#Just kind of tastes like nothing to me (other tastes and smells are present and working)

[golden--flowers]

Got a bar of dark chocolate recently but I think I don't have the taste for it that's around at other times, so might find a chocolate chip cookie recipe to use it in and maybe enjoy it more that way?

[ceridescent]

only threw this party for you

pairing: wanda maximoff x AFAB!reader

summary: in which wanda maximoff, your stepmother, surprises you with a graduation party at home, where it started, 3 years ago.

warnings: angst, infidelity, toxic relationship, mentions of being in heterosexual relations, mentions of orgy, lots of angst, begging, breast play, fingering, hair pulling, brief choking, the word ‘mama’ is used once, slapping, you’re just very good at making bad decisions, cunninglingus, tribbing, hate-fucking kinda, did i say angst? multiple orgasms.

author’s note: i am rusty! i say after writing a whole 8k-word fic... but i can’t stop thinking about this prompt in my head, and this fic helped me declare that i am sooo back!

—inspired by charli xcx's party 4 u.

word count: 8, 080

made by and for adults. men and minors DNI.

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nothing could have prepared mrs. wanda maximoff, the heart of new jersey’s westview, widowed and remarried, the moment you opened the door to your old cape cod with a familiar smile.

(it knocked her off her feet, quite literally, as she held on to the nearest furniture she could find, staring proudly at everyone who came to greet you with open arms.)

even more so when you barely acknowledged her glamorous presentation of welcome, trying your best to hide the investigation of scanning the room for a face that hasn’t come. 

(she expected this, replayed the scenario like a broken record, memorizing it almost.)

and now, when there’s nothing but a dull pounding in her head, stirring her awake to the natural light of your old bedroom, staying strong despite your father’s protest to turn it into another home office; insisting that it’s closer to their master bedroom than the one on the first floor. he shouldn’t give it up, she remembered saying, “she might need a room to come back to,” when really she’d spend her lonely nights there, nursing a bottle of d’usse, chasing the feeling of belonging to someone.

wanda moans in defeat, consciousness winning over, despite blocking the sun with the covers that smell like you. “baby,” she mumbles, then your name, a giggle breaking out of her stupor, a lazy smile graceful on her face. wanda automatically reaches over to the right side of the bed to feel your warm body. her heart skips a beat, awareness taking over her completely, preserving the last part of her senses that hasn’t confirmed it yet.

“y/n” she calls, voice trembling, unsure of the need to plead. the older woman feels the dryness of her mouth that you occupied not long ago, your taste lingering in a thermal burn kind-of-way, dry and tingling, her nerves set on fire. her hand remains at the space where you’re supposed to be, turning numb.

wanda peaks one eye open and shudders, the sight of the empty bed confirming her worst fear. her heart sinks in a way she begins squirming for help, deflated and flooding her entire system with blood that wouldn’t settle down. wanda gulps down her remaining dignity and reaches for the phone.

it all goes toward voicemail. 

by the tenth ring, she throws it across the room and your vanity mirror shatters. she cries like a wounded animal, clutching her chest and falling to the ground, burying her face into the duvet, muffling her sobs, terrified to hear it clear as day. what would the neighbors say?

it’s funny how one decision made on impulse could turn her life upside down in a few hours by the one person keeping it together. for wanda, it’s ironic that it’s you, her stepdaughter.

her stepdaughter, why she’s still a part of a loveless marriage, waiting by the door every other week to greet your father with a dry kiss on the cheek, asking him questions regarding his business trips just to revive a closeness that furthers her loneliness in the big house. you, maintaining the pact of her husband to never divorce again, because for once in your life, you need a normal family. how uncanny is that?

“it’s kind of ridiculous, dear, throwing a party for her,” he said, mouth full of baklava when wanda begged for him to come to your graduation party.

“it’s ridiculous you’re stuffing your face with baklava and cocktails, telling me how to show her appreciation, when you barely see her. come on! you only stayed for an hour during her graduation ceremony, and you didn’t even stay to take her home!”

“she didn’t want to come home-!”

“and why do you think that-?”

he raised a hand on the screen, signifying silence. he had a big furrow on his brow, “why something grand, wanda? you know how our daughter likes to spend time with kids her age. all i’m saying, is that i’m not sure she’ll appreciate that you bring an entire estranged neighborhood to our house to accompany her, let alone surprise her with them,” his voice softened, making her see his side of things.

he has a point. an amazing one at that. but who would fill the silence in the house? who would initiate the first move? who would try to not stutter first? wanda never had a nervous bone in her body until you.

instead, she does what she’s best at: deflecting.

“it could have just been the three of us, dear. but you left a lot of spots to fill while you’re not here.”

“is that what you do, when i’m not home and you’re all alone?”

wanda had never felt more accused of something she’s never done in her life.

“of course not,” she scoffed,”i’d never betray my family like that.”

and they left it at that.

wanda maximoff regretted not putting up a fight with him, as you looked so crestfallen and tired.

“fresh out the slammer, i see,” she greeted you with her renowned winning smile, her pearly whites taking over your sight. you greeted back, “hey, wanda,” letting go of your rimowa luggages to give her a side hug. the older woman stifled a cry, keeping it together. (at least, until everyone was gone.) wanda had forgotten the difficulty of watching over her back, as two years without keeping secrets felt truly like two years—of freedom or loneliness, she’s not quite certain. but isolation? most definitely.

“let me help you with your belongings–”

“i can handle it,” you dismissed her kindness, clutching the handles, your knuckles white at the grip. wanda raised an eyebrow in which you immediately softened at, tilting your head for a silent plea. “you don’t have to do this,” you said, changing your tone to act more grown-up. wanda tilted her head as her mouth quivered, throwing you off-guard for a second, audibly gulping as you stared at her pouting lips. everyone naturally drowned out in the background.

you’re all grown-up now, your once soft features wanda used to trace with her lips now lined with eyeliner and experiences you might never reveal to her. you have that confident look in your eyes that hasn’t passed since she approached you with caution, standing tall and unshakable. she might be more in love with you now, if only it wasn’t for two years ago.

“don’t be silly,” wanda decided, shaking her head, “i’m your stepmom after all.”

she gave you a restrained smile and grabbed your belongings when you froze at the statement, unsure if it’s due to the passerby’s on the way to the restroom as her eyes darted when she said it. but nevertheless, wanda maximoff could still knock you off your feet. you just didn’t expect it to be caused by the most obvious statement of your relationship. once a teasing now felt like a threat. (or a reminder.)

despite the bombardment of people you recognized barely from when you were 11 at candy shops and the other times wanda diligently hosted brunch with the ladies in summers still shaking away from memory, it was a warm welcome from westview. you have missed it dearly, but you were sure for it to remain a distant memory. you haven’t stepped foot in here for an entire year, finishing college in new york to take over your father’s company one day. however, without your parents’ knowledge, one day you might be comfortable to build your own. but for now, you’re not ready to make big, adult decisions yet. you may as well search for wanda’s d’usse in the liquor cabinet at the thought of your future.

wanda, in a whisper, so close you almost succumbed to her familiar scent, sends her deepest apologies that your best friend, yelena belova, went straight to morocco after graduation, (who graduated in california), hence her absence.

“it’s okay, thank you, wanda,” you said, inhaling the guilt and exhaling it out in the open. the older woman never knew you came home to westview last year, staying over at the belova’s for the entire summer, locked in the guestroom, scared to bump into her at any possible moment.

age takes everything away from you, except that for wanda, it’ll never be her beauty and grace. you’re sure of it. you’d bet your life and future kids on it.

although you resisted to no avail, staring at her, watching her head tip back as she laughed at her cousin’s stupid joke, giving him a light slap. wanda’s a reserved woman, but sometimes, when her feelings are hard to contain, she expresses it contagiously, you can’t help but to join in as well. with that, a smile broke out of your stupor, and then a furrow in your brows.

you found your reaction to be jealousy, in which your brows furrowed deeper, tuning out mr. dickey’s passion for miniature golfing with his grandson mickey dickey jr.

wanda met your gaze when you looked again at her direction, giving you quick palpitations, immediately turning your gaze to mr. dickey showing pictures of him and his fluffy-haired grandson. and if that touchless interaction was bad for your cardiovascular health, the older woman landing a hand on your waist and encircling it casually would have given you a cardiac arrest.

“what’s going on here?” wanda asked sweetly, giving you a once-over, letting go of your body when she realized how stiff you got, keeping a subtle distance away from you. 

mr. dickey replied, “i was just telling these folks about mini golfing with mickey! back in the day when we were still a bunch of teenagers, y/n’s dad and i would always spend afternoons down at jersey tee...”

both you and wanda exchanged looks amicably for the first time, the biggest elephant in the room you were avoiding came showing up on your laps. he barely came to your graduation party a few nights ago, insisting that there will be a tape sent to the mail anyway, but blowing up his phone with 200 calls and 500 messages made him come through. it’s a different story with wanda, with whom you had the audacity to reject sending an invite. you weren’t really in the mood for party poopers at your graduation, and it’s already complicated enough, so you didn’t bother. how she felt about your silence you’re afraid to know.

she doesn’t push, wanda. she just minds her own business. this wanda—petite and awfully silent than before, who’s lost its spark, wanda you can see clearly with your two eyes—struggling wanda with a knowing smile. it hurts to witness how much she’s trying. your intake of breath caught her stare at the fresh burn marking her left wrist. wanda coughed and hid it with her sleeve, giving you a look.

“so wanda, when do you think your little dove here’s getting married?”

you blushed, staring at the bold woman who asked. “w-what–”

“a little birdie told me you’re cozying up with a senator’s quarterback son in the big apple! oh wanda, isn’t that fantastic?”

the older woman only chuckled and smiled. 

you tried your best not to wander into your stepmom’s liquor cabinet as after that, 

she avoided you the remainder of the night.

“you didn’t have to, you know,” you started, tossing the garbage in the trash bag, a heavy load forming.

you were both in the kitchen cleaning up, the ‘2025 graduate’ celebration over thirty minutes ago. you made sure, taking the banner down the moment the last guest in the house left with a shake on his hips.

“don’t say that,” wanda responded, reserved. the dishes are clink clacking, along with the sound of the open faucet. your backs are turned to each other, in your own worlds. 

“it’s your big day. was your big day. the least i can do for not showing up is to host a party for you at home.”

“about that–”

you heard wanda chuckled as you bagged the plastic. “don’t, okay? you’re here now, and i basically own the house since i’m the one left here all the time, so i get to decide what to do with it,” she said with finality, and you know better than to argue but

you needed to let her know your concerns, “i appreciate that, i do. i just don’t want you overworking yourself to the point of injury–”

wanda sighed, “y/n, please don’t,” her movements pausing for a second, then resuming. she responded aggrievedly, “i…this is what wives do, they serve. they take care of the house. they take care of their loved ones. no matter what,” almost contemptuous. it seemed as though she had been bottling the sentiment not because she doesn’t want to express resentment, but because no one was there to listen.

your heartstrings tugged, an ache deeper than you thought possible. you shook your head, refusing to get caught up with wanda’s emotions.

“i-it’s just–you didn’t have to? you could’ve done something better with your time–”

wanda’s voice rose, shaking, her tone hostile.

“oh yeah, y/n? like what? rewatch friends while i morosely wait for your father to come home from yet another business trip but he never does? and please,” she chuckled, her footsteps dangerously working, (pacing, obviously), “if your guilt is drowning you, don’t project it to me, okay? that’s not what adults do in this house,” she said with no pause, laughing sarcastically at the end.

“i’m sure i taught you that.”

you gulped down your saliva in order to respond, hoping to push your palpating heart down into your gut in the process.

“i-i mean,” you stuttered anyway, intimidation clouding your train of thought. you almost forgot how ruthless the older woman gets when she’s at her boiling point. she was close to losing it, you were certain, but if you needed to get out of this conversation–this house–this woman–you’d have to go through. at least, you were mature enough to acknowledge that now.

“i don’t mean to upset you, o-okay? you could’ve, you know, d-done something else with the people you know, like maybe going downtown for some ice cream o-or–”

“oh yeah? ‘cause we’ve never done that before?”

“i–

“you’re mad, i’m sorry. it just f-feels weird–”

wanda sighed heavily, discarding the dishes altogether.

“i-i mean, i’m not used to being together in the house is all. i though–”

“you thought what, y/n? that i stayed in the bedroom and hoped by the time i go outside, you’re ready to play hide-and-seek from me?”

as you turned quiet, gripping the bin so close to your chest, wanda lost it.

she paced at you, her nostrils flaring, inhibition out of the window. “no, no, i’m done taking nothing but bullshit from you. matter of fact, just stay quiet like you have been doing the entire time the past two years.”

“y/n!” wanda yelled in frustration, causing you to jump and let go of the bin. it made a resounding thwack that you audibly flinched at, shaking your head at the chaos ensuing. you weren't ready yet, but here it is.

“woman up for once!” the older woman shrieked, “come face me! you’re one to talk about how i should be spending my divine time without looking at me in the eye!” ire and poison dripped from her voice. if you weren’t terrified for your life, you would’ve noticed her trembling body for a completely different reason other than indignation.

you turned around eventually, your downcast sight studying your white socks and how your toes fidgeted under. wanda shook her head and went for it anyway. this was better than nothing at all. and nothing, you could do very well.

“two whole years, y/n! two whole years. you completely abandoned me. you never returned my calls. you never came home. you’d fly to the farthest city available whenever i’m in new york to see you. and now you’re back, waltzing in, casually telling me what i should be doing with my life!”

“how did you expect me to react to this grand gesture then? did you want applause? did you want a peck? did you expect me to still bow down at your every breath?” 

“i don’t expect anything from you at all!”

“and i the same! i didn’t want this bullshit party! i just wanted to go to bed! and now look at where we are!” you screamed at her, infuriated. you huffed and automatically went for the door but this time wanda stopped you. “hold on, young lady. don’t you run away from me again, y/n y/l/n!

“you did this to us. you left me to deal with this alone, while you chased the next big thing that you thought was way fucking easier than getting through this together!”

you scoffed, turning around to finally face her. you staggered, stunned at the woman staring at you. 

you tried, anyway, disregarding how she felt to be transparent with yours. “is that so bad, to want that for myself? fuck you, wanda. acting all high and mighty. as if you didn’t fuck this up with me.”

you lashed out–angry, raw, resentful. 

“you’d be glad i came home to you–to this stupid house—this stupid town—to this reminder that there is someone here in westview that’s still holding me down!” 

wanda made a noise, antagonized.

“you couldn’t, for a split second, thought i deserved to know this? that i wouldn’t understand–?”

“you’d never understand!” you moaned, “you‘ve never been in love with your stepmother!”

your stepmother froze with a gasp, the color in her face dissipating, a haunting look passing over the hollow of her eyes.

trying to undo damage to no avail, only a stutter broke out of you.

“you regret it?”

her voice is shallow.

“wanda–”

“answer me”

“wanda, p-please, can we–”

“ANSWER ME!” she bursted, tears spilling like a dam opening, her body in so much pain as she shook, and shook, and shook. you did nothing but stood, watching, drowning in her upset. “please–ple–”

“yes, YES! I DO REGRET IT! I DID. I DO!” you cried, pulling yourself away from wanda’s proximity, running your fingers into your scalp as you tried to reason with yourself to not leave her in the heat of it all. no matter how much your body craved to bolt and take a flight back to new york.

the words choked up out of you, the ones you were afraid to voice out loud for fear it might come true. “you don’t–i can’t–the thought of being found out–dad–i–” 

wanda sniffled, “you’re killing me, darling,” hoarse but still able. understanding to the rusted core.

you give her a sliver of pain through your face.

“it kills me too. but i have to be tough, for me–”

the older woman whimpered.

“–for us–”

you paused, getting a good look at wanda. the once woman of your dreams. confidante. best friend. stepmother. lover. restrictor. older. never better. wiser? not so much, but once your lover. your father’s wife. your stepmother. lover once, not anymore. stepmother? maybe forever.

there is so much more in between the letters and the hesitations, but at the end of the day, you knew there’s nothing more than this. you just can’t seem to tell her that, somehow. as if you can’t wait for her to prove you wrong, to change your mind. but you haven’t been letting her for a long time now, so what is it you’re actually waiting for?

“wanda, how messy do you need it to be to realize just how fucked up it was for all three of us?”

she was quiet, hiccuping through her tears. still streaming, but not so much anymore. 

“has dad ever suspected?”

“you’d love to know, don’t you?” she finally spoke, hopping through her words, wetting her dried lips with her tongue. “you can never mean to hurt him, can you?”

you were quiet now, biting your lip.

“it used to be us against the world, isn’t it?” 

wanda gave you a look you knew oh-so well, the one that used to make you weak like getting hit in the backs of your knees, ushering her at the closest private corner of the house, automatically kneeling down. 

“he doesn’t, by the way. i’m not as stupid as you ought me to be. but then, wouldn’t it be a win for me if he did? you’d have me all to yourself then, with how selfish you think i am for wanting–”

“this delusion has to stop, wanda. i–”

“i fucking hate you,” she spat, face deeply indented by a frown.

“good. hate me all you want. hate me with all you’ve got. but you could never erase what you did to me and to yourself that night.”

wanda recoiled, “i needed to be with you that night. i just needed–” wailing like a wounded animal.

“needed what, wanda? a good fuck? a ploy for revenge because–”

“i needed love, okay? don’t you get it? i needed you that night. i needed you–”

“so you fucked my father!”

