came to my room this late. Rising cautiously, I padded over and cracked the door open.

“Lucanis?” His silhouette filled the doorway, but something was off. His usual composed demeanor was absent, replaced by a strange energy that seemed to hum in the air between us. His gaze lifted to meet mine, and I froze. 

His eyes were glowing---that deep, eerie purple that sent a shiver down my spine.

Not Lucanis.

“Mischief, what are you---”

Before I could finish my sentence, his lips were on mine. It was sudden, insistent, and unlike anything I’d experienced before. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, and though I should have pushed him away, my body hesitated.

“My turn.” Spite growled, his voice rougher and more gravelly than Lucanis’s. His lips moved with open-mouthed kisses up my jaw and down my neck. His kisses turned from lips to teeth, biting and sucking at my skin as his hands roamed, sliding down my back, his touch possessive in a way that left no doubt who was in control.

I tried to pull away, but my back hit the wall, and I was caged. “Spite---” I managed to gasp, my voice trembling with confusion and a flicker of something else I couldn’t quite name.

He pulled back, just enough to meet my gaze, his smirk predatory. “You want this,” he hissed, hand skimming lower, the heat of his touch searing through the thin fabric of my clothes. He tucked his nose into the crook between my neck and shoulder. “I can. Smell you.” He took a deep inhale, and my heart pounded in my chest, anticipation building in me.

I felt a rush of conflicting emotions---fear, anger, compassion, and lust that I couldn’t quite hate myself for. My heart raced as he kissed me again, his mouth demanding in a way that sent a flush of warmth coursing through me.

His hands pried apart the buttons of my shirt without care, the rough calluses on his palms dragging against my sides as he bared me from the waist up.

Before things could spiral further, his body stiffened, and his grip on me faltered. His hands dropped, and he stepped back, a deep gasp escaping him as if he were pulling himself out of deep water.

“Kalais?” Lucanis’s voice was hoarse, his expression twisted with confusion and horror as he blinked down at me. His eyes, now their usual dark brown, darted between my face and his own hands, as if trying to piece together what had happened. “Did he---” he cut himself off, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. “Did Spite hurt you?”

“No, no,” I said quickly, raising my hands to calm him. He was already backing away, his body rigid, his expression stricken. I felt a light draft, causing goosebumps to prickle my chest, and I realized I was still half indecent. I quickly pulled my shirt back together, clasping the buttons.

“I didn’t---” his words were strangled, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Lucanis, stop,” I said, stepping forward, my voice trembling. “He didn’t hurt me. He just… he kissed me. And touched me, but… but not like that.”

His brow furrowed, watching as my hands buttoned up my shirt, a storm in his eyes. I hated the pain I saw there.

“I swear, I’m okay,” I continued, forcing the words out even as my cheeks burned with shame. “He shouldn’t have done that without talking to us first,” I said carefully. “I just wish…” I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest.

“What?” He asked, his voice low, careful, as if bracing for what I might say next.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I wish you had been the first one to touch me like that,” I said in earnest.

His eyes widened, the words catching him off guard, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“Kalais,” he said finally, his voice raw with a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite parse. “I… I don’t understand. How could you---” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts.

I took a breath, lest I break down like this in front of him. One of us had to keep it together at all times. “It’s not a secret I care about both of you. Spite was never even…” I paused, searching for the right words. “Given a chance to be seen as anything other than what that place made him- made you. It hurt both of you, that doesn’t make him inherently evil,” I explained. “But… But he should have talked to us about it first.” My thoughts were racing and my tongue seemed to move with them before I could stop. “I want you… and that means I want him too, but…”

“But what?” Lucanis asked, looking astonished, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I want you to be my first,” I said quietly. “I’m not… experienced.”

I watched Lucanis’s cheeks dust pink, and he glanced away. “Oh.”

Lucanis’s stunned expression lingered as he processed my words. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, a sharp contrast to the earlier intensity with Spite. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first, his jaw working silently before he managed a shaky breath.

“I… didn’t realize,” he admitted softly, his voice low and cautious. His gaze flicked back to me, his brown eyes searching mine. “You’ve always seemed so confident. I never would’ve guessed…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair again, clearly out of his depth.

“That I’m a virgin?” I laughed slightly, my cheeks warming as I wrapped my arms around myself. “I guess I’m good at pretending,” I said with a small, self-conscious shrug. 