“and so i fucked your father! out of spite! out of pain! anger! i was spiraling out of control! there is no excuse, y/n. i owned up to it but it was too late. i didn’t do it to get back at you. sure, at one point, i thought to myself, “s-she’d regret doing this to me”, but the need to get rid of the lonely feeling was too much–”

you shook your head, “unbelievable.”

“i wanted to end it with him, i wanted to stop the complications. i wanted to divorce him–”

“you can’t divorce him–!”

“–but you were so against it–!”

“you should never–!”

“–i heard you! i did! i stayed! can’t you see how miserable i am? are you fucking happy?”

you chuckled, dry and painful, like sandpaper scratching your skin.

“you know what’s funny? i’ve been with many people after you. girls, boys, hell, sometimes both at the same time,” you started, your smirk faltering as wanda clenched her jaw, tears welling in your eyes. “even mothers like you–sad and lonely in their quiet homes–”

“y/n–”

“but somehow, i still can’t get the image i made up in my mind that night,” you confessed, eyes twitching by the fact that you were, at long last, completely honest with the older woman who plagued your mind day and night for the last four years. confused, wanda furrowed her brows, blinking her tears away to get a proper look at you. “w-what–?”

“how did you two do it?”

“what are you–?”

you bit your lip, inhaling a breath, tapping your foot impatiently.

“when you fucked him that night. what did you do?”

the tears fell in tandem with wanda the moment those words shook out of you, the impact bringing her to her knees. you staggered as well, your body giving into your emotions altogether, shaking uncontrollably as you took some slow breaths. the guilt and shame had festered in you long ago, but the betrayal of how ridiculous it sounded out loud, compared to the renowned made-up fact in your head that justified resentment for her? for both of them? it wasn’t fucking worth it.

it wasn’t worth how wanda cried in her hands, on the floor, as you paced, wondering why the words i’m sorry couldn’t come out of your sloppy mouth.

it wasn’t worth spending the holidays alone in your three-thousand dollar apartment in the city that never sleeps, reheating italian pasta and watching reruns of sex and the city, purposely missing facetime from your family in westview.

it wasn’t worth hearing wanda beg you to come back through voicemail for the first time, deliberately deleting the rest after that, and vowing to never listen to the following again.

it wasn’t worth getting pounded raw from the back of a frat house’s cubicle, hoping the image of your stepmom getting done the same by your biological father wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to you, to no avail.

it wasn’t worth bawling your eyes out, stoned, after arranging your graduation invitation list, retracting wanda maximoff from your roster, with a justified sigh that didn’t even last a couple of seconds.

it wasn’t worth it at all.

“is this what’s all this been about?”

you inhaled sharply, halting your footing. 

“you wanted to know–”

you whimpered, biting your lip hardly.

you knew she was staring at you with her big, dewy jades; nothing but torment and affection and in between, despite looking at the dishes yet to be rinsed.

“i rode your father that night.”

you hissed, harshly wiping the floodgates submerging your eyes.

wanda shuddered, “i sucked his cock,” whimpering, shaking her head. she held a hand in her mouth to muffle her words, but you heard it anyway. “h-he tried to bend me over but i said i didn’t like it.”

for a moment, none of you spoke. quiet, chaotic. nothing but your sniffles, sighs, and whimpers. wanda was the one who regained composure first, standing up from the floor to fetch a glass of water. you watched her every move, memorizing how she looked now as you discarded how she looked then when your father–

when he did what he did, and what she did when he did it.

when you used to do what you did with her alone. and how she didn’t deny you at all, but willingly let you.

“but you liked it with me,” you choked up, walking over to her, whilst she only stared at you like a deer caught in headlights. the frown in her face is permanent, her lips quivering as she does her best to read your next move.

“y/n, what are you trying to do?”

as you raised your hand in the air, wanda flinched, but seeing your hand placement, she let you stroke her head, taking you in. 

“i am miserable too,” you said in a whisper, like sharing a secret with your closest adult friend. you caressed her cheek with the backs of your fingers, replacing it with a peck from your lips. wanda gasped, backing away the farthest she can, albeit sandwiched by the counter and your body.

“utterly miserable,” you husked, your kisses lowering down toward the sides of her lips. wanda could only whimper without objection. “after everything i did, i can’t get away from you,” you confessed, furthering your affection down to her neck, leaving a wet kiss on her pulse.

“but you did so for two years, haven’t you,” the older woman managed to say, hands gripping the counter.

swiftly but soothingly, you positioned your hand around her neck, giving enough pressure to alarm her senses. you peppered kisses to her jawline, and then the back of her ear, the angle of her cheekbone, toward the side of her mouth. you nodded your head as you grazed your nose against hers. wanda chuckled.

“must be fucking awful.”

you sucked in a breath as you pressed your lips against hers, mouth full of wanton and regret. wanda moaned instantaneously, her knees giving out, kissing you desperately just the same, hoisting her on the counter, not letting go.

the older woman grabbed your neck to fully close the gap between you two, probing her tongue in your sighing mouth for an invitation to dive right in and feel good. you comply without second thought, sucking the muscle and swirling yours around, before closing it in with your lips, pressing into a kiss. you gasped as wanda disrupted the act with her own by sucking and biting on your lip til it drew blood.

“i miss you, baby,” wanda gasped as you cooed, nuzzling your noses together before kissing her again. “mhmm,” she hummed, running her fingers through your scalp, “my baby.”

those two words, the pet name, that identity, drove you to the last chain of self-restraint, yanking her hair with a tight grip, grunting when she thrusted her hips with a yelp, taking her skin in between teeth and tongue. you weren’t gentle nor patient, sucking and biting all over her neck and collarbone, inhaling her scent as you went, keeping your grip tight as she guided you through it.

“i miss you too,” you finally said with a strangled gasp, a tear falling over your cheek.

when you dove in for another kiss, wanda stopped you with hands on either side of your face, studying you with her maternal-like stare. your jaw automatically tensed at the scrutiny–the observation, perhaps, looking away at the burn of her gaze. she shook your head lightly to grab your attention back into hers, blinking your tears away. she pursed her lips, the ends of her lips tugging upwards. you gasped when she kissed your forehead, lingering there, caressing your temple by the ends of her fingers.

“my sweet baby,” wanda whispered as you melted into her arms. 

the two of you remained that way, the saccharine scent of the older woman rendering your senses completely, and then eventually your guard. 

this will always be here for you.

it’s familiar, uninhibited, and everything you tried to run away from. it reminded you of when it was two of you against the world; your protector who unconditionally loved you with her might, coming in unexpectedly and being everything you hoped for. but it was also daringly optimistic and hopeless, yet you were always safe within wanda’s arms, and that’s what made you sleep at night.

wanda was quiet, only stroking your head, her other arm embracing you, occasionally kissing your crown.

the cadence naturally made you trace figures at the exposed skin of her sweater’s neckline. a reflex, really, doodling her name and then some shapes, until you weren’t feeling child-like anymore, slithering a hand under her clothing. wanda’s breath hitched. “it tickles,” she said, giving you another kiss at the top of your head. “it won’t later,” you replied.

it’s a promise, something you can keep for tonight, so when you fully unveiled wanda’s torso, you sighed in awe.

unable to resist the urge, “mama,” you let out, which is like tracing figures on her skin, a muscle memory, kissing the tops of her breasts, pale and exposed. the older woman made a sound as she smiled. her palms were cupping your face as you looked up, tilting her head as you pushed yourself against her with a reassuring kiss, unstrapping her bra at the process, and then pulling the strap down. “won’t be needing that,” you said, flicking the tip of her nipple with your tongue.

the older woman hissed, “d-don’t tease, malyshka,” she sighed. you grinned. who were you to say no to the love of your life?

you did it again though just to hear her cry, before taking her nipple fully into your mouth, giving it a suck, then letting it go with a pop. it bounced delightfully. and then back at it, this time with no shame, putting as much of her tit as you can, all the while using your other hand to pay attention to the other one. you rolled your eyes, loving how shameless the older woman got as you lightly grazed your teeth in between, as your fingers twisted and pulled.

“i need you,” you whimpered, “take off your pants,” fondling wanda’s chest some more before helping her with her jeans. “the panties too, damn it,” you complained with a huff, not wasting another precious moment with wanda in her cozy wear. 

you pulled the older woman’s hips at the edge of the counter for some room, as she begged, “please, please, please,” hushing her with her mouth full of your fingers, wetting it to slide into her heat. “i don’t even need to do this, you’re so wet,” you sighed, her slick, throbbing clit just begging for it. you licked your lips, “but it’s the reflex, wanda. everything i’m doing i did it before,” you said, causing wanda’s eyes to roll back, hips rocking.

“what are you waiting for?

“i need you, baby, please,” wanda barely finished her sentence before you pushed two fingers in, moaning at the stretch of her pussy. 

wanda sighed as she grabbed your sweater, clinging onto it as you filled her hole with your two fingers, gingerly reaching the deepest part, your digits coming out slicked white with her cum. you gasped, droplets splashing onto the counter, the squelch and the older woman’s moans filling the room. 

“good god,” you murmured, undecidedly switching sight between her dripping pussy and her blissed-out look. “don’t hold back,” you ordered when she snapped her mouth shut with her hand. you take it away, kissing the back of it, before placing it on her chest. “go on,” you encouraged, then grinned when wanda began fondling at her own breast, hips rolling at the stimulation. 

“you’re so perfect for me,” you sighed, peppering kisses on her neck and jaw, fastening your pace, grunting as wanda’s moans got louder. 

the demons arrived once again when the image of Wanda and your father, which has altered your thinking and permanently haunted your brain, popped in your head, the once-missionary act replaced by wanda riding—

you groaned and bit wanda’s neck, causing the older woman to yelp and push you off.

“what the hell!”

“i’m sorry!” you cried, lifting her onto the ground. before a series of protests could even begin, you turned her around, pushing her torso against the kitchen counter. “y/n!” wanda screamed at the aggression.

“just take it!” you retorted and rammed your fingers back inside her, turning wanda’s “what the–”  fuss into “f–fuck!” relish, the pleading returning.

“i fucking hate you,” she panted, whining as she took every thrust.

“yeah, if you hate me, why are you letting me do this?!”

“so you can undo it,” wanda frankly responded, before a series of saccharine curses came out of her lips.

“and, ah, if this is what gets–gets you to, ah, to s…”

…stay, is what she was about to say before you shoved two fingers inside her gorgeous motormouth.

your brow furrowed at the indignation. wanda was bringing this up now, whilst you were knuckles deep inside her and at the verge of climax. it doesn’t seem proper, and you weren’t willing to pull out to have another productive conversation as two decisional adults.

“...today’s your lucky day,” is what you said instead.

the older woman’s ass bounced as you moved against her, giving it a slap without thinking, feeling her muscles clamp around your fingers, writhing. you took your fingers off, asking,

“he did this after i left?”

“we haven’t had sex since,” she frankly responded, with a hint of irritation in her voice.

“you’re a liar,” you shook your head, twisting your hand in order to thumb her clit, pressing hard against it. wanda screamed and whined, gripping her hands as she did her best to audibly respond to your accusation.

“t-that's you! t-telling me you forgave me when, ah f-fuck! lying bitch–”

you yanked her hair hard, curling your fingers against her g-spot. you snarled, “say that again,” as she cried.

“you’re a lying bitch–!”

you clawed your fingers at her ass before giving it a spank. “please,” wanda moaned. you wished you could see her face.

“and you’re pathetic, getting off to your stepdaughter with just her fingers. what would your husband say, huh? if he saw you like this,”

“y/n…” wanda warned, gritting her teeth before another moan tore away.

you stopped, remembered your boundary. “i’m s-sorry, wanda, i–”

“are you going to finish me off?” she demanded, authoritative yet hoarse. 

you grinned and whined, “you want to come?” receiving a scream when you shoved a third finger, pulling her hair as she replied a choking “yes!”

bending over, you pressed your clothed front against her bare back, lowering your face at the space between her shoulder and neck, then moving higher, blowing your breath against her ear.

“come for me.”

wanda arched her back against you as she did, coming apart with a throaty scream, chanting, “baby, baby, baby,” like she usually did.

you flipped her over and as soon as you faced her she languidly kissed you, wrapping her legs around your hips, situating her back on the counter. 

your bundle of nerves tugged at the sight of wanda’s naked form, glistening and flushed with sweat. her cum clung to her thighs like second skin, but it didn’t look like it belonged as well, urging you to lick it clean. when you met wanda’s gaze, you saw an obvious pout as she looked you up and down. “you’re still wearing clothes,” she sharply whined, swaying her calves a little.

you gave her a lazy smile, reciprocated, and then took her hand in yours at eye level. “inspection much?”

you hummed and spotted the burn mark, a thick maroon line on the side of her wrist. you kissed it, looking up through your eyelashes as wanda closed her eyes, whimpering, choking up a sob. 

you smiled and stripped the sweater off, throwing it behind your direction, gladly allowing wanda to cast her magic. you began thinking as she peppered wet kisses to your neck down to your chest.

is this what beggars feel, taking anything offered without a second thought?

is this what wanda felt when it came to you?

the sharp itch of pleasure rang through your rationale as wanda sucked at your nipples, nibbling the skin surrounding it, before licking the marks like a lollipop. she hummed as you whimpered, but when wanda’s mouth came off, her amusement turned into a look of hurt and realization, her jaw clenching immediately.

“i have to tell you something,”

“what?”

wanda sighed, leaned against the cupboard. she crossed her arms in front of her chest, shielding away from you.

you fished a hand in your back pocket and came with it an engagement ring.

you mustered a sorry look, because damn it, it might never end with this one tonight, and because right now the word is too much for you to handle, especially when you’d have to spend the rest of your waking life making it up to your future spouse without his knowledge that you screwed up, with his mother-in-law at that, because he will never know about it. about any of it. no one can.

wanda stared at you for a minute, her jades piercing as ever, shielding any chance of observation, as if she regained composure after her great fuck-out, which supported her confession about her nonexistent sex life. sure, you would have swooned over it back then, ‘cause it meant that you had her solo despite her sharing a bed with your biological father at night when he was home. but that was the reassurance you needed that it wouldn’t end abruptly because it meant he found out. if only that optimism stayed with you. the older woman tilted her head to the side, and eventually, her frown stretched into a grin.

a beam, actually, then a chuckle.

“did that ever stop us, malysk?”

you’re right, you almost said aloud, allowing her to pull you back into her by hooking a finger into your belt loop, mashing your lips together in an affirmative “yes”.

“i think i love you even more.”

you made a sound swallowed by wanda’s mouth, and eventually she wanted more than just kiss you. 

you closed your eyes in content by the way wanda inserted a finger easily, pumping them in and out at a slow pace, her face nestled in the crook of your neck. it doesn’t tickle, but you shivered every time she exhaled, which was followed by an affectionate kiss at your pulse point, with an intention of all ways wanda maximoff knew how to love.

“do you want more?” she asked politely, her voice little, her eyelashes stroking your cheek. you nodded your head, biting your lip when she filled in another finger, closing your mouth for any demands that may come out. you refused to do so, allowing wanda to carry this one on her own, eager to see how gentle she could be. you owe her a bit of this. and besides, it’s been a long time since you had someone treat your body tenderly.

“faster, baby?” 

wanda grinned, excited, quickening her movements, her thrusts swift and light, completely lacking of the anger you’ve inflicted upon her. your heartbeat thrummed across your humming body when she took your earlobe into your mouth, nibbling it, her breath hot in your ear. “i love you,” she whispered, kissing the back of your ear before grabbing your ass and driving it into her long digits. 

you yelped, grabbing the older woman’s shoulder for support, chuckling along with her, and then moaning at the aggression, the one you’re used to. “is this okay?” she asked, concerned, until you waved her off. “do i look not okay?” you whined, thrusting your hips against her hand, the pressure building in your abdomen. she sighed, “just making sure…” trailing off as she licked her lips with how you took her inside your pussy.

getting off the counter, wanda pushed you against it after flipping you both, getting on her knees to lap at your pussy.

muffled by her face in between your legs, “god, you taste so good,” wanda moaned, rolling her eyes at the slicked wet heat, intoxicated with your essence, and the way your mouth hung open, body in full bliss. your legs tremored, your clit pulsating in between wanda’s lips as she passionately made out with it. “you’re as delectable as i remembered, detka.

“you’re so fucking tight too,” wanda whined, pumping two fingers back inside your hole, clenching at the stimulation. you’re close. thinking became harder as well as making sense of your surroundings; you breathed deeply through your mouth, prepping for the crash, grabbing wanda’s hair and shoving it deeper into your pussy. she made a sound, and you couldn’t care less if she couldn’t breathe anymore, because with how she licked and sucked and fingered you altogether, you’d think she was asking to be suffocated to death in between your thighs. 

“i’m coming, wanda,” you cried, driving your hips into her face, her fingers drilling into your g-spot until you saw stars. your entire body convulsed at the climax, the older woman helping you ride it out as she slowed her movements, and then to a halt, pecking your inner thighs, jerking against it. “my sensitive girl,” wanda cooed, kissing her way up to face you. she gasped when you buried your face in her hair, weeping as she rubbed your back.

“it’s okay, my love, it’s okay,” she whispered, carrying you down the floor. never once did the older woman let go when she took your sweater and her own to create a makeshift blanket to lay on. you calmed down then, a few minutes after laying there with wanda on top of you. 

“wanda, can you take me to my old bedroom?”

“does he touch you like this?” wanda remembered asking, featherlight, intentional. curious.

“wanda,” you warned, squirming.

“does he look at you like this?” 

goosebumps erupted on her skin when you looked away, reluctant. deep down she had a feeling that you might just say the words she wants to hear, despite appeasing her. she was close to having it, the resignation. wanda moved down and pressed a kiss on your clit. your back arched at the contact.

“will he love you like i do?”

it’s the ultimatum, you both knew that, but wanda wasn’t sure if she was ready for the last blow, so she masked her resolve with her mouth on your pussy, not letting one awkward moment ruin everything you’ve built together for the past six hours. she reminded you of what you missed the last two years, humping the mattress as she tongue-fucked you, in ecstasy. 

her clit met your own when she asked, “do the new york moms fuck better than me?” placing your leg on her shoulder, grinding her pussy against yours.

“they were close.”

the conversation ended there, with finality that the new yorkers you delightfully surround with will never compare to the one small town housewife in new jersey that turned your life upside down. there was a clarity for wanda that this—where you both were, primal and naked—was at the bottom of the barrel, the end of your kindness. but then you promised her breakfast, before drifting soundly. she followed soon enough, relishing the quiet snores that used to lull her to sleep. it felt so long ago, but also recent, when she’d toss and turn at night on routine, getting used to the fact that her little girl would never do her the favor again, with no intention.

and then she wakes up, wondering if the validation that she is better than everyone, including the person you’re marrying, is enough to at least get her through another day. the answer is no, not at all, because the reality comes to her in an avalanche that she knows this time she could never overcome, limping down the staircase with such urgency, sobbing and whimpering as her heart shatters at the sound of your name, begging for a reply.

she feels her hands scraping under the dining table, “y/n, please?” croaking once again, pulling out a brand new case of marlboro’s, haphazardly tearing the film off and taking one in between her fingers. wanda’s voice breaks as she muster a string of curses to release her anger as she makes her way to the kitchen stove, avoiding the huge bag of trash you left when you stuck three fingers in her pussy, and the misplaced bin when you jumped at her outburst.

it doesn’t matter anymore, because when she takes a long hit of the cigarette, the bitterness replaces the sweetness of your lips. it’s a done deal by the third puff, since you stopped frequenting her body two years ago, serving solely as a hostel today, self-cleaning now after you checked out, your taste barely there. wanda hopes the detector is defective so she wouldn't have to do a walk of shame to her car, and then probably run herself over a cliff.

her phone rings and she answers it immediately, chuckling as she pondered what the silence meant on the other side in god-knows-where you are right now. are you going to apologize again? are you going to ask what she wants for breakfast? are you with your father right now, picking him up at the airport? she can’t really tell with you.

“i’m sorry, wanda,” is what you went for.

she chortled, long and hard, coughing at the smoke in her lungs. 

“you need to start meaning that,” she says with a voice crack, lighting up another one. she hasn’t smoked in ages, but today’s a good occasion to break the streak. she keeps her phone pressed against her ear in pretense that you’re actually whispering there, up close with no room for reality. 

“you’re a coward,”

“i know, i’m sorry,”

“you’re selfish,”

“i’m sorry,”

you’re hopeless,” she sobs. 

“wanda, i’m sorry,”

“you’ll never find love like mine!”

“wanda, i…i hope so,” you sigh, three words summarizing how you felt about what the two of you had.

wanda cries and accidentally burns herself at the open stove, yanking her hand away as she screams. pressing the ends of the cigarettes against the granite, the older woman decides she’s done with the rush, urging the burning skin to replace her heart breaking, at least for a little while as she tries to gather herself. 

“i…

“...i’m leaving to new york,”

the older woman shakes her head, in denial, in disbelief, in amusement, in all the ways you make her feel. “can’t wait to make up with your fiance, huh?” she spits as her tears come cascading down. she doesn’t wipe them away, accepting that cigarettes and salty tears is the only option in her breakfast menu until further notice. 

“i’m-“

“do me a favor, y/n,” she grits her teeth as she utters your name, dismantling the fondness she had of it and balling it in her spit with spite. 

“don’t ever come back.”

wanda’s line cuts off moments before you jump at the startling crack of her phone, thrown against the wall. 

[colourfulbisexualities]

SUITS AND SASS ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

you’re the bau’s new medical examiner, oozing dark humour, sass, and a killer sense of style, ready to shake up the team. but when you butt heads with aaron hotchner on day one, sparks fly while the rest of the team bets on how long it’ll take for you to win him over.

YOU STRUT into the BAU like you own the damn place, and honestly? You should. The overhead fluorescents do their best to wash out your glow, but even the most soul-sucking government lighting can’t dim this.

The emerald green suit hugs you in all the right places, a sharp contrast against the deep red silk blouse that’s unbuttoned just enough to toe the line between ‘professional’ and ‘distracting.’ Your heels which are Louboutin, naturally - click against the floor with every confident step, the sound sharp, decisive, commanding attention even from the most sleep-deprived agents around you. And your jewellery? Impeccable.

Large emerald studs in your ears, a matching ring resting on your manicured fingers. Each piece a carefully curated display of wealth, taste, and an undeniable presence. You don’t just walk into a room; you arrive, and anyone with half a brain can feel it.

Today is your first day as the BAU’s new medical examiner, and if you’re being honest? You’re already unimpressed. Not with the job itself because you live for the thrill of carving open a fresh corpse before most people have had their morning coffee, but the aesthetic of this place is tragic.

Beige walls, government-issue desks, the faint, ever-present smell of burnt coffee and bad decisions hanging in the air. It’s the kind of environment that breeds stress wrinkles and caffeine addictions, and you’ve already decided that you will not be another victim.

No, you’re here for something new. Something interesting. The only reason you transferred was because your last job had become boring, and you refuse to let your skills stagnate among mundane cases and lackluster conversation.

The BAU, at least, promises a bit of excitement—new cases, new killers, new mysteries to unravel. And, if nothing else, the chance to shake up an office full of straight-laced federal agents with your dark humour and sharp tongue.

The bullpen is exactly what you expected. Agents in various states of exhaustion, stacks of paperwork threatening to topple, and the subtle hum of tense conversation punctuated by the occasional ringing phone. It’s an atmosphere of constant movement, of minds working overtime, and while you appreciate the energy, you can’t help but sigh dramatically as you glance around.

“This place is hideous,” you mutter to yourself, brushing a speck of imaginary dust off your sleeve. “Jesus, does the FBI have something against interior design?”

And then you see her ... Penelope Garcia, dressed in an explosion of colour, exuding the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is and not giving a damn what anyone thinks about it. Finally, someone with taste.

The second her eyes land on you, she lets out a dramatic gasp, one hand clutching at her necklace like she’s just seen the Virgin Mary herself descend into the bullpen. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Who are you?”

You smirk, tilting your head just slightly. “The new medical examiner. And, from the looks of things, the only other person in this building with a sense of style.”

Her eyes sparkle like she’s just found a long-lost soulmate. “Oh, honey, we are going to be best friends.”

“Obviously,” you reply smoothly. “Someone needs to help me cope with the tragedy that is this office décor. Do you think the Bureau would let me expense a new couch? Maybe some curtains? Anything to make this place feel less like a funeral home for the aesthetically challenged.”

“Oh, sweetie, they barely let me expense my glitter pens. You’re asking for a miracle.”

Before you can reply, a voice cuts through the air. Sharp, authoritative, and entirely unimpressed. “You’re late.”

You turn slowly, already knowing that this is going to be fun.

Aaron Hotchner stands before you, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense, scanning you like he’s already profiling your entire existence. And damn if he isn’t gorgeous. You hadn’t expected that. The way his suit fits just right, the sharp angles of his face, the sheer command he exudes—it’s almost enough to distract you from the fact that he’s clearly about to be a pain in your ass.

Almost.

You blink at him, deliberately slow, before glancing at the large digital clock on the wall. “It’s 8:59.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. “We start at eight.”

You sigh, placing a perfectly manicured hand over your heart as if this news has wounded you. “Oh, tragic. If only someone had told me that I was expected to conform to the outdated concept of ‘morning people.’” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m expected to function without proper espresso. What kind of barbarism is this?”

There’s a pause, the kind that suggests Hotch is not used to being spoken to like this. Behind him, you catch the subtle exchange of money. Morgan handing Reid a few bills, Emily shaking her head with an amused smirk. Oh, they were betting on this. Good. At least someone in this building understands entertainment.

Hotch, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he exhales, slow and controlled, the only sign that you’re even remotely testing his patience. “Garcia, show her around the building.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” she says, looping her arm through yours like this is the best thing to happen to her all day.

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you—calculating, assessing, already irritated. You turn your head just slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow smirk.

“He’ll recover,” you murmur to Garcia, low enough that only she hears.

She giggles, glancing back at him before whispering, “Oh, I hope not.”

Hotch watches you go, pressing his lips together as he forces himself to look away. You’re impossible. He already knows you’re going to be a problem, and the worst part? He can’t decide if that frustrates him… or intrigues him.

[love-you-likeallfire]

Sunshine and Roses

Eight years after surviving the 66th Hunger Games, Ember Chance has built a fragile life alongside her only friend and —reluctant husband in nothing but name— Haymitch Abernathy. But as the 74th Games set something dangerous into motion, both Ember and Haymitch find that the Panem isn’t the only thing changing, and no matter how hard they fight it, it might be futile.

Chapter 1- Sunrise On The Reaping:

Next chapter

I am in a foul mood even before the moment my mother knocks on my door to wake me.

Three raps. Light, careful, like she’s already bracing for my reaction.

“Ember,” she calls, soft but firm. The voice she uses on the kids at school. “It’s morning.”

For a few seconds, I pretend I didn’t hear her. I keep my eyes shut, even though, I was awoken an hour ago by nightmares of cold wind slicing through me, ice cracking under my feet, blood blooming in water, of the force of an explosion hurling me forward and fire licking up my back.

I push the thoughts away m like I’ve had almost ten years of practice to do.

I sit up, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, and rub my face hard with my right hand. The other—well. I reach to the bedside table for my prosthetic. The straps are cold, and the buckles bite into my skin as I fasten it in place, adjusting the fingers one by one until they move properly. A simple model, nothing fancy. Just enough to let me work.

I push off the mattress and stand. The room is too big, the bed too soft, the whole house far too quiet. No coughing fits from miners, no voices drifting up from the Seam streets. It’s nothing like the house I grew up in.

“Ember,” Ma calls again from the other side of the door. Still patient. Still gentle.

I don’t answer, but I move. That’s enough for her.

The floor is warm under my bare feet as I cross to the dresser and I pull on a yellow cotton dress patterned with tiny flowers, faded from too many washes. The fabric is soft, worn, familiar. Comfortable. And tug my hair into a loose braid. Something practical. Something I can move in.

I don’t look at the white box on my dresser. Not yet.

It’s always there on this day, delivered the night before like a present from a wolf. Square, clean, trimmed in Capitol red. I haven’t opened it, but I know what’s inside. Some tailored horror stitched with symbolism and control. It’ll be red—It was white last year so it’ll be red this year. I honestly think I must be the only victor in Panem who doesn’t get a say in what they wear on Reaping Day. I think they like it that way. I think he likes it that way.

I leave my room and make my way down the hall, the prosthetic clicking faintly against the wall as I brush by it. The house is too quiet. The staircase creaks under my weight. Another sharp reminder of how long it’s been. Eight years. Eight years since I stood on that pedestal, since I tasted blood in the snow and came home with pieces of myself missing. Eight years of this day repeating, repeating, repeating.

Downstairs, the smell of food lingers in the air, warm and rich. It should be comforting. It isn't. It coils in my stomach, sour and heavy. Still, I slide into my usual seat at the kitchen table without a word. Ma’s already watching me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile brittle at the edges. I know better than to argue today.

She sets a plate down in front of me—simple, but almost too much: a thick slice of fresh bread, still soft and smelling of yeast, a boiled egg with the shell peeled away in careful spirals, and an apple so red and round it looks like it’s been plucked straight from a storybook. A real breakfast. A Victor’s breakfast. I force down the guilt like a lump in my throat.

Ma takes the seat across from me, smoothing her skirt under her. She’s small, barely reaching my shoulder when she stands, but there’s a kind of iron in her bones, a steel hidden under all that sunshine she’s always carried. Her blonde hair, streaked heavy with white now, is tied back in a bright cloth, a splash of cheerful color against the worn fabric of her dress. Her eyes—sharp, steady, the color of faded bluebells—never miss a thing. Especially not today.

I don’t have to look up to know she’s waiting for me to eat. So I do. Slowly. The bread is tender, almost sweet. The egg is still warm from the pot. The apple crunches when I bite into it, flooding my mouth with syrupy sweetness. Pa would have loved it—he always had a sweet tooth—but he’s long gone now, just a shadow left in the corners of this kitchen.

"Got much to do today before…" Ma’s voice trails off, brittle as a snapped twig.

"Just the usual," I reply, the same way I always do on Reaping Day. Cold. Mechanical. A well-oiled clock ticking forward.

She nods, her mouth pressing into a thin line. "You’ll change before the Reaping?"

I focus on my food, pretend not to hear the way her voice wavers, just barely. "Yeah," I say, my voice flat.

I know she’s only trying to make conversation, to keep the day from swallowing us whole. I know she’s being gentle. Careful. But there’s only so much pretending you can stand when you’ve survived the Hunger Games once already, and now you have to stand up in front of everyone like some kind of ghost.

She doesn’t push. She never does. Just folds her hands again.

"I left you a list," I add after a moment, softer. "Stuff that needs doing while I’m away."

Her smile warms, truly this time, lighting up her face the way the sun breaks through after a storm. "Thank you baby," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Her palm is rough with calluses, but her touch is feather-light

I squeeze back, just once, before pulling away to shove the last of the bread into my mouth.

"I’ll stick to your list like my life depends on it," she teases, voice bright but eyes too knowing.

"What’s first on the agenda?" She asks.

"Milking Daisy," I reply. “Sorry, I don’t have time”

Then she waves a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry, I’ll handle her. I’ve been milking goats since before you could crawl."

It’s a joke. A good one, even. But I can’t laugh. Not today.

We eat the rest of breakfast in a thick, stretched silence. Afterward, I scrape my chair back and pull on my boots, the worn leather creaking in protest. The air outside hits me like a wall—thick with late-summer heat, the sky a bright, merciless blue. It’s the kind of day that would almost be beautiful if it weren’t so cruel. As if the world’s trying to pretend today’s just another day, and not the day two kids from District 12 are going to be marked for death.

As I shoulder my bag, Ma calls after me. "I tucked some goat cheese in there for you— for the Hob”

I glance back and catch her smile, small but determined, holding herself together for me.

"Thanks, Ma," I say, hoisting the strap higher on my shoulder. It’s warm enough that I’ll have to be quick about it—the cheese won’t keep long in this heat.

She nods, smoothing her apron with hands that won’t quite still. Always moving, always doing. Always trying to keep the grief from settling too deep.

I linger in the doorway, for a second, looking back at her—at the strong lines of age her face, the bright cloth in her hair, the hidden sadness she thinks I can’t see. She’s been through so much already: losing Pa, scraping by on her own, smiling through the kind of storms that would have broken anyone else. She’s a ray of light, even today, even when the world keeps trying to snuff her out.

“I love you” she says not goodbye, not see you later. I love you.

I just give her a little nod—the one she taught me when I was a girl, when words were too much and not enough all at once and I step outside into the blinding sun, the door swinging shut behind me like the closing of a book I’m not ready to finish.

The Victor’s Village is quiet. Always is. It sits on the far edge of town, where the woods creep close but not so close that the worst of the Seam’s dust and coal smoke can find it. It’s a strange place—too clean, too still—like someone built it to look like a real neighborhood but forgot that people are supposed to live in it. Twelve houses, all lined up neat and empty like teeth in a skull. Only two are lived in now: mine and Haymitch’s.

His house is directly across from mine, hulking and grey, the first thing you see when you step out my front door. Always watching. Always reminding me what winning really means.

I glance across the road as I step outside, but there’s no sign of movement, and I didn’t expect any. Not at this hour. Not today. Still, I’ll have to stop by on the way back. Part of the job. Haymitch won’t be pleased to see me—not that he ever is—but I’m coming armed with the good stuff he likes, and that ought to convince him to go easy on me. Or at least grumble a little less.

I step down off the porch, the wood creaking under my boots like a sigh, and make my way onto the dusty road that cuts through the heart of the Victor’s Village. My shadow stretches long behind me in the early morning light.

Today, the errands are simple:

Check in on the bakery & pick up a few things for Ma.

Stop by the Hob.

Stop at Haymitch’s.

Keep moving. Keep busy. Keep the hours slipping past as fast as I can. Because when you stop, when you let yourself breathe, that’s when the fear sneaks in. That's when you remember what the day really is.

Another set of names will be pulled from those gleaming glass bowls this afternoon. Another pair of kids, sentenced to die for the entertainment of people who’ll never know their names. And me—standing up there in the square, a living, breathing reminder that you can survive and still lose everything. Not by choice. Never by choice. But there all the same. Complicit by survival.

The morning air is thick and warm, the first heavy fingers of July heat brushing against my skin. But a thin breeze slides down from the mountains, stirring the hem of my dress and carrying the twin scents of coal smoke and wildflowers. A strange pairing—grit and sweetness, just like District 12 itself. I tug my shawl tighter around my shoulders anyway. The heat doesn’t touch me. Not on Reaping Day. Not when the cold inside me has nothing to do with the weather.