Lucanis frowned, his expression clouding with guilt. “Kalais, I… I don’t know what to say. I’m angry at him for not giving us a choice, for doing this to you. But…” His voice softened as his gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t want him to… mess this up. For us.”

I stepped closer, my hand brushing against his arm, trying to draw his attention back to me. “He won’t,” I said firmly. “I trust you, Lucanis. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t. I’ll talk to him.”

His eyes snapped to mine at that, a flicker of something vulnerable flashing across his face. He swallowed hard, visibly gathering himself. “You trust me,” he repeated, the words almost reverent. He exhaled shakily and reached for my hand, his fingers curling around mine with a gentleness that made my heart ache.

“I do,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me.

For a moment, he said nothing, just holding my hands as if grounding himself in the simple connection. Then, he let out a low, humorless laugh. “You make it sound so easy,” he muttered, his lips quirking in a wry, self-deprecating smile.

“It is,” I said simply, echoing the words I’d spoken to him before. “At least for me.”

Lucanis’s grip on my hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You deserve better than this,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. “Better than me… better than Spite…”

I shook my head, cutting him off. “Don’t decide what I deserve for me,” I said firmly. “I’m not looking for perfect, Lucanis. I’m looking for you. And I don’t regret anything that’s happened. I just… want us to figure this out together.”

His gaze softened at that, the storm in his eyes quieting just slightly. “You’re too good to me,” he said quietly, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” I countered, stepping closer until we were only a breath apart. “You’re not responsible for Spite’s choices, Lucanis. And you don’t have to carry all of this alone. I’m here. For both of you.”

Lucanis stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he raised his free hand to cup my cheek, his touch achingly gentle. “You’re incredible,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over my skin.

I felt my breath catch, my heart pounding in my chest as his gaze bore into mine. “Someone has to be the voice of reason around here,” I whispered.

His lips curved into a small, genuine smile---a rare, unguarded moment that made my chest ache. He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.

“We’ll figure this out,” I murmured, my voice a low promise. “Together.”

“Together,” he echoed, the word steady and full of hope.

For now, that was enough.

❈❈❈

Lucanis sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands raking through his hair as he fought to keep his emotions in check. His heart was still racing, the memory of Kalais’s flushed face, her trembling voice, and the sight of her fumbling to button her shirt playing on a loop in his mind. His fists clenched involuntarily, nails biting into his palms. The tightness in his pants certainly didn’t solve any problems.

“You’re quiet,” Spite’s gravely voice broke through the tension, the tone almost teasing. “Regretting already?”

Lucanis’s jaw tightened, refusing to look at the aspect of himself leaning against the wall. Spite had no right to bring her into this. Not now. Not after what he’d done. “What the hell were you thinking?” Lucanis snapped, his voice low but seething. He pushed himself to his feet and started pacing, the energy humming under his skin demanding release. “You can’t just… take over and do that. You violated her trust, Spite.”

“She. Wanted it,” Spite replied smoothly, his voice echoing in Lucanis’s mind like an unwelcome shadow. “Wanted more.”

Lucanis spun on his heel, eyes narrowing as he glared at Spite. “Wanting something and being ready for it are not the same thing!” Lucanis growled, pointing at him. “Consent, Spite. It’s not just some formality you can skip because you think you know better. You ask. You wait.”

Spite scoffed, his voice rich with disdain. “Ask? Why? Rook. Wanted it. Her body. Sang.”

Lucanis’s fists clenched again, but he forced himself to take a steadying breath. “It’s not just about what you think you can sense, Spite,” he said tightly. “It’s about respect. About giving her the chance to choose for herself. You took that away from her tonight.”

Silence followed his words, heavy and oppressive. For a moment, Lucanis wondered if Spite would retreat, slinking back into the recesses of his mind to avoid this confrontation. But when had he ever done that? It was always harsh words and angry tones flung between the two of them. Never civility. The Ossuary had stolen that from them both. At least with each other.

Instead, his voice came back, quieter this time. “I’m not used to… Asking,” Spite admitted begrudgingly. “This. Is new. For me too.”