The town is quieter than usual, like someone pressed a hand over its mouth. Even the birds seem to be singing softer, their songs frail and uncertain. A heavy kind of dread hangs over everything, thick enough to choke on. You learn to live with it, the way you live with a bad scar—you get used to the ache, but you never stop feeling it.

I pass empty homes, their windows shuttered against the heat and the fear, and every so often I catch a glimpse of a child being hurried indoors by a parent with tight lips and tired eyes. Everyone’s trying to pretend it’s just another day. Pretend that the sun rising and the market opening and the goats bleating mean life will go on like normal. Right up until the moment it doesn’t.

That’s the trick of Reaping Day: pretend hard enough and maybe—just maybe—you’ll believe it isn’t your name waiting on that slip of paper. That you’re safe.

I keep my pace steady, boots thudding against the dirt road, a rhythm so familiar it feels etched into my bones. I’ve made this walk since I was a little girl, when the world still seemed like it might be kind, when the biggest thing in my satchel was a lump of cheese wrapped in cloth and a handful of hope.

Now, the satchel slaps against my hip, heavier than it used to be. I shift the strap across my shoulder and feel the faint, mechanical hum from my prosthetic. It’s well-made, better than anything District 12 could’ve fashioned, but it’s still a part of me that isn’t mine. Just another reminder that even when you win, you don’t get to keep everything.

I skirt the graveyard without meaning to, my feet automatically taking the longer path around. I can't go near it today. I can't face the rows of crooked stones and unmarked mounds. Not when the ghosts are so loud in my head, whispering old names, old fears. Not when one wrong glance could pull me under.

I keep my eyes forward, my breath steady. Step after step, heartbeat after heartbeat. Just another day, I lie to myself. Just another errand, another morning. Just another Reaping.

I think if I keep lying like that, maybe I’ll make it to noon without falling apart.

I make it to the black market fast—my first stop of the day, and the easiest. The Hob always feels a little removed from the rest of District 12, like it's running on a different clock, or maybe just refusing to stop ticking altogether. Even on Reaping Day, it thrums with life.

The crowd is thinner than usual, sure, but it’s still here—traders with sharp eyes and quick hands, kids trying to scrape together enough coin or barter to bring something extra home for supper, greasers haggling over cuts of meat and bolts of thread like it's the most important deal in Panem. Maybe it is, for them.

The air smells like it always does—smoke, leather, sweat, and spice. Heavy and familiar. It clings to everything: your clothes, your hair, your memory. It’s the kind of scent that settles into your skin and never quite washes out.

I step inside, weaving through the narrow paths between stalls. I nod to a few familiar faces as I go, but I don’t stop. I’m not here to talk. Just to do what needs doing.

Ripper’s where she always is, behind her stall near the back wall, arms crossed and eyes sharp, tracking every movement around her like a hawk on a perch. She doesn’t smile when she sees me—she never does—but she gives a short nod, a jerk of her chin that means she’s seen me, that she knows what I’m here for.

"Morning," I say as I approach.

"Morning," she replies, already ducking down to grab the bottle I came for. "Here for him?"

"Who else?" I answer.

She places the glass bottle on the counter. The liquid inside catches the dim light and refracts it like a shard of ice. I lay a few coins on the counter, and she scoops them up without bothering to count. We both know it’s fair.

"I don’t know why you bother," Ripper mutters jokingly, pushing the bottle toward me.

"Neither do I," I say, slipping it into the crook of my arm, careful not to clink it against anything.

She snorts, but there’s no real judgment in it. Just the tired sort of amusement that lives deep in people who’ve seen too much. "Well. Good luck today."

She says it like I’m the one whose name might be drawn. Like I’m not already the one who made it out. Still, I nod. I appreciate it. Most folks in Twelve don’t look twice at a Victor unless it’s to whisper about you behind your back.

I turn to go, but as I do, my gaze snags on someone across the aisle. A girl, standing near a stall, selling fresh game. She’s got a dark braid down her back, arms crossed, eyes that look like they see straight through most people.

Katniss Everdeen.

I’ve seen her before—quiet, steady, a little too sharp for someone her age. I’ve bought from her more than once, mostly rabbits or squirrels when the cupboards looked a little bare. I’ve bought milk from her sister, too, now and then. Don’t need it, not really. But I don’t say no.

I know her mother better. Mrs. Everdeen was the closest thing we had to a healer when I was growing up. Still is. When my father was dying, it was her who came, day after day, just to make sure he wasn’t in pain. She never asked for anything. Never made a show of it. Just did the work, quiet and steady, like she always has.

I wonder if Katniss knows. If she understands the weight her mother’s carried for this district. The people she’s held together. The suffering she’s softened. I wonder if she cares. If it matters to her.

But the thought doesn’t linger. Can’t afford to let it. Not today. Soon enough, Katniss will be standing in the square like everyone else. Just another name in a bowl that’s too full.

I move on, slipping through the press of people, the cheese gone from my bag by the time I leave.

Next stop: the bakery.

The smell of warm bread hits me the moment I step inside the bakery, curling around me like an old memory. It’s rich, thick with yeast and butter, and it pulls something deep in my chest. For a split second, it reminds me of the Capitol—of those endless, grotesque feasts, tables piled high with food so rich it made me sick. But here, in this small shop dusted with flour and filled with real hunger, it’s different. Honest. Earned.

Behind the counter stands Mr. Mellark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, thick arms dusted in white. He looks up as I enter, gives me a small nod. He’s a quiet man, gentle in a way that feels out of place in a world like ours. Nothing like his wife. But we don’t talk about her. No one really does. Not unless they have to.

“Loaf?” he asks, voice low and steady.

“And a few extras,” I reply, stepping closer to the counter.

There’s a faint clatter from the back—quick voices, the scuff of hurried footsteps. The older Mellark boys, no doubt, handling deliveries or keeping the ovens hot under their mother’s sharp eye. I can hear her bark orders, short and snapping, even through the thick wooden door. The youngest Mellark must be somewhere back there too. Peeta. Probably getting ready for the Reaping, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

The smell of cookies drifts out with the noise—sweet, buttery, with just the faintest hint of melting chocolate. It sneaks into my nose and tightens something inside my chest. Not because of what it is. Because of what it reminds me of. A life that feels farther away every year.

I drift toward the display window while Mr. Mellark wraps up the bread. The cakes there are something else. Little miracles in a town that has no room for beauty.

One is covered in delicate, dusty pink roses, so perfectly piped they look almost real, like you could lean down and catch their scent. Another is simpler but no less lovely—a round, pale yellow cake glazed in bright citrus, the top scattered with thin curls of candied peel. Each one is a work of patience and steady hands. Someone cared enough to make something beautiful here, even if the world outside these walls doesn’t deserve it.

For a brief, foolish second, I consider buying one. Imagine carrying it home, setting it on the table like today was just any other day. Like I’m not about to stand in the town square and watch two more kids get thrown to the wolves.

But the thought withers almost as quickly as it blooms. People would see. People would talk. A cake, on a day like this, would feel like a slap in the face. Especially considering where I'm headed next. The person I have to see. Bringing something sweet would be a cruelty neither of us would put into words.

I shake the thought off, dig my fingers into the strap of my satchel, and make myself breathe.

Behind me, Mr. Mellark finishes tying up the bread parcel: a thick, round loaf, four soft rolls, and a smaller brown paper bundle that smells suspiciously like blueberry muffins. He handles it all with a careful sort of grace, setting it on the counter like it might break.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling a few coins from my pocket and sliding them across the counter without thinking. I never trade cheese here. They don’t need it, and I’ve long since stopped pretending I still have to barter to survive.

He nods, accepting the money without a word, then returns to his task—measured, quiet, steady. I gather the parcel into my bag beside the bottle and the last bits of cheese. The door chimes again as I step out, and I don’t look back.

the sun climbing higher in the sky, heavy and unforgiving. The Reaping is breathing down our necks now.

And I’ve still got one last stop to make.

And of all the errands on this day, it’s going to be the hardest.

A/N: Hi, this is my first hunger games fanfic but one I’ve been working on and off for years. It’s not an x reader but it’s inspired by several Haymitch fanfics, a lot of them Haymitch x reader (more specifically; Against The Odds by @flowercrownsandherondales, Moves & Countermoves by @nebulablakemurphy , Soft Things Survive by @sweetheartsofpanem and sleeplessness by @on-my-vigilante-sht. seriously I love these guys’ works!) so I’m still going to be tagging Haymitch x reader because that’s the inspiration.

[kittyoncescribbled]

Check-Mate.

Summary: Mihawk thought he was too old to believe in silly things like love at first sight, but things change;

Word count: 2,453;

Rating/Content Warnings: PG-16, AFAB reader;

Author’s note: Hi, guys! This is my first time writing for Mihawk; he might be a little OOC, but I'm still trying to find my footing with him. Feedback would be deeply appreciated. Please reblog/like if you enjoy this!

Previous chapter || Next chapter

You stared down at your plate, trying not to look miserable.

Sanji had outdone himself once again and brought out a dinner that seemed more fit to a king — and you knew it, as you were now a fugitive princess who escaped an evil uncle who wanted to marry you off to any weak man who he could control and, by extension, keep his hold on the throne and power: more specifically, your power, as you had eaten a devil fruit and now has something similar to Midas’ touch. But looking down at the plate in front of you, you couldn't help but notice that it was beautiful, smelled delicious, and you were sure that it tasted heavenly… but it was different.

Not from most of the crew; your plate looked the exact same as the ones in front of Luffy, Usopp, or even Zoro. But Nami and Robin had plates adorned with flowers and beautifully placed garnishes in front of them. It was evident how much time, effort, and appreciation had gone into their presentations.

It was quite common at this point, and you took notice of it almost instantly. Sanji was the one who helped you escape after some of the servants in the castle tr, guiding you by the hand through the streets of your city — the streets you didn't know, as your uncle had kept you hiding inside the guarded walls of the castle since you were a young girl — and into the Thousand Sunny; you chose to go with the strawhats, and now there was a hefty bounty prize to whoever brought you back home alive.

And you couldn't help but fall head over heels for Sanji, the first person ever to show you kindness or to see you as a person, not just someone from the royal family or their entryway into fortune or power. And it was painful to see how differently he treated you when compared to the other girls on the crew or to any pretty woman from the islands you guys visited; you could never accuse Sanji of being rude or mean, but he just treated you the same way he treated the guys or Chopper, and you just sat there ruminating on why would that be — you weren't pretty enough, nice enough, feminine enough?

All of that went through your mind while you stared down at your plate, and you could see the looks from Nami, Usopp, and Robin; they all kind of knew how you felt about Sanji — not that you were able to hide it — and the sadness showing up in your eyes made them empathetic. But it's not like you had openly talked about it with them, so none of them felt comfortable asking you if you were okay.

“Sanji, why is YN's plate different?” Chopper asked sweetly. You felt the cook freeze on the spot and grabbed your fork and knife as if you didn't hear it. “What do you mean, Chopper?” “Well, Nami and Robin’s plates and drinks are always prettier and nicer because they're women, right? So why does Y/N get regular food like the rest of us?”

“It's okay, Chopper,” you said with a smile to the doctor. “It's fine. Sanji's cooking is the best with flowers or without, right?”

“Y-YN, m'sorry, let me take care of it and—” Sanji started, his face beet red, trying to get the plate back, but you grabbed his wrist, startling him. “Don't.”

Your tone was icy and harsh, as they had never heard before, and the shift in the room's atmosphere was noticeable; the tension could be cut with a knife. Embarrassed, you simply grabbed your plate and went back to your dorm, locking the door behind you.

It was now days later, and things were still weird between you and Sanji. Chopper had asked for your forgiveness, but you had repeatedly reassured him that there was nothing to be forgiven. You did your best to avoid Sanji and the others, choosing to spend most of your days on a little spot of the deck Franky had added some stuff for you: a chess table with magnetic pieces so they wouldn’t get knocked over by the constant movement of the boat and a telescope. You still did your chores and helped, but you chose to be in your quarters or play chess alone.

On that specific afternoon, you were doing laundry — the little laundry you had, as you were still a bit uncomfortable buying clothes for yourself, and your old clothes, all frilly lace and flowy dresses, weren’t fit for life in a pirate ship; Robin once chuckled and said that you, always wearing jeans and white button-ups, looked like a cartoon character and Nami had promised she’d take you out for a shopping spree on the next island with good shops — when a commotion started on the deck. Leaving your load of laundry behind, you grabbed your bow and ran to the deck.

Dracule Mihawk stood there like an exotic animal, and you, still holding your bow up, made your way until you were close to Robin. “So… there’s a Cross Guild member on our deck, and no one’s doing anything about it?”

“That’s Zoro’s mentor,” Robin explained with a small chuckle. “And he said there are things he needs to discuss with our captain.”

The small exchange between you and Robin caught Mihawk’s attention, and you froze in your place, unable to react under such an intense gaze. Lowering your weapon, you regained some of your spirit and stood straight, staring right back at his yellow eyes, not backing down when he made his way toward you.

“Your royal highness,” Mihawk said with a courtesy, and, out of habit more than anything else, you presented your hand, which he brought to his lips without ever breaking eye contact. In the corner of your eye, you could see Nami and Robin raising eyebrows and Zoro looking like he was about to combust, but none of that mattered. Luffy showed up on deck, and Mihawk slowly made his way to the captain. After a short exchange of words, Luffy guided the swordsman to somewhere where they could talk a bit more privately, and you relaxed, still next to Robin. From across the deck, Sanji stared at you fiercely and seemed to be biting his lips, but you simply turned your back and returned to your laundry.

Mihawk was far too old to believe in love at first sight, or at least that is what he thought.

He had his fair share of lovers throughout the years, but those were just flings; someone to scratch the itch, if you will. Nothing ever lasted for more than a couple of weeks, and he never bothered to make it last. He was quite content with that, as he very much enjoyed the silence and peace in his life, especially now that neither Zoro nor Perona were there to cause a stir, but he had felt intrigued by you ever since he had read about your escape on the paper; coincidentally he had matters to discuss with Luffy, so he could take a good look on your, and take a good look he did.

Even in regular clothing that seemed too plain for you, you still seemed regal — it was something in your posture and how you held your head high. If you thought he looked out of place as an exotic bird, Mihawk could say the same about you; he could read in your body language that you still felt out of your element — like when you were holding your bow, much more like someone used to hunt for sport than to be in the middle of battle shooting arrows at enemies. The pictures in the papers or wanted posters did you no justice, as they couldn’t capture the expression of longing and sadness in your eyes or the way you bit your lips, unsure of what to do next.

As much as Mihwak would have adored spending more time admiring you, he was there on business, so he excused himself and retreated to discuss some important topics with Luffy. 

And even though he couldn't deny that he looked for you the same way a moth looked for a flame, Mihawk pushed the “love of first sight” idea to the back of his mind. Attraction, definitely; infatuation, maybe. But love?

That wasn’t a possibility.

He wasn't expecting to see you alone on deck when he was preparing to leave. Enjoying the sunshine, you sat in front of a game of chess, seemingly trying to understand what the next move would be. Without making a sound, Mihawk walked until he was standing behind you, and, without saying a word, he reached his arm and moved one of the white bishops.

Startled, you turned over on your chair and looked up at the swordsman. “That was the best next move. What to do next?” he asked, looking attentively into your eyes. You stuttered for a moment, eyes darting everywhere while trying to think of the right answer. “Come on, take your time, Your Royal Highness. There is no right or wrong answer here.” Mihawk said with a low chuckle while taking the seat directly in front of you and putting his sword down close to him.

“Yes, there is,” you retorted, holding your chin with one hand and tapping on the table with the other. “If I make the wrong move, that's a check. And there's no need to use titles here, please. Outside the realm, I'm not ‘royal highness’; I'm just Y/N.”

“As you wish, miss Y/L/N.” Mihawk felt very happy with himself when he saw a light blush creeping up your neck and ears. “But tell me, why would you be here by yourself?”

“My apologies, sir, but why are you sitting here, asking me this? You don't seem the type to enjoy small talk,” you asked uncertainly, not trying to be rude but genuinely intrigued.

“I am merely curious about you, miss Y/L/N. You're a runaway princess in a pirate ship with a crew famous for getting themselves in trouble. You are an interesting person, and I want to know more about you.” The tips of your ears turned into a brighter shade of red.

“Ah, there was a situation the other day. And I'm feeling a little embarrassed about it, so I’d much rather stay by myself.”

“Just… A situation?”

“Yeah, I’m not about to start sharing the owes of my pathetic love life with a man I don’t know,” she said with a bitter smile.

“Would it have something to do with the cook, who is over there looking like he wants to kick the lights out of me?” Y/N rolled her eyes and made her move on the chess board. “Just… ignore him. Whatever happened, it’s unimportant”.

Mihawk simply acquiesced and made his move on the chess board. Eventually, you two fell into a comfortable silence while playing. You kept your focus on the chess board, attentively studying and thinking about your next move, but Mihawk was studying you.

You were clearly not comfortable in your own skin yet; your clothes, as simple as they were, showed that you were not sure what style would suit you best or that you, under the thumb of your uncle from a young age, still had to figure out what clothes you liked best. Your hair, pulled back in a ponytail, probably reached your waist, but maybe you had no idea how to style it. You were someone being free for the first time in your life, 

“Would you like to drink something? I wouldn’t get you the boat fuel that Zoro likes to drink, but I do have some red wine in my cabin,” she asked tentatively. Mihawk nodded and watched as she walked away, groaning internally as the blond cook took her place. 

“What are you doing with Y/N?”

Mihawk stared down at the blond and tilted his head, feigning ignorance; you didn’t want to talk about whatever it was that had transpired between you and the cook, and he wasn’t one to be intrusive into others' personal lives. “Playing chess and having a glass of wine. Why?”

Sanji pressed his lips into a thin line, grabbing the chess board so hard his knuckles turned white. “You’re trying to flirt with her? Romance her? Get laid?”

“I am merely getting to know the lady. That’s all. She is quite a beautiful woman, though, and I believe that if something were to happen, she wouldn’t need to ask for permission from any of you. And I also believe this conversation is over,” Mihawk said with a voice smooth as silk, his hand gliding over his sword’s handle — a silent but powerful warning. Sanji looked in the direction of your steps, seeing you coming over with two glasses and a wine bottle.

He glanced at Mihawk, radiating rage, but got up and went back to the kitchen.

You took back your sit and poured over the wine for the both of you, completely ignoring Sanji and pretending you didn’t see him. With your wine glass in hand, you pulled your knee close to your chess and mulled over your next move. The two of you again fell under a silent spell, sipping on the wine you had brought out and waiting for the others' turn to be over. You tried your best not to stare but managed to steal a couple of glances at the warlord, still wondering why such a man would be spending his time at the deck of the Thousand Sunny, playing chess. It felt good to spend time with someone who didn’t look at you pitifully, though, and it had been a long time since you had a chess partner, so you weren’t going to complain. 

“Ah! Check-mate!” you said, triumphant, your lips parting in a bright smile while you picked the king from Mihawk’s side of the chessboard.

“Well done, miss Y/L/N,” Mihawk had a gentle look and something on his lips that, to someone who knew him quite well, could be considered a small smile. “I do have to go; I am afraid I might have overextended your crew’s generosity by overstaying, but after my discussion with your captain, it is my understanding that you will have to stop by my island. It would be my pleasure to have a rematch.” Mihawk stood up and, again, reached for your hand.

“Of course, sir,” you said as he kissed your knuckles before grabbing his things and leaving.

Sanji watched all of this from afar, seething.

[daisy-01-blog]

Busy woman! (Boss!Gojo x co-worker! fem! reader) 

SMUT 

MINORS DNI 

A/N: Happy Valentine lovelies! stream busy woman by Sabrina Carpenter!

It's valentine's day and you're thinking of killing yourself. Everyone seem so happy and you're just so fucking miserable. You recently ended things with your one year boyfriend.

You noticed how life has been too good for you these months, should’ve known something like this is going to happen. 

You got a promotion on your job!, and your boyfriend bought you a car as a present! life’s perfect. 

Too perfect. 

Turns out he bought it for you since he’s feeling guilty, because he’s been cheating on you. It has been a year, does it mean nothing to him? 

You sold all his presents (except for the car), and on some days you just cried from the hurt. 

Now it’s Valentine’s day, and you feel sick seeing all these people. 

They’re going to break up one day! Does it not matter? your heart clenched as you went to your office. This is so stupid.

*** 

“(Y/N), the boss is calling for you in his office” your co-worker told you. 

You frown, did you mess up your report again? you scoff as you went inside his office. 

Gojo Satoru is your boss, just your usual nepotism baby who got this company from his dad. You wouldn’t admit it, but he actually manages this company pretty well. 

You’re not close with him, just like the other co-worker isn’t close with him

“I need a favor” he said to you 

“And that is?” you asked him 

"Go out with me" Gojo said

"What?"

"Fake" he clarifies "be my fake date"

You frowned “is this some kind of joke?” you muttered. Why did he need a fake-date for? 

“It’s Valentine’s day” he mutters “and my family has been begging me to bring a girlfriend with me on family dinner today” 

“So?” you said “can’t you say no or something?” 

He sighed “he’ll mutate me to another company of his if I didn’t bring anyone” 

“What!” you said 

He huffs “I already like this place” he mutters “I’m already familiar with the people too, there’s no way I’ll leave” he said. 

You nodded “fine, just for a week right?” 

He grins “if that’s the case, let’s practice” 

You blink “practice what?”

*** 

A few minutes later, he’s kissing your lips and you-you didn’t know why you didn’t push him off. You guys are literally still in his office. 

He tastes like peppermint and he smells sultry, your head feels dizzy. 

“Mmmh…” he pants as his tongue entangles with yours. 

He has always wanted to do this with you, and you taste so sweet. 

After a while you guys let go, he grins seeing your flushed appearance. 

“One more time” he said and you nodded. 

***

The family dinner was actually pleasant, his parents are very nice. There’s lots of food and they offer it to you non-stop. 

It would’ve been perfect if Gojo wasn't stroking your thighs behind the table. 

You gasped as he fingers you while you guys are on the family's table. You bit your lips as you hold your moan. 

“Is everything okay?” his mom asked as you nodded, biting your lips. 

“Yes…just feel a bit lightheaded, I just recovered from my fever” you lied. 

They nodded and told you to take it easy. 

You bite your lips as his fingers play with your pussy, and he has the audacity to keep on eating. 

His fingers rub your clit as you hear him chuckle quietly “so wet” he whispers and you squirm in pleasure. 

The lewd wet noises make you feel embarrassed as you bit your lips, shuddering in pleasure. 

As he finds your g-spot, you splurt. 

He grins “enjoying the food?” and you glare at him. 

*** After the family dinner, he brings you to an amusement park-he wins you a big teddy and you guys have so much fun. 

But you-you can’t do this. 

You’ve fallen for Gojo again. 

You’ve always liked him, but give up since he’s literally your boss. 

But now, this felt too real. But you’re scared, he’s just joking-this isn’t even real dating. You felt sick. 

"I think we can't do this anymore" you said

“What?” he paused, you guys are eating cotton candy

“This is inappropriate” you said to him

"But it has only been like a day!" he said

"Happy Valentine, Gojo" 

*** 

It’s the next day, and he calls you to his office-and you have no choice but to go there. 

“There’s something I need to say” he said “I like you” 

You avoid his gaze “I know” 

“You know? then why did you-”

“I’m scared” you sigh “and this isn’t the best occasion, you’re my boss” you mutter. 

“I’m scared it will just be messed up again” 

He holds your hand “I want us to try” he said softly. 

“Okay” 

*** 

His desk creaked as he plows your pussy roughly, you hold your moan as his cock plows your gummy walls. 

“Fuck” he whines “always wanna try your pussy, baby” he said lewdly as his cock makes out with your pussy “you look-ah” he shudders “so good on your-mmm, skirt” he moans. 

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, hips shaking in delight. 

“I love you” he groans, plowing you even harder “and your pussy too” he slaps your ass “I will never let you go” 

The desk creaked as the lewd wet noises filled his office. 

“Be quiet darling” he pants, fucking your pussy “tell your pussy to be quiet, what if people hear?” he moans. 

Your pussy tightens and he grins at that. 

“Slut” he grunts as he slaps your ass “turns you on when people see you huh?” he grunts as he plows your pussy to his shape. 

“Nooo” you whine in pleasure, shaking. 

“You’re mine” he shudders “fuck, here comes the load” 

You both moan as he spews jets of cum inside you. 

He grins “this is just the start” 

You chuckle. 

This is what you’ve gotten yourself into. 

[nightingalescall]

The Devil and Angel's Waltz

Kingdom of Ebreau:

prologue|part 1|part 2|part 3(you are here)

"Are you disfigured?"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

You stared at the maid as she walked away, stunned.

What in the...

"Something the matter, Messiah?" Marika's voice rang from across the table. You turned your gaze back and blinked.

"It's nothing, your highness." You smiled politely as you raised the teacup to your lips, eager to taste the drink. The smell wafted into your nose first before it even reached your tongue.

Jasmine tea.

You swallowed.

With honey.

You placed the cup back down on the coaster. The tea was well balanced. If not steeped for too long, Jasmine tea is quite flavourless with only its aroma to remind you of the kind of drink it was. The honey mixed in afterward added a nice subtle tone of sweetness to the otherwise bland tea.

It's good.

Under normal circumstances, you would have said it tasted great but the question the maid whispered into your ear earlier as she poured you this drink made the liquid not go down right. You'd even say it had an unusual bitter aftertaste.

"You may simply call me Marika, Messiah. You are no ordinary folk so no need for such formalities." Marika smiled as she reached for a cookie on the table. "T-that wouldn't be very polite of me, your highness." You declined her request, letting out an awkward laugh.

You glanced at Zephyr beside you. He hasn't said anything ever since you arrived at the palace. His cup of tea sat untouched on the table, growing colder by the minute. A slight smile was present on his lips as he listened but it felt different from the one you’re used to seeing.

It looked…superficial. Fake. Ingenuine.

Zephyr didn't want to be here.

That makes two of you then.

Actually, scratch that. That makes three of you.

You peaked at the silent white hair beside Marika from the corner of your eyes. This was the fourth time since the moment you two met. With the help of your veil, you managed to avoid detection by the prince whenever you snuck glances at him. You wished you didn't have to do this but Calerus' words still rang clear in your mind.

Beware the heretics.

It would be foolish of you to ignore this individual when even god himself tells you to be wary of him.

Thus, even with your whole body going into fight or flight mode, screaming at you to look away from his eyes, your mind was determined to keep tabs on him.

Xion was sitting with his legs crossed, one over the other. His hands placed neatly on his lap, occasionally patting down his silver uniform and smoothing out any creases. He kept his gaze on the table in front of him or off to the side throughout the entire conversation. His ruby eyes were distant and unfocused like he was thinking, plotting, scheming.

He was mentally elsewhere you concluded.

You looked away, not letting your gaze linger longer. You turned back towards Marika, who seems to be the only person who actually wanted to be here. She finished swallowing the bite of the cookie she had eaten before continuing. "I don't mind, Messiah. Please just call me that. If we are to rule together and protect Ebreau, putting so much importance on our statuses and titles will only obstruct our cooperation." She reasoned.

"I-I see..." You mumbled behind your cup as you took another sip of the tea to calm your nerves. Silence fell over the table. You looked up from your cup in confusion. Marika stared back at you, the same sweet smile on her face.

...?

You knitted your eyebrows together behind your veil.

What's going on...?

Xion's priecing gaze snapped towards you. Your body froze in place as he stared you down, like a predator does before pouncing on its prey. Your mind raced for words to say as the staring continued.

"The temple simply call her 'Messiah', your highness. However, if you must know, her name is (y/n)." Zephyr finally said his first words after getting here, helping you break the silence. "Ah, I see. Then, (y/n), I hope this will be a fruitful collaboration." Marika smiled.

Oh, she just wanted your name?

The realisation hit you and you breathed a sigh of relief, your hands relaxing their tight grip around your tea cup. You felt Xion's eyes also leave you as the tension that hung in the air dissipated. You internally thanked Zephyr for answering in your stead, not daring to think how long that silence would have lasted or how it would have been broken if he didn’t.

"Would you like to see the ballroom now, (y/n)?" Marika placed her cup down. "You may practice there while the servants are finishing up the preparations for tonight's ceremony. I will personally inform them if you wish." The queen offered. It would be a good idea to familiarise yourself with 'the stage' for tonight. Plus, extra practice could never hurt.

"I would like that, M-marika." You struggled to get the queen's name out your mouth. It felt wrong to call someone with such status by their first name. "Follow me then." Marika smiled and stood up, leading the way out of the room. Xion followed behind her, not bothering to toss you a glance. You and Zephyr walked at the back, side by side.

The palace's hallways were long. Not surprising there. With multiple twists and turns, up and down some stairs, the walk there seemed to stretch on forever. At least the walkways were decorated very nicely though. They provided some form of distraction from this boring excursion. The walls were painted in white with some kind of floral motive drawn on in silver near the bottom and top. Paintings of knights on horses, nobles in luxurious clothing, flowers in the wild and many more (including some abstract ones that didn't look like anything at all) hung on the wall. Some almost side by side, some few and far between. The carpet beneathe your feet was blue with golden edges as it paved the entire way to the ballroom, even the stairs had them. Plus, it looked surprisingly clean.

The servants here must work real hard.

You thought to yourself as a butler pushed open a large wooden door, allowing your little entourage to enter.

The room before you was spacious, to say the least. Just from one glance, you could tell this was the ballroom where nobles and commoners alike would gather during special occasions.

Just like your initiation tonight.

The ballroom was beautiful and extravagant even without any extra decorations. The floor was marble and it glistened. Looking down at it, you could see your reflection in it. No doubt the work of the maids mopping it on the other side of the ballroom. A small stage was placed to the side for the orchestra who will be responsible for the music of your dance tonight. Two long tables were placed opposing the stage, on the other side of the ballroom. You assumed it's for the food that will be served this evening. Several butlers were up on ladders, wiping away at the glass windows, determined to clean away any smudges.

You turned your gaze ahead of you.

A young maid was wiping down the thrones Marika and Xion would be seated on for tonight at the far end of the ballroom.

The servants here definitely work real hard.

"You may practice here for the afternoon, (y/n). I have informed the servants here to let you use the dance floor." Marika turned to you and said with a smile. Behind her, the butler who had helped open the door walked away and towards the directions of other servants, probably to inform them of the queen's order. "Thank you, your highness." You nodded your head at her before catching your error. "Marika." You corrected yourself.

Marika's smile grew even wider at that. "I will leave you to it then, (y/n). I still have matters to attend to before the ceremony starts tonight so I must excuse myself." Marika made her way back towards the door before stopping and turning back towards you one last time. "Please don't hesitant to call any of the servants if you need something. They'll be happy to serve you." The queen finally stepped out of the room.

Silence fell over your group for a moment as you stared Zephyr, Zephyr stared at you and...Xion stared at you both. To be honest, you were too scared to look at Xion but the current situation called for it so you slowly shifted your gaze to the prince.

Xion was still looking at you with those cold ruby eyes. His face blank and his body unmoving. It was unnerving how still he was. It was like he was simply observing you, waiting for the right time to make a move. But what that move is, you’re not sure.

You opened your mouth to speak but before any words came out, Xion bowed. "I will leave now too." He excused himself and within a few seconds, he was gone as well.

...

You watched as he left and as the door swung shut, you let out a sigh of relief, the tension in your body dissipating. It felt like you could finally breathe again.

"Are you alright, Lady (y/n)?" Zephyr's voice sounded beside you and you felt his hand on your back. His worried face came into view as he leaned down, his bangs falling to one side as he did so. "...That..." you started as you tried to find the right words to describe how you were feeling. The thumping of your heart, the sweat in your palms, the nauseousness and the dread. There really was only one answer.

"That was terrifying."

~✟~

What is this room for?

The thought flashed through your mind as you slipped on the ceremonial dress. The soft silky fabric rubbing against your face as you pulled it down your head and then body. Your hands patted down the bodice and skirt, smoothing out any creases and ensuring there were no folds.

You walked towards the full body mirror placed beside a bookshelf on the left side of the room. The room was nearly identical to the one you had tea with the queen and prince just now with only the arrangement of furniture slightly different and an extra mirror for some reason (maybe you're too poor to understand the taste rich people have in interior design). You stood in front of the mirror, admiring the details of the dress.

For the monumental ceremony tonight, the temple went all out with your clothes. Similar to your daily attire, the garment was in the shade of gold. The fabric metallic and shining. A clear statement of its high quality. The skirt reached down to the floor. Its hems brushing against the carpet beneathe your feet with every movement. The skirt was further accentuated with a few layers of sheer fabric in a similar colour, some longer, some shorter, creating patterns and adding volume to the skirt. Floral patterns were embroidered on parts of the fabric using gold thread and finally dusted with a small amount of glitter as a finishing touch.

The sleeves were long just as your usual clothing. The fabric was semi transparent and clung loosely to your arms. Not a bad choice considering how light and airy it was, not to mention soft. There was no collar, making it perfectly breathable and easy to move in.

You can't imagine how much money they spent to get something with such standard.

Better take care and not rip it.

You reminded yourself before slipping on the pair of black court shoes that were prepared for you.

Leather. Sturdy.

You clicked the heels of the shoes together twice. The sharp sound resounding loudly through the room.

"Alright, all done here... Time to head back." You mumbled to yourself as you folded your clothes and took them into hand. As you exited the room, you grabbed your veil on the table beside the door with your other hand and pushed the door shut using your foot once outside.

Back to the ballroom. Zephyr should be back with the new veil too.

You turned right and headed down the hallway, retracing the path the butler had shown you before to get here. The butler was kind enough to lead you to an empty room not far from the ballroom to allow you some privacy to get changed. Zephyr went to retrieve the modified veil in the meantime so it was just you for once.

With one hand, you twisted and turned the veil, trying to find the opening where your head was supposed to go. Once you do, you leaned down slightly and threw it on before securing it in place using a hair pin. You patted down the veil, especially the back side of it where you couldn't see, not wanting any of the fabric to fold or stick out.

Lowering your hand, you focused on getting back, your feet light with each step. You felt at ease, the boulder weighing on your heart there no more. Knowing that it was just going to be you and Zephyr for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, it relieved you. Just time for some last minute rehearsals and then rest. No more queens and princes-

"Messiah."

You froze in place and your blood ran cold. The tranquility beforehand vanishing into thin air and in its place, an agonising dread. Your heart pounded. Your anxiety spiked. Your muscles tensed as your mind went blank. Consumed by an all-devouring fear, you stood still in the middle of the hallway, unable to run from certain 'death'.

Footsteps thumped closer. You squeezed your eyes shut and clenched your fists, bracing yourself for what's to come.