Lucanis paused, the raw honesty in Spite’s tone catching him off guard. He folded his arms, his anger dimming just enough to allow a sliver of understanding. He didn’t know how spirits or demons experienced affection or lust besides the obviously lustful kind of spirit or demon. He wondered briefly if his own feelings were starting to bleed into the demon from their time together.

“Well, it matters now,” he said firmly. “Kalais isn’t some toy for you to play with. She’s a person. Someone we both care about.”

“She cares. About us. Both.”

Lucanis exhaled, the weight of the night pressing heavily on his shoulders. “She does,” he admitted softly. “But that doesn’t mean you can ignore her boundaries, Spite. If you want her to trust you---to trust us---then you have to respect her choices.”

Spite’s aspect, the purple glow surrounding him, flickered, dimming slightly. “If I. Don’t?” Spite asked, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Lucanis’s expression hardened. “Then you lose her,” he said simply. “Because I won’t let you hurt her again. I’ll find a way to keep you from taking over if I have to.”

The threat hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Spite growled softly, but it wasn’t the defiant sound Lucanis expected. It was almost… thoughtful.

“I’ll try,” Spite said at last, the words begrudging. “But. I want. My turn.”

Lucanis’s brow furrowed, and he turned away, pacing again. “Your turn?”

“Yes,” Spite replied. “You’re awake. During the day. You get Rook. I only have. The night.”

Lucanis’s teeth ground together, the idea setting him on edge. But he could feel Spite’s determination, the tenuous thread of compromise dangling between them. He thought of Kalais, her words echoing in his mind: I’m here. For both of you.

“Fine,” Lucanis said finally, his voice sharp as he crossed his arms. “But there are rules. When I’m awake, she’s mine. You stay out of it. And when she’s asleep, you leave her alone. She needs her rest, Spite.”

“And when. You sleep?” Spite pressed, his voice low and coaxing.

Lucanis hesitated, his mind warring with itself. Finally, he nodded reluctantly. “You can… spend time with her. If you respect her boundaries. No more taking over without permission. You want her trust? Earn it.”

His purple glow brightened briefly, then dimmed again. “Deal,” Spite said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction.

Lucanis sank back onto his cot as Spite disappeared from view. He didn’t fully trust Spite---he doubted he ever would. But for now, it was a start.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Lucanis muttered under his breath, staring at the ceiling.

❈❈❈

I wandered to the kitchen for a bite to eat after blissfully uninterrupted sleep. No god of lies, no spirits, no people, and lots of healing rest.

“Good. You’re here,” Lucanis said.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A note from Viago.”

“Illario’s making his move?” 

Lucanis nodded. “A big one. He’s hosting all the Talons of the Crows at Caterina’s villa.”

“That means the finest wine, and an even finer banquet,” I said.

“You deserve better than anything at Illario’s table,” Lucanis told me seriously.

“I’ll let you re-educate my palate. Once we’re out the other side,” I grinned.

“We have to do this carefully. Illario has to be expecting us,” Lucanis said.

“You think he knows that we know about him and Elgar’nan?” I asked.

Lucanis smirked, “He knows we know about him and Zara. After your gracious display of threatening him. He wouldn’t be avoiding us otherwise. Be ready for a trap.”

“I always am,” I told him. “Are you… Are you and Spite okay?”

“We’ve come to… an agreement,” he said carefully.

I nodded slowly. “Okay… Should I be worried?”He reached up, fingers playing through the ends of my hair. “Do not worry, mi diosa. I can handle Spite.” His fingers brushed under my jaw, tipping my chin up. I shivered. “You should worry about Teia. Viago said she’s inconsolable with preparations for Illario’s banquet. Knowing her, she has a plan to get us in.”

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

A/N: I have planssss >:3

As always, let me know if you want to be on the Lucanis tag list or the tag list for this series!!