You turned.

"Your highness?"

It was a miracle how your voice didn't crack.

Xion strode over, the same deadpan expression on his angular face. His boots clicking softly against the carpeted floor.

"I thought you left, your highness. Is there something else you have to take care of here?" You mustered all of your courage and spoke, trying to sound calm and composed but your voice still gave you away, wavering during the sentence.

Crap.

You cursed internally.

Steady thyself, lamb. This is thy chance to persuade this apostate.

Calerus' voice rumbled from deep within your mind again.

Your eyebrows twitched.

Persuade? What does that mean??

No response from the deity.

"..."

The people around you seemed to have a tendency of ignoring you. Xion, similar to Calerus, remained silent, not bothering to answer your question.

He got closer and closer until he was directly in front of you before...

Walking past.

You knitted your eyebrows in confusion before moving to turn to him.

"Your highne-"

"Don't move."

Every muscle in your body obeyed.

You stared ahead of you, frozen in place as Xion went around to your back.

His presence sent shivers down your spine as he stood behind you. Even with your back turned, you could feel him staring you down. It felt like daggers going straight into your head, making you feel numb and afraid.

You felt his breath hit your nape as your veil is gently lifted by him. It was warm, surprisingly. Considering his icy nature, you thought even his breath would be cold.

"Y-your highness, what are you doing?" You couldn't hold back the voice crack this time. In a similar fashion, your question gets ignored once more.

A light touch and all your hairs stand on end. His hands brushed against your nape as he reached for you from behind.

Was this it? Was he going to choke you? Suffocate you right here and now?

You clenched your fists and gritted your teeth, the only movement you were able to do in your frozen state. Alarms blared inside your mind, urging you to make a break for it, to run as far away as possible from the danger but something stopped you from doing so. Was it paralyzing fear? Or something more...divine?

You twitched. Sensation finally coming back to your limbs. The muscles in your legs tensed and contracted, ready to start sprinting any moment now.

You took a step forward.

And Xion put down his hands.

"..."

"..."

You took a deep breath and slowly...very slowly glanced behind you. Xion still had that deadpan look on his face as he stared at you. His ruby eyes shone like gems under the light that flooded in from the nearby window.

You tried to talk, to ask what all that was about but words fail you. Only shaky exhales come out when you open your mouth, a sign of the fear that still grasped you.

Xion looked on silently. You watched him, searching his face for any microexpression that could reveal what he was thinking or why he did what he did.

...A frown.

It was quick. Unnoticeable if you hadn't been paying attention. A small dip in the corners of his lips before it was gone and his mouth began to move.

"You’re staring, Messiah." Xion's voice snapped you out of it.

You immediately adverted your eyes as you tried to salvage the situation.

"Ah, I'm terribly sorry, your highness." You bowed and said quickly. "I didn't mean to. I was just....confused! About what you just did...?" You ended your sentence in a question. Unintentional but perhaps necessary since you didn't know if he even did anything to you.

Another brief silence. However, this time, the prince seemed gracious enough to answer your question.

"Your button was undone." Xion pointed out.

You blinked.

My button....?

Then a thought occured to you and you reached behind your back. There, at the opening for your head, just below your nape, you felt a little button that you had managed to miss when you were putting on the dress.

"I saw it before you put on your veil." Xion was being extra talkative right now, having just said two sentences back to back.

"I see. How did I miss that....Thank you, your highness." You smiled in embarrassment. The tension in your shoulders dissipated as you heaved a silent sigh of relief. Glad to know he wasn't planning on hurting you or anything of the sorts. You weren't sure why he was still here in the first place despite already excusing himself but then again, you're not familiar with the palace's layout so maybe there's something at the other end of this hallway or maybe even beyond it. It was hard to say.

"If nothing else, your highness, please excuse me. I need to get back to the ballroom." You quickly bowed and stepped aside, eager to leave and get away from him.

"Please wait, Messiah."

Xion's arm appeared before you, stopping you in your tracks.

?

You glanced at him in confusion.

What now...?

Xion was quiet as he stared at you and that's when you notice something swirling in his eyes. Something that wasn't there before. It wasn't devoid of emotions like earlier. You could see...

Caution.

He seemed...cautious of you.

But that doesn't make sense. Why would he be cautious of me?

Before your thoughts could go further, the prince opened his mouth. "Why were you staring at me?" He took a step towards you.

Your eyes widen in surprise, not expecting a question, much less a confrontation from him. "S-sorry?" You stuttered in response, your mind still in denial of what he was referring to, too afraid to accept the fact that he may have noticed.

"Back when you were having tea with the Queen. I noticed you looking at me. May I know why?" His voice was low and cold. He had asked a question but you knew that that didn't mean he gave you a choice.

You swallowed nervously as you looked up at him. You tried to think of a reason to excuse your suspicious behaviour. There was no way you could tell him the literal god this kingdom worships told you to be weary of him. You weren't even sure how he found out in the first place. You made sure to be discreet about it and you wore your veil to cover your eyes from view. The chances of catching you watching him were low and yet...

"..." You opened and closed your mouth, no words finding their way up your throat.

Crap, I'm blanking.

"Messiah..." Xion muttered under his breath and suddenly, his face appeared inches away from yours. His blood red eyes seemed to pierce through your veil as he gazed directly at you.

You instinctively took a step back in fear.

Bad move.

Noticing your retreat, Xion advanced towards you, making you back up until you finally neared the wall.

You gasped as you bumped into a vase placed beside the wall. Your hand shot towards the tall vase, grabbing it and stopping it from toppling over. It was heavy, having been filled with dirt to nurture the greenery planted within it. You gripped onto it hard, trying desperately to steady the wobbling vase.

Before you could even recover from the panic of almost breaking the royal family's belonging, Xion's hand slammed the wall beside him.

Bang!

You jumped, you feet accidentally kicking the vase. The vase slipped from your hands and came crashing down to the floor.

You winced as the vase shattered into pieces, the sound akin to a jab to your eardrums as you cringed. The dirt poured out and the plant laid on the floor, its roots exposed with the shards of the broken vase around it.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, panic rising inside you. You held back the urge to curse as you swallowed, looking at the mess you created.

"Why were you staring at me, Messiah?" Your heart nearly jumped out from your chest when Xion whispered into your ear, his hot breath uncomfortably fanning it.

"..."

whatdoidowhatdoisaynonononononoidontwanttodiepleasegodsavemesomeonesavemezephyrcalerushelpidontwanttodieiwanttogohomeletmeleavedontkillmepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease

I don't want to die.

"Messiah-ilikeyoursuit." Xion raised an eyebrow at your mumbling.

"Pardon?" "I like your suit." You repeated, your gaze still cast downwards at the ground.

Xion knitted his eyebrows.

"What does that mean?" He sounded skeptical.

"..." You were quiet and Xion was about to press you again when you let out a string of sentences, bombarding him with information.

"I think it's nice. I like the design. I like the style. The colour matches you. It looks good on you. It makes you look cool. I'd like something similar for myself." You blurted out in rapid succession.

Your mind had gone into autopilot mode when the fear overwhelmed all your senses, making you spew out random nonsense. You wanted to kick yourself for saying something so dumb but to your surprise, it seemed to have worked in your favour.

"..." Xion stared at you incredulously, his mouth slightly agaped.

He suddenly backed away, his hand on the wall returning to his side as he narrowed his eyes at you. You stared back silently, your mind still recovering from the intense moment beforehand. You breathed shakily as you waited for him to make his next move.

"..."

"..."

None of you said anything.

It wasn't a hard conclusion to make that the prince of Ebreau was a man of few words. Ever since your meeting this morning, he had been quiet, silently observing and listening from the sidelines as you interacted with other people in the palace. Even when he did talk, it was only a few short sentences. He was reserved but never at a lost for words.

However, for once, he seemed speechless.

For once, you could garner something from his expression. He was thinking. So very clearly thinking. He was considering what course of action to take.

You prayed he would consider letting you off the hook.

The prince looked away briefly before meeting your eyes once more...

A small smirk spreading across his lips.

Blood drained from your face.

"You are...quite humourous, Messiah." Xion scoffed as he shook his head. "Unfortunately, this uniform was custom made for me and me only so you can't get one yourself." He explained coldly before turning away.

"I wish you a good afternoon, Messiah. I await your performance tonight." With a few short sentences, he was gone again, leaving you alone in the hallway with your thoughts and the thumping of your heart in your chest.

You watched as his silhouette got smaller and smaller down the hallway before finally disappearing. You clenched your fists by your side.

Xion...

Just what are you planning?

Another voice rang in you head alongside yours.

"Well done, lamb."

~✟~

You flopped down on the comfy bed, your legs hung over the edge as you sighed.

This was it. The ceremony was just another 2 hours or so away. The sun dipped below the horizon outside the window of the guest room, dying the evening sky orange. Your last practice session had gone well with you doing the entire dance while in full ceremonial attire.

Your hands reached up to rub your eyes before blinking multiple times in quick succession to get the exhaustion out of them. Looking through your veil put a lot of strain on your eyes. The pixelated world seen from within your veil made your eyes constantly work overtime just to ensure you could see everything around you and make correct judgements in situations. Times like these when you didn't have it on were a blessing for your eyes, like a long awaited and very overdued vacation from their job.

You turned your head towards the clothing rack beside the dresser. Your ceremonial robe hung neatly on a hanger and beside it, your new modified veil. The veil was made shorter in front, covering only until just above your lips and long in the back like usual. Golden brown tassels were sewn on at the ends of the veil, both front and back to add some weight to the fabric.

Zephyr really was a life saver. You're not sure how or where he managed to get a tailor to accept such a sudden commission but somehow he did and you're grateful he returned with a much more practical veil for dancing. It made the dance that much easier now that you weren't constantly struggling to just breathe.

You were escorted out of the ballroom at around 3 in the afternoon. The workers in the palace had to get the last bit of the decorations set up and preparations done before guests arrived so you needed to get out of there around then or else you'd risk making their job harder. It was about time you get some rest too before your big night so you complied without much thought.

And thus, you have been spending the past hour or so fretting over the ceremony tonight. This was a big deal and no matter how much preparation you've done, it just didn't feel enough.

Maybe your footwork could use some more polishing or maybe your arms needn't be so stiff or maybe you could smile a bit more or maybe-

"Ugghhhh!" You huffed out loud in frustration as your hands went to your face. This was so nerve-wrecking.

Can I just bail tonight? I'm sure Zephyr can help me come up with an excuse.

You looked towards the opened window, peeping through the gaps between your fingers. Perhaps you could jump out? The entrance gate is just across the palace garden. Wait, no. You're on the 3rd level. You'd die if you vaulted out of here.

A soft breeze blew through the window, fluttering the curtains as another idea popped into your head.

Maybe I could tie together the curtains to make a rope, do this the Hollywood way. Ah, but it won't be long enough... Oh, oh! Maybe I could use the bed sheets and carpet and-

Your grand escape plan was suddenly interrupted by a knocking on the door.

That must be the maid.

You got up from the bed. Marika had assigned a maid of hers to help with dressing you up for the ceremony tonight. Even if it was kinda redundant since you can dress yourself just fine and don't really need any make-up or hair styling (you were going to be wearing a veil so nobody would see it anyway), it wouldn't hurt to have someone do it for you while you did some final mental preparation for later.

Your hand reached for the door and pulled it open.

"Hello, Messiah."

The girl's silky voice greeted your ears as the top of her head came into view the moment you swung open the door. Her black bangs hung over her eyes and framed the side of her face, obscuring her face from your gaze.

"Hello. Please come in." You greeted back and gestured for her to come in. The maid rose to a standing position but continued to keep her head low as she stepped into the room, her hands gripping a brown bag in front of her, which you assumed to contain the make-up she'll use.

She walked towards the dressing table and placed the bag on the surface before standing aside, head still bowed as she stood in wait for you to sit down. You quickly shut the door and scurried over, taking a seat at the dressing table.

The maid reached into her bag before circling around to your back and began to comb your hair using a brush, getting all the knots out. After that, she took out a small bottle and sprayed some of the liquid inside onto her hand before rubbing it into your hair. The sweet fragrance wafted from behind you and into your nostrils.

Lavender.

You played with your fingers as you sat still, letting the maid do her work. No words were exchanged between the two of you. Out of boredom and perhaps some curiousity, you decided to start a conversation.

"What's your name by the way?" You looked at her reflection behind you in the mirror. She was looking down, focusing on your hair as she began styling it. Her hands worked diligently, twisting and tying your strands.

She paused, not expecting you to strike up a conversation.

"...I'm Erna."

She replied softly, her gaze still casted downwards.

Silence fell over you two again as the conversation ended as soon as it started.

"..."

"..."

She's so quiet.

You felt her continuing to do your hair, making no effort to carry on with the conversation. You sighed quietly as you hung your head, ultimately deciding to just keep to yourself and let her work in silence.

What's Zephyr doing right now...?

Your thought drifted to the saint as you tried to find something to ponder about. It's rare that he's not with you right now. Wherever you went, he always seemed to be by your side and ready to assist you in any way he can. In fact, it was weirder now without him around.

He will be attending tonight's ceremony too, right?

He probably will. Unless there's something he has to attend to in the background as the initiation proceeded, he'll watch...hopefully.

You really hope he does. You can't promise you'll do well during the dance. Heck, you can't even guarantee you won't collapse from the sheer stress. You needed him to save you if the worse came to pass, save you from the embarrassment and/or potential concussion.

Crap, I really don't want to do this...

You fidgeted nervously in your seat, rubbing your hands together as you suppressed the nausea bubbling inside. You took a deep breath.

In and out. In and out. In-

Your thoughts were cut short when you suddenly felt a breath hit your neck. Instinctively, you turned your head and you jumped in your seat at the foreign face in front of you.

Erna's green eyes stared into your golden ones, stoic and cold was her gaze as she breathed down your neck.

!!!

You wanted to ask what she was doing but before any words left your mouth, you saw the blood drain from Erna's face and she suddenly collapsed onto the floor, screaming hysterically.

"AAAHHHHHH! NO! NO!" Erna's voice pierced through the silence, her hands on her face, grasping at her eyes almost like trying to gauge them out.

"T-there's no way! It can't be! NO!" The girl continued to babbled on. She was shaking, her entire body convulsing beside you on the floor. You were in shock but it didn't take long before your body leapt into action on its own, jumping out of your seat and kneeling down on the floor beside the (you assumed) fear-striken girl.

"Erna, what's-I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY!" You reached for her shoulder, wanting to comfort her and understand what the heck was going on but before you even made contact, Erna pressed her head to the ground as she screamed out apologies. Her sobs were clear as she took pauses between her words, breathing heavily in before choking out her sentences once more. As it went on, her yelling began more and more incoherent and her words muddled until unintelligible.

"Erna...!" You tried to snap her out of it, raising your voice, hoping she would stop. However, to your dismay, it seemed to trigger her even more as her sobs quickly became desperate cries.

"I'M SORRY! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I DIDNT KNOW! I WAS MISLED! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! IM SORRY! I WAS WRONG!" The girl screamed her heart out as she continued to cry. Her nails digging into the carpet below her, causing her knuckles to turn white.

Thump, thump, thump!

Footsteps echoed from outside the doors, coming down the corridor and getting closer to your room. The commotion in here must have caught someone's attention.

You continued to try and calm Erna down from this sudden mental breakdown but to no avail. Anything you do, no matter how big or small, it always seemed to have the opposite effect of what you wanted. Erna continued to cry out, her voice becoming hoarse and raspy from the strain she put on it.

"I'M SORRY! PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY...CALERU-What's going on in here!?" A guard bursted through the doors. His eyebrows knitted and his arms tensed, ready to strike any perpetrator on sight.

"I-I don't know! She just suddenly started screaming!" You tried to explain despite also being in shock at the situation. The guard looked at the curled up Erna on the floor before at you. You braced yourself, knowing how bad this looked. Two people in one room, the only exit and entry points being a door leading to a corridor that is guarded and a window that is 3 stories up, the logical conclusion that everyone would jump to is pretty cut and dry.

However, you didn't hear any "Hands where I can see them!" or "Back away from the girl!" or any other aggressive commands from the guard. The moment you two locked eyes, the guard froze, his eyes going wide just how like Erna's did moments ago but instead of falling down and screaming his head off, he just stood at the doorway, one hand over his mouth as he stared incredulously at you.

Oh no, what now?!?

You panicked. The intense gaze of the guard that seemed to bore into your soul paired with ear piercing screams of Erna were overloading your senses. Your heart raced inside of your chest, the sheer absurdity of the situation was making you blank once more. What should you do? What could you do?

Sweat beaded down your forehead as you contemplated what to do.

I...I...?!

Your train of thought was suddenly cut short as you were pulled onto your feet abruptly. Hands tugged at your upper arms as they hoisted you up, even making you stumble in the process from the sheer speed and force. Before you even recovered, you felt a warmth embrace you as the hands wrapped around your body. One of the hands even pressing your head against the soft fabric of its owner's clothes.

"Are you alright, Lady (y/n)?"

!

You craned your head up as you heard the all too familiar voice. The concerned face of the kingdom's beloved saint stared down at you, his eyebrows knitted gently and his lips turned downwards into a small frown as he held you close.

Saved!

You cheered internally as you buried your head into Zephyr's chest. Your hands shakily reached up and wrapped around him, returning the embrace as your fingers gripped onto the back of his robes for solace. The scent of Zephyr's hair wafted into your nostrils, calming your mind and slowing your pounding heart.

"Sir, please take this maid to get help. I'll stay with the Messiah and help her get ready." Zephyr said to what you assumed to be the guard at the door.

"I..y-yes, of course, Saint Zephyr." Footsteps came into the room and you heard some shuffling before shortly after, the footsteps led out again. Erna's crying still rang clear in your ears but they grew softer and softer as the the sound of soles clacking against the ground got further and further away before finally...

Silence.

"..."

Zephyr sighed.

You felt his hand gently caressing your head as he whispered.

"Let's get you ready, Lady (y/n)."

You nodded slowly against his chest.

You felt safe.

Zephyr was here.

There was nothing to be afraid anymore.

~✟~

The chatter of hundreds of guests came from within the ballroom, their voices muffled by the closed wooden door before you as you stood in wait for your time to enter. Beyond the closed doors, you could hear the clinking of champagne glasses, the sound of joyous laughter and the beautiful pieces of music performed by the orchestra the palace had hired. It was lively inside with every guest present eagerly awaiting the main attraction of this evening's ball.

You took a deep breath and exhaled.

The time was nigh.

You cracked your neck and rolled your shoulders, getting the tension out and helping you relax before your big performance. This was no time for stiff bones after all. As if on cue, you heard Queen Marika's voice boomed from beyond the door and you immediately straightened your back.

"Welcome, children of Ebreau. It is a wonderful night this evening for we shall be witnessing a monumental moment in our kingdom's long history..." The Queen gave her speech but you toned it out midway through (Sorry, Marika.). You did one final recall as you reconfirmed all of your dance steps and positions for each of them.

This is it. This is it.

You felt like you were gonna pass out with all the blood rushing to your head from the anxiety of everything but you couldn't deny you felt a tinge of...happiness and pride. With this ceremony, you would be officially heralded as Ebreau's Messiah and be one of the people who would lead it. You're not sure if this strong feeling of love for this nation that you didn't even originate from, heck, this nation that you didn't even want to live in in the first place, was false or not but you knew for a fact that you wanted to help it. Maybe you were being brainwashed by Calerus to love Ebreau so you'll sacrifice yourself for it or maybe you've just developed a saviour complex after being treated as such, you're not entirely sure. You just know that you want to make Ebreau better. You want to make the lives of the folks here better. You want to help Zephyr. Especially after all he's done for you. He gave you his all and you will do the same,

You must do the same.

"Do not let thyself be shackled by deeds of the past, lamb."

!

No matter how many times this has happened, you don't think you could ever get used to Calerus suddenly speaking to you out of nowhere.

"Intentions determine the nature of a deed, not the action itself."

You knitted your eyebrows.

Where did that come from?

You weren't not sure why Calerus decided to randomly give you a life lesson before your initiation. You wanted to ask for his reasoning but you held back. Based on past experiences, you know he won't reply anyway so you just kept it in mind for now. You can ponder about it later.

"...now, let us celebrate the coming of our prophesied Messiah!"

"That was your cue, Messiah." A pair of hands suddenly fell on your shoulders as Marika concluded her speech. You jolted in surprise as you turned your head back and were met face to face with red eyes.

Xion?!

The prince towered over you as he stared down intensely at you, seemingly searching for your eyes behind the cover of your veil. His breath fanned your face as he continued.

"Good luck."

Xion stepped back, leaving you confused in place. Why was he here? Shouldn't he also be in the ballroom right now? And why was he...

Smiling?

A chill went down your spine at the sight of Xion's lips curling ever so slightly upwards.

You had so many question you wanted to ask but in a similar fashion, they went unvoiced and unheard for the moment you opened your mouth, the doors to the ballroom creaked open and...

A hand pushed you in from behind.

~✟~

You stood in front of Marika. She was seated in her throne beside the king's which was left unoccupied. She smiled early at you as she nodded, acknowledging your presence.

"..."

You reminded quiet. Talking wasn't part of your initiation procedure. The walk to the thrones from the ballroom's entrance was a long one, made longer by the scrutinising gaze and hushed whispers of judgement from the attending guests. From the way their gaze would flicker back and forth from you and how they tried to hide their mouth when they spoke, it wasn't hard to surmise what they were doing.

You tried to ignore them.

Just do your part.

You bowed your head and curtsied slowly, paying your respects ot the queen. Picking up the sides of your dress and bending your knees, you held that position as you waited for the music yo start and for your cue to begin your performance.

Here goes nothing.

The first notes of the piece. Slow and melancholy, the piano sounded out.

You rose from your curtsy, unhurried and measured. Your head remained bowed, looking down at the ground before tilting it slowly to the side and then back up, facing forward once more.

Violins. Questly weaving themselves into the melody, accompanying the lone piano.

You lifted your right arm to your chest before turning to face the guests, stretching out your lifted arm as you did so, letting it lead your movements.

You returned your arm back to to its place before again, you bent your knees and curtsied in the direction of the guests.

The duet of the piano and violins softly faded out as they held the last note of the bar.

You rose from your curtsy one last time, counting the resting beats in your heart.

...6...7...8.

8 resting beats and then you jumped into action. Literally.

You hopped in place before doing a chassé forward and into first arabesque. Closing your feet back together, you followed the tune of the flutes as it carried you through your pas de valse, your eyes following the movement of your hands just as Zephyr had instructed you during practice.

The harmony of the music accompanied you as you glided across the floor, spinning with control and grace. Your heart thumped loudly in your ears and blood rushed to your face, both from the dancing and nervousness. You tried your best to stay calm as you performed an assemblé before slowly rising from the plié.

The music swelled as it slowly began to reach its climax.

Just a little more...

Another spin before you swung your arms up from your sides to beside your head as you lifted your gaze up towards the ceiling. The crystal chandelier dazzled brightly in the air almost as if it was a star in the night sky. If you were outside right now, you would be looking at the sky, perhaps even into the eyes of The Prosperous Lord himself. Maybe that was the point of this move. To lock eyes with the god of this kingdom and swear eternal servitude to him. Who truly knows?

A slight slow in the music and you dropped into a deep curtsy, arms resting at your sides as your head bowed in unspoken submission. The last note rang, low and long as tension permeated through the ballroom.

"..."

You held your breath as you stayed in your position.

Did...I mess up?

You swallowed nervously as the silence in the room nearly deafened you.

Then, a clap came from behind you. Followed by another to your side and among the audience. Slowly, more guests followed along and it wasn't long before the ballroom erupted into a thunderous applause.

You physically felt all the tension leave your body as you breathed a sigh of relief before standing back up.

I did it...it's done. It's finally done!

You couldn't help the smile that made it's way onto your face. All of your hardwork paid off! It didn't go to waste! You...you did it!

You were still high on the glory when Marika interrupted your celebration. "That was a beautiful performance, Messiah." She smiled at you as you turned to face her. "Thank you for your hardwork and here's to a fruitful collaboration in the futur-"

You were suddenly pulled onto the ground.

"Ahh!!" You screamed as you collided with the floor-

Wait, no.

Someone's chest.

You slid across the floor with the person beneathe you, shielding you from impact. Gasps and shouts of terror came from the audience around you as the two of you finally came to a stop on the floor.

You looked back at your original position. An arrow was lodged into the ground. Its tip buried into the now broken floor.

What on earth...?

You furrowed your eyebrows as confusion washed over you.

Realisation came late but only because you refused to acknowleged the truth.

Someone wanted to assassinate you.

Your breath hitched in your throat. If this person didn't pull you aside...

That might have been it for you.

The person beneathe you shifted, slowly sitting up as they continue to hold you close.

You finally turned your gaze back to your saviour, wanting to thank them. However, the words got caught in your throat as you locked eyes with them and realised who it was.

Ocril?!

The person who saved you just now....was your ex-boss?????

He's the captain of the Ordo and likely the one who gave the green light to allow you to work as the Ordo's errand girl. The few years you've been there, you've rarely ever seen him, let allow talk to him. He was at the pinnacle of the hierarchy while you were at rock bottom. There were never any situations where your paths would have crossed.

Though from what you heard from the other guards, he's a rather quiet person, distant even but not cold. He'll never refuse to help someone in need even if he may seem a bit apathetic.

This information has always been word of mouth so you were never able to confirm nor deny it but looking at the black haired man in front of you now, you saw the protectiveness behind his blue eyes as he hid you behind his back.

His gaze narrowed as he glared at a slightly opened window high on the wall, a glint of rage swirling in his eyes.

"Are you alright, Messiah?"

Ocril asked, eyes still glued to the high window.

"I-yes. T-thank you for saving me." You replied, still flustered and shocked by the current situation.

The captain glanced back at you briefly before standing up, his hand on the hilt of his sword fastened to his side.

"Guards!" Queen Marika shouted, standing up from her throne before rushing over to you. At the same time, another familiar voice called for you from behind.

"Lady (y/n)!" You felt Zephyr's arms wrapped around you as he hugged you tightly. "Are you alright?" Zephyr asked frantically. He seemed out of breath, probably from running over due to the commotion started.

"I'm okay." You nodded, reassuring Zephyr as you pushed yourself back onto your feet. Queen Marika arrived too as she helped you up despite your protests.

You felt Ocril's gaze on you the whole time, glancing back at you silently. If he had something to say to you, he never did.

Your disorientation was short-lived as your attention was immediately drawn back by the terrified screams of the guests in the ballroom. To your horror, masked figures began jumping down from the windows, weapons in hand. Some held bows, others held daggers as they landed on the floor of the ballroom.

Chaos ensued immediately.

The guests made mad dashes towards the doors, all wanting to escape before things got bloody or worse, before their lives were targeted. Royal guards were quick to crowd around you and your little group, swords drawn and ready to defend three of the most important figures in Ebreau.

The intruders began their attack. The archers stayed at the back as they aimed to thin out the defense and divert the focus of the surrounding guards, hoping to give an opening to their allies who held daggers to go in for the kill.

Cling!

Ocril deflected an arrow coming towards him with his sword. More royal guards came into the ballroom as they joined in to fend off the attackers. Metal clashed together as the guards around you swung at the enclosing figures but was blocked by the attackers' own weapons. The sharp sound pierced your eardrums, making your ears ring uncomfortably.

Zephyr held you close. His hand grasping yours in a death grip, afraid you'll get separated from him. Queen Marika gritted her teeth and knitted her eyebrows beside you. Her usually soft features hardening as she watched the onslaughts, mind racing with how to resolve this situation.

The guests continued to flee, their shoes clanking loudly against the floor as they tried to escape. However, they were not spared the fury of the intruders. Some of the hooded figures went after them, dragging them back into the ballroom and hurting them as they refused cooperation. Royal guards came to the rescue but not before the attackers had already injured them, splattering their blood on the marble floor.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you held back a gag, terrified by the sight.

"Lady (y/n)!"

Zephyr yanked you back by the hand, just in time as a knife swung at you but missed by an inch. Your eyes widened as you narrowly escaped potential death (or potential disfigurement).

You didn't even get the chance to thank Zephyr for saving you when he, himself came under attack. One of the hooded figures had broken through the guards' defense and swung their dagger at Zephyr. Fast on his feet, Zephyr dodged the attack, sidestepping the figure before swiftly kicking them in the back of their knees, causing them to fall and drop their dagger. He kicked the dagger away before the figure had a chance to pick it back up.

!!

You couldn't help but be amazed. You didn't know Zephyr had moves like that.

The guards' defenses were strong but not impenetrable. Openings for a breakthrough were small and rare but the attackers took every opportunity. With enough tries, 2 of them managed to breach the line of guards and came towards you and Queen Marika.

They swung as you both dodged, though each with varying degree of ease. In a flash, Queen Marika's hand shot towards one of assailant's wrist, grabbing on tightly and stopping them from attacking before promptly disarming them with her other hand.

!!!

Did everyone here know self defense except for you?!??!

Another attacker broke through the defense and went for Zephyr. Left to your own devices, you raised your arms in front of you out of pure instinct as you desperately tried to protect yourself.

The hooded figure was relentless in their attack, swinging and slashing at you nonstop, leaving you with no choice but to keep backing away.

You felt something pierce the skin on your forearm before a sharp stinging pain began to spread from there.

You hissed in pain as your held your forearm, feeling warm blood oozing out of the cut and staining your sleeve. While you were distracted by the pain, the assailant took advantage of the moment and swung down at you.

You were running high on adrenaline, your instincts to survive going into overdrive mode as you grabbed their hand without even thinking, hoping to stop them from hurting you. Good news, it worked. Bad news, they retracted their hand before swinging again immediately and this time, you didn't have the chance to block.

Your attacker slashed upwards at your face. You tried to pull your head back from the blade but before you even knew what was happening, your veil had been slashed apart from the bottom near your lips up to your left eyebrow.

"Ah!"

You cried out in pain as your hands went to your face, feeling the same warmth and wetness from earlier dripping down your cheek and staining your fingers.

Blood.

You weren't sure where the wound was. Was it just around your eye or was your left eye now permanently messed up. You didn't know. The pain was agonising as you groaned and began to tear up from it.

This was messed up. Why was this happening?

What have you ever done to them to deserve this kind of treatment?

Who even were these people?

Why you?

Why the guests?

Why did they hurt everyone?

The figure raised their dagger high, aiming the point at your head.

"DIE!"

They plunged the dagger down to deal the final blow.

"!!!"

The dagger stopped in midair as the attacker froze.

You glared at the figure through the gaps between your fingers, teeth gritted and eyebrows knitted. Your blood dripped from your hand as you slowly staggered towards them.

You weren't thinking clearly. Your rationality having completely been thrown out the window as your emotions took over. A lump formed in your throat as you stifled the urge to scream and lash out. Your hands were shaking but not from fear.

You shook from pure, unadulterated rage.

These uninvited intruders dared to barge in and ruin your initiation that you prepared months for before proceeding to attack anyone and everyone on sight, not even sparing the innocent guests.

Perhaps if it had been just you who was targeted, you wouldn't have been so furious.

Perhaps you would have understood where they were coming from if no one else was hurt.

Perhaps you-

No.

Perhaps these people don't deserve your mercy.

Whatever grudge they had with you, however deep their hatred for you ran, it was no excuse to come for your neck. It was no excuse to jump the peace talks and resort to violence. It was no excuse to hurt others, innocent or not.

There was no excuse.

You raised your hand, curling your fingers into a fist.

I will cleanse this nation of its filth until only the beautiful remains. And until the garden of Eden appears once more, I will not stop, for the foundation of this paradise...

You swung your fist.

"Will be the blood of your kind."

You punched the figure in the face.

"Ack!"

You heard the figure gasped before falling to the ground.

"..."

Your senses came back to you as the rush of adrenaline passed. You backed away quickly, putting as much distance between you two as fast as you can before they can recover and attack again.

Your heart thumped loudly in your ears as you saw the figure pushed themselves onto their knees, one hand holding their face.

Suddenly, an arm appeared before you. You looked up and saw...Ocril. He shielded you behind him as he watched the figure scrambling on the ground in front of you, sword at the ready to defend you in his other hand should the figure attack again.

However, that seemed unnecessary.

The figure pressed their head to the ground as they started screaming.

"FORGIVE ME! I'M SORRY! PLEASE HAVE MERCY! HAVE MERCY!"

Everyone stopped and looked at the figure on the ground, including the other intruders. The figure continued to scream and you could hear the start of a nervous breakdown in their voice.

"I DIDNT KNOW! I WAS FOOLISH! FORGIVE ME! FORGIVE ME! MY LORD, PLEASE HAVE MERCY!"

Everyone stared on dumbfounded. The other intruders being especially confused by their ally's behaviour.

Another one of the hooded figures broke through the defenses of the guards and came to their ally's side.

You couldn't hear what they whispered to the other but you doubt they said much as they were immediately pushed to the ground by their ally.

The figure continued screaming and this time, you could tell they were crying.

"CALERUS, WE'RE SORRY FOR DOUBTING YOUR WILL! HAVE MERCY ON US! I BEG OF YOU! WE'RE SORRY!! HAVE MERCY!"

The figure's companion looked at them quizzically.

The stalemate between the guards and intruders was quickly broken soon after when a group of guards tackled some distracted figures and pinned them to the ground. The fight resumed but this time, the intruders seemed to be backing off.

The two figures in front of you scrambled to their feet(well, more like one of them dragged the other onto their feet) as they tried to fight their way out this time around. Ocril gave chase, leaving you in your place after a brief glance back at you to make sure you're alright.

Immediately after Ocril left, Zephyr rushed back to your side.

"(Y/N)!"

He hugged you tightly before noticing the blood on your face and gasping in horror.

"You're hurt! And what happened to your veil?!" Zephyr asked frantically as he held your face in his hands. He wiped some of the blood off your face with his fingers as he began to apologise profusely, "I'm sorry i didn't protect you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

As cold as this may seem, you couldn't help but wonder what was up with people apologising over and over again to you today. Zephyr was already the third one within the last 24 hours.

Looking up at him, you noticed tears beginning to form in his eyes. In a daze, you reached up and wiped his tears away with your sleeve. "You tried your best. I understand, Zephyr." you mumbled softly to him.

That seemed to have the opposite effect on Zephyr as more tears welled up in his eyes. He pulled you close and clung to you tightly, wrapping his arms around you as he silently cried. You felt his tears wetting your shoulder as he buried his face there.

You returned his hug and patted his back as you waited for him to calm down.

Zephyr must have been worried sick about you...

After a while, Zephyr reluctantly pulled away, breaking the hug. However, he still clung to your hand as he began to recompose himself.