Tags: @encrytpta

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

thinking about dear reader, and how the lover era came after reputation and was cut short by covid… if you don’t recognize yourself that means you did it right, and I cut off my nose just to spite my face and hate my reflection for years and years… the greatest of luxuries is your secrets, and I don’t wanna keep secrets just to keep you… a house, not a home all alone because nobody’s there, and I look through the windows of this love even though we boarded them up… nobody sees you lose when you’re playing solitaire, and back when we were card sharks playing games… get out your map pick somewhere and just run, and voted most likely to run away with you… these desperate prayers of a cursed man, and desperate people find faith so now I pray to Jesus too… my friends found friends who care, and all of my heroes die all alone… you should find another guiding light, but I shine so bright, and just don’t go meet me in the afterglow…

[newnlovesjennie]

the strawhats, what song i associate with them, and why pt.1

pt 1 includes usopp and sanji!

usopp

the archer by taylor swift

obvious connotations of him being a sniper and the song being titled “the archer” aside,

the song is about insecurities and anxieties, specifically with relationships with others, which i feel encapsulates a lot of usopps struggles

“i’ve been the archer/i’ve been the prey/who could ever leave me, darling/but who could stay?”

usopp loves putting on a fake bravado on being the ultimate sniper leader of 2000 men etc but in reality its all a front, for someone from a relatively civilian background (as opposed to luffy, sanji, zoro, etc) it can be jarring to have to constantly juggle from being both the archer and the prey

“i cut off my nose just to spite my face/and i hate my reflection for years and years”

its my personal hc that all the long nose jokes actually do affect usopp a lot, and i doubt his insecurities about his personality stop there, he’s probably very insecure about his looks as well

“i wake in the night/i pace like a ghost/the room is on fire/invisible smoke”

love this lyric SO much especially in tandem to usopp, “the room is on fire invisible smoke” kinda has two meanings— im sure as the anxious individual he is usopp constantly has panic attacks where it feels like everything is on fire but only to him, it feels invisible to everyone else, but i also like it because of the specific connotations of “invisible smoke”, as the reason why smoke detectors are so important is because co2 is the biggest silent killer, and is “invisible” in a sense. when merry was still alive in water seven while everyone else was trying to destroy it, it felt like usopp was screaming into the void as he was the only one who could see her soul, the invisible consequence that the rest of the strawhats just couldn’t see, except for usopp

sanji

my love all mine by mitski

for someone as full of love as sanji its inevitable for him to be associated with this song

“nothing in the world belongs to me/but my love, mine all mine”

sanji is someone who wears his heart on his sleeve and just gives and gives until he has no more, because in a world where his siblings are genetically engineered to be better and stronger than him in every way, his love is all he has left to offer. his sensitivity and capability to love is a strength of his, despite what his father or others may think

“my baby here on earth/showed me what my heart was worth/so when it comes to be my turn/could you shine it down here for her?”

sanji is incredibly self sacrificing (as shown by the entirety of whole cake island) and won’t hesitate to give himself in exchange for another. the whole line just screams whole cake island, as luffy brought sanji out of his doubts and to the sea to fulfill his dream and was there for sanji whenever he felt worthless, so in exchange sanji feels as if he has an irreparable debt and need to repay it

[youshouldhavepaidattentiondad]

John MacNamara is, without a doubt, a creature of habit. Every day it's the same routine: get up, work out, shower, drink a cup of black coffee, get ready for work.

Even when he crosses through the doors of PEIP HQ, the hectic chaos feels so familiar, he just takes it in stride. 

 When things get quiet, however, that's when John becomes unnerved. Chain smoking cigarettes and pacing in his office, just waiting for the penny to drop.

Today is one of those days. Everything is calm. No other worldly threats.  No sniggles trying to sneak through the portal. Hell, Smythe didn't even try sneaking in a green apple like they do every other day. 

John hates it.

He stubs out his dying cigarette in the ashtray before lighting up a fresh one, breathing in the intoxicating smoke.

“What's got you all wound up, Johnny?”

A relieved sigh escapes John's lips before he can stop it. He looks up to see what used to be Wilbur Cross sitting on the edge of his desk. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” John replies before taking a drag off his cigarette. 

Wiley hums sarcastically. “I know you, Johnny. I trained you, remember?”

He does remember. 

All too well. 

His grip tightens on his cigarette so much that he breaks it. Cursing, he tosses the pieces into the ashtray before pulling out a new one. 

An amused smirk crosses Wiley's twisted features. “You hate downtime. You never know what to do with yourself. I had to teach you how to relax. Looks like you forgot my lessons.”

John scoffs, wisps of smoke passing by his lips. “Bold of you to assume I forgot.”

“So you're just cutting off your nose to spite your face? That is so you, Johnny,” Wiley chuckles as he pushes off the desk to stand. “I think you need a little reminder.”

Before John can question what he means, the cigarette gets plucked from his fingers. Wiley brings it to his own lips, taking a deep drag from it before setting it in the ashtray. 

Frowning, John tries to protest, but the words die on his tongue as Wiley grabs him by the wrist, pulling him close.

Wiley's other hand comes up to cup the back of John's neck almost possessively as he kisses him greedily. 

The familiarity makes John's knees go weak. His eyes fall closed as he melts into the kiss.

The moment breaks as alarms begin wailing, echoing down the hall outside the office door. 

Wiley pulls back, looking almost disappointed. “Looks like you've got work to do, Johnny.” He winks before disappearing. 

Breathing heavily, John picks up the abandoned cigarette. He flicks off the ashes built up on the end before heading for the door.

[simplylupin]

Steve Rogers as The Archer

i will never shut up about steve rogers and consequently my mind also never shuts up about him - especially when i'm listening to this song because it's so fundamentally him

so here is my pointless, nonsensical analysis of it

Combat, I'm ready for combat I say I don't want that, but what if I do?

in age of ultron it's mentioned that steve is a man who doesn't know what to do/doesn't know who he is if he's not fighting

in civil war he also says that he wishes when he sees something wrong he "could ignore it". when tony points out that "no he doesn't" steve straight up admits that he doesn't; he craves fighting because it's all he's known

'Cause cruelty wins in the movies I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you

Easy they come, easy they go I jump from the train, I ride off alone

easy they come: everyone flocking to him after he gets the serum

easy they go: him waking up to pretty much everyone from his life gone

i feel like i don't even need to explain the "jump from the train, ride off alone"

I never grew up, it's getting so old Help me hold onto you

"i never grew up, it's getting so old" - he never got to live the life he was supposed to before freezing; he constantly has to readjust to the modern world and practically relearn everything

he's grasping for the opportunity to have someone he can rely on because of this

I've been the archer I've been the prey Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?

kind of self-explanatory but he's been both the hunter and the hunted in his life

"who could leave me/who could stay"; the idea of who could ever leave captain america because he's captain america, but nobody actually stays in the end for him

And I cut off my nose just to spite my face Then I hate my reflection for years and years

i mostly associate this bit with civil war simply because of the cutting of my nose to spit my face phrase; it means to disadvantage oneself through a wilful attempt to gain an advantage or assert oneself

whilst i don't think steve regretted the decisions he made in civil war, i think there must've been some regret about how he went about doing it and how it affected him and his relationships

like he was on the run/in hiding for two years essentially because of his choices soooo

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost The room is on fire, invisible smoke

this isn't really anything crazy but i always think about the scene in tfa when him and bucky are escaping hydra and the whole place is on fire and he has to jump over it yknow?

And all of my heroes die all alone Help me hold onto you

"my heroes" aka "my friends"

'Cause they see right through me They see right through me They see right through Can you see right through me?

They see right through They see right through me

I see right through me I see right through me

i feel like his character is one that has the constant anxiety of having to prove himself; all his physical abilities and what others deem as useful in combat came from the serum - there's the thought of having to show that he's worthy of it, that he was the right decision etc etc

he also canonically has a lot of guilt for things that've happened eg bucky's 'death' - we're are own worst critics so this paired with the want to be worthy must've felt like a thousand eyes watching for him to make a mistake again

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends Help me hold onto you

i think of both bucky and tony with this line tbh

neither of them are really his 'enemies' at all but

[jamestaylorswift]

can you believe the words I cut off my nose just to spite my face then I hate my reflection for years and years I wake in the night I pace like a ghost the room is on fire invisible smoke and all of my heroes die all alone help me hold on to you exist in that order

[vulgarly-shy]

But here’s the truth: I’ve been searching for your dark side, the part of you that’s supposed to reflect all the chaos in me. Except, what if I’m fine, right here, right now? What if I don’t need your darkness to justify mine? Still, I’ve sabotaged myself just to prove a point, cutting off my nose to spite my face, and now I hate my reflection for it. There’s something about staring into your own eyes in the mirror and wondering how much of yourself you’ve lost trying to find someone else. I wake up in the middle of the night, pacing the room like a ghost, invisible smoke filling the space with everything unsaid, every hero I’ve admired slowly crumbling under the weight of being alone.