The ballroom was a mess.

Although the intruders had already either fled or been captured, damage had still been done. Some unlucky guests who were targeted by the figures sat to the side of the ballroom as guards tended to their wounds, their sobs loud enough to be heard from the other side of the room. The floor was splattered with blood, belonging to both attacking intruders and defending guards alike. Swords and arrows laid scattered and broken on the ground, a stark reminder of what just transpired.

"..."

You couldn't believe this had happened.

"(Y/n)."

You weren't given much time to wallow in despair at the devastating events that just happened. Queen Marika snapped you out of your thoughts as she approached you. You noticed a small cut on her upper arm but besides from that, she seemed unscathed. "Marika, are you alright?" You nevertheless asked out of formality.

The queen nodded before replying, "Yes. Thank you for asking especially when you seem to be in a worse state than me." She gave you a worried look, "I'll call for the royal physician to look at your wound. Hopefully it's nothing too serious..."

You nodded and thanked her for it. Before you were escorted away to have your injury checked and treated, Queen Marika began speaking again. "(Y/n), I know it's been a long night but...I must request that you extend your stay just a bit longer." You cocked your head to one side at her words. You thought you would be going back to the temple after this.

"May i know why?" you expressed your confusion.

Queen Marika sighed deeply as she looked down momentarily. "The situation...may be worse than I thought. I don't wish to push this burden onto you so soon but..." She trailed off.

"We must bring forward our meeting."

~✟~

I. Am. So. Sorry. This was supposed to go up months ago but life got busy and i got stuck at the final ballroom scene T-T Im sorry to everyone who waited so long for this chapter!!! but at least, this chapter is extra long compared to the previous ones so hopefully it will be enough satiate the hunger and quell the anger ^^;(jk) Glad i finally got it done though. been feeling really guilty about postponing this chapter for so long.

Thank you for reading and please tell me if you find any errors so i can correct them!

~

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Don't Leave Me High, Don't Leave Me Dry

one-shot

Stanley Pines x Jimmy Snakes

SUMMARY: Stanley Pines doesn’t get to keep the good stuff. Not for long.

Whatever this thing is with Jimmy– it’s real, and it’s rare.

He just hopes it lasts.

WARNINGS: 18+ CONTENT AHEAD, shameless smut, violence, slight blood, mentions of sex work, light masochism, riding, rough sex, non-human Jimmy Snakes, possessive behavior, marking/biting, introspection, both Stan and Jimmy are bad at emotions but they're trying, (these warnings make it sound much scarier than it is but trust it's not that bad)

AUTHOR"S NOTE: jumps for joy at my first post on this acc! I know not many people are super into jimstan but I needed to get this out there into the world. I've been obsessing over them for years now and I have finally found myself writing about my favorite dumb guys. I cross-posted this on ao3 as well if anyone likes reading stuff there more lol!

WC: 6.3K

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3 I hope anyone who ends up reading has a good time!!

There was a sort of peace about fighting that Stanley could appreciate. 

When the lights of whatever shithole he was in were dim and flickering.When the smell of sweat and blood was so potent he could practically taste it on his tongue. A place so damp and humid he could almost be transported back to Tijuana if he closed his eyes, where the most awful kinds of people gathered to sweat and rub hands in all the worst ways. A place where blood was currency and luck ran short.

The jeers of a crowd. A crowd that could care less about technique or footwork, only there for the spectacular violence on display, only there to hear the crunch of fists landing just right and the sight of blood– hot and as pitch as tar in the dim lighting. 

Nothing short of heaven for a guy like Stanley Pines.

Somewhere where the confidence he wore like an ill-fitted suit finally fused, stuck to slick skin. His bravado, real– no longer a fragile thing, able to be shattered by the slightest prod. He may still be an idiot, but in the ring, Stan Pines was more than just a dull, no-good excuse of a man. No, in the ring Stan shifted into something to be reckoned with, something that others feared, for a change. 

And that felt good. Powerful. Stan liked feeling powerful. He didn’t get to feel that way often.

He felt the pressure of the hit before he felt the pain. The sharp crack of a fist meeting his brow, splitting it open, the cut letting that beautiful oil spilling downward to drip into his eye, covering the world in a sickly red sheen. 

See, Stan had seen the hit coming and had let it land anyway. Because as much as Stan enjoyed laying out meatheads, he couldn’t shake the love he had for getting as good as he gave. Stan was no honest man, but fair was fair and the pain was grounding. Real. Real in a way that made everything else seem superficial. It filled those broken gaps in his frame for the fleeting moments it was there, bright and harsh and oh-so fulfilling. 

But as Stan said, he liked to get as good as he gave, and he gave a lot. It was child’s play to read the guy's moves, like humming the lyrics to a song you’d heard on the radio for a month straight. His footwork was sloppy, unbalanced, and Stan was anything but. The conman swung at the man, aiming for his temple and hitting exactly that, with bare knuckles digging into the skin, feeling something give under his hand. 

Stan’s smile was sharp with teeth and smeared a deep red as he watched the man fall, the taste of iron heady on his tongue. The man was on the ground now, getting up but slow about it, giving Stan just enough time to see a flash of blonde from the corner of his eye.

It probably says something about Stan– the way he recognizes that shade of blonde so easily. He keeps an eye on his opponent, his blood now humming faster in his veins. It doesn’t distract him, not really. No, he’s still focused on his match, still present in a way he never really is these days, but there’s a part of his mind that wonders how Jimmy feels about this. How he feels seeing him like this, in the ring. 

Stan chances a glance into the crowd and he catches Jimmy’s eyes– well not exactly. The man is wearing his shades even though it’s well into the night and so dark in here they may as well be outside. But he knows Jimmy is looking at him when the man raises a blonde brow and crosses his arms. Stan winks at him just because he can, cocking his head back in an almost playful manner, the action doubling as a way to clear his vision of the blood still pooling into his eye. Jimmy obviously huffs, chest rising and shoulders falling, though Stan can’t hear the sound over the roaring of the crowd. 

The man on the ground finally rises to his knees and Stan resists the urge to kick him while he’s down. Stan is not a cruel man, but when you live the way he does, you take advantage of every opportunity said life gives you.

Stan lets the man get up, just waits with raised fists and he knows, in that way he always knows when he’s fighting, that the next hit will keep his opponent down. The man wobbles to his feet, and Stan can almost appreciate the guy's resolve, but he wants that prize money more, and it shows. He’s still steady and strong. So he charges forward and dodges the half-hearted jab thrown his way. The grifters mind flickers back to Jimmy for a split second before his next hit lands– wonders if maybe Jimmy bet on him. If he had enough confidence in Stan’s abilities to do so, maybe if he did, they could go eat somewhere with real food tonight instead of shitty gas station slop. 

Stan’s fist lands true and the man is out cold before he hits the ground.

…

It’s not that Stan doesn’t appreciate Jimmy coming to his matches, he does, really! But there’s this underlying issue with him being there, and that’s that it forces Stanley to think. Contrary to popular belief, Stan thinks a lot, too much, if he’s being completely honest with himself. He’d tried just about everything to stop that nasty little habit of his, the overthinking. Pills, coke, sex, all work in the short term, but the only thing that truly empties his mind in the way he needs is fighting. Fighting, brutality, violence; it’s just second nature. It’s something he can lose himself in, something that lets his mind slip away into that dark little corner of his head where nothing exists but the pain of an opponent's hit and the reactions engraved into his very soul. 

And that’s where Jimmy comes in. Because no one really makes him think as much as Jimmy does.

Jimmy lights up that part of his brain, takes his hand, and shoves him back into the real world, the world that Stan doesn't particularly care for. He makes Stan face the people he fights with shocking awareness, and though it doesn’t impede his abilities any, it’s still a pain in the ass in comparison to the quiet comfort of his fabricated safe space. 

He can’t help but focus when Jimmy’s there because, as pathetic as it sounds, Stan wants to… impress him. Wants Jimmy to see the one thing Stan can do right and think; hey, maybe this guy isn’t a total fuck up after all. 

So, Stan has a conundrum on his hands, and he doesn’t really want to dissect it right now. Not when the adrenaline rush from his match is still high and giving him that pleasant floaty feeling that he’s missed since he quit it with the pills. His heart is beating a mile a minute when he finally gets outside in the cold air, a shock to his system. Stan finds he’s in a dirty alleyway, the stench of garbage and cigarettes permeates the air, the lights from the still-active city glaring and bright. Stan huffs a breath and watches as it turns frosty white and dissipates into the open air. 

But Stan could see a second breath in the wind, a matching cloud of haze. 

Stan feels Jimmy before he sees him. It’s hard to miss a guy like Jimmy, seeing how fucking massive he is. See, Stan’s not a short guy by any means, 6ft is no small feat (Stan snickers aloud at his own, frankly hilarious, pun), but Jimmy has a few inches on him, which roughly equates to too fucking tall. And he’s  built too, well-toned and with a decent amount of muscle, but he’s also stringy in that way you’re born with. Just scrawny enough to offset the look of the impressive muscle he does have. 

So yeah, not too bad to look at and built like an intimidating scarecrow, that’s Jimmy Snakes. 

Said man is lurking just behind him, close enough that Stan could feel the air shifting between their bodies, and if he were anyone else, Stan would’ve been swinging first, asking questions later. But Jimmy is just weird like that, and Stan has long grown used to the man’s quirks. 

“Enjoy the show?” Stan questions, more rhetorically than not, even when he actually does want to know the answer. He answers by draping his body across Stan’s, arms falling to wrap around Stan’s shoulders to tap a rhythm into his chest as his front presses flush against Stan’s back. 

Stan feels that instinctual flash of fear at being so close in public before he settles with the knowledge that it’s well past midnight and no one gives a fuck what two dudes do in alleyways like this one. 

“Well, I sure enjoyed something.” The taller man  quips, fingers tapping just a bit faster, hands moving to pry into the back of Stan’s jeans.

“And what’s that big guy?” Stan turns his head to flash Jimmy a quick grin, rolling back into his hands. 

Jimmy’s responding smirk is just a small quirk of his lips, but it’s not mocking, soft in a way he  always seems to be while somehow also being one of the toughest people Stan knows. 

“Watching you. Some hot stuff I gotta say,” Stan feels himself smirk and goes to reply before the biker  interrupts him, “But seeing you have the time of your life out there was my favorite part.” Jimmy says plainly, and it’s the worst thing he could’ve said. Because it wasn’t, look at the cash you made me, it was about Stan’s enjoyment first and foremost. The fact that Jimmy could care less about the fight itself and only if Stan was having a good time, it’s hard not to feel some type of way about that. Stan feels his throat tighten, and he chuckles, using the sound as a way to clear the offending sensation away and to respond to his statement. 

Stan lets his head drop back to rest near the other’s solid shoulder, “Ya bet, hotshot?” Stan questions and Jimmy hums, the rumble traveling through where they connect and Stan tries to think of anything other than how that sound does something funny to his stomach. 

“Sure did,” Jimmy practically purrs with a self-satisfied air about him, “Made a steal. Not really surprised though, never gotta worry when you’re the one I’m bettin’ on.” 

Stan can feel the heat rush to his cheeks like that absolute loser he is, but he rolls his eyes at the comment anyway. Jimmy catches the movement even positioned as he is, “Ah, don’t be like that, babe. You know I’m right.” 

“Mm. Sure, sure.” Stan concedes and realizes that this complimenting shit has gotta stop because it’s taking his mind to places they don’t need to be in this very public setting. 

Jimmy scoffs, “I’ll never understand why this is the one thing you decide to be humble about.” The blonde man mumbles and works his head between Stan’s neck and shoulder. 

Ugh. Stan can feel the beginnings of a feelings talk in the works. Switching gears. “I’m a man of mystery, what can I say?” Stan starts with a cocky smile plastered across his face, “Gotta keep things interesting.” Stan presses himself more firmly against Jimmy’s front, the man’s breath hitches against his neck and it makes Stan shiver in a way that he knows the other man can feel. 

The biker presses a chase kiss to the junction of Stan’s neck and shoulder, his mustache tickling the sensitive flesh. Stan hums his approval and he can feel the grin the blonde sports as he pulls away from him. 

“Wanna take this somewhere else, buck?” Jimmy asks and okay, yeah. Hell yeah, actually. Stan’s adrenaline is still high and this seems like the perfect conclusion to an overall perfect night. There's no way Stan was going to ask to get some so late, but if Jimmy is feeling it too then, why the hell not?  Stan may not be one to start things often, but when he gets going, he fucking goes. He never hears Jimmy complaining about it. 

“You know I do,” Stan says teasingly and tugs Jimmy along with him to find the El Diablo. They stumble out of the alley, unable to keep their hands off each other. Jimmy’s fingers are still looped in Stan’s jeans and Stan’s hands feel up Jimmy’s arms as he drags him away.

Luckily for them, Stan is a paranoid mess and parked in a separate (more secluded) alleyway, mostly to avoid someone breaking into his baby, but now, he’s especially pleased with his decision. 

With a wicked grin, Stan unlocks the doors of his car, intent on getting inside and getting to it as quickly as possible, and it seems he’s not the only one having similar thoughts as he feels Jimmy shoving him inside the vehicle from the back. They barely manage to shut the door before they’re on each other. No room is left for the soft or sweet, the desperation clear in the way they scramble to find purchase in the cramped space. The back of the El Diablo is not meant to fit the bulk of two grown men, but neither are bothered by the lack of space when it means it gives them an excuse to push closer to each other. 

Stan stifles a startled noise when Jimmy practically throws him into the backseat, crowding himself close. Stan instinctively parts his thighs to give the blonde man more room to work with and Jimmy capitalizes on Stan’s invitation instantly, slotting their hips together with a small grunt. With Jimmy so close Stan can feel the searing heat that Jimmy always seems to exude and the smell of smoke fills his senses. Jimmy leans forward and Stan finds himself rising the slightest bit so he and Jimmy can slide their lips together. The kiss is not gentle, no, it’s fumbling and greedy, full and hot, and almost clumsy with how desperate the act is. Jimmy’s tongue nudges at Stan’s lips and the younger man opens his mouth eagerly, the slick slide of their tongues exploring and mingling, a perfect sensation. The taste of tobacco and blood from when Stan had bit his cheek during the match is such an intoxicating combination that it sends sparks of heat to pool in Stan’s lower stomach. Stan grinds his hips forward as much as he can, pinned as he is against the seats. The action causes Jimmy to groan low in his throat and Stan can’t stop the self-satisfied smirk that plays across his lips at the sound. 

Stan nips at Jimmy’s lower lip and Jimmy pulls away, both men are gasping and flushed, a string of saliva still connecting them obscenely. The biker’s shades had fallen off during the whole debacle, and the grifter is treated to the sight of bright blue-green eyes with slit-like pupils– now dilated enough to look almost normal. Stan makes sure to make eye contact with Jimmy when he swipes his tongue out to break the string still connecting them. Jimmy stares, hungry and intense where they lock eyes. Stan almost feels like he  could eat him whole with that stare alone. The older man surges forward and presses a quick kiss to the side of Stan’s mouth before he’s trailing across his mouth to his cheek and down to the side of his neck, the feel of his mustache rough and perfect as it lights up a path of nerves under Stan’s skin. He  continues to mouth at Stan’s neck, making a hell of a hickey by the feel of things, and Lee sighs into the sensation. He likes that edge, the pleasure that sits on the cusp of pain, it grounds him, and reminds him of what should be happening right now. 

Jimmy continues like this for much too long, and Stan tries not to let his nervousness show. Jimmy always does this, the giving. Like he actually cares about how he makes Stan feel, and a part of Stan is so very grateful, and the other louder half of him screams and questions how long this care will last. So Stan goes to speed things up, to give back what Jimmy so freely offers him, canting his hips up in a rough grind, making sure to apply the proper amount of pressure where he presses them together. Stan knows he succeeded when he feels Jimmy’s breath stutter where he was previously mauling his neck. 

Stan gives a breathless chuckle that has him huffing in response, hot breath tickling Stan’s bruised neck. He grinds upwards again and Jimmy grunts softly, and before Jimmy can react, Stan wraps his thighs around the blonde man tightly and uses all his strength to flip their position. The act itself is tough in the cramped space and it makes Stan shake with the effort, but the startled squawk he gets from Jimmy is so worth the effort. 

Stan’s grin is shark-like when he finally gets Jimmy pinned against the seats, full thighs bracketing the other man’s. Jimmy glares up at him, expression annoyed at being interrupted. The younger man uses his newly acquired position to start trailing kisses down the man’s body, Jimmy’s eyes burn holes into him as Stan makes his way further and further down, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time. Jimmy shudders as Stan continues to lay hot kisses all the way down, till he’s at Jimmy’s belt buckle. There’s just enough room that Stan can shimmy his way down so that the biker is positioned above him and he can work the way he wants. 

Stan can see the strain of Jimmy’s dick through the material of his pants and with little preamble, Stan mouths at Jimmy through the material. Jimmy jolts and curses, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fuckin’ tease’ as Stan wets the area with his mouth. Lee pulls away slightly, just far enough to get his hands on Jimmy’s belt to undo it, it barely takes him a second to ruck Jimmy’s pants and boxers down to expose his hard on to the open air. Jimmy hisses at the sudden temperature change, and Stan quickly takes Jimmy in his hand to stroke him a few times. He twitches hot and heavy in Stan’s palm and he uses a calloused thumb to spread the precum that had gathered at his tip. 

“You’re f–fucking something, aren’t you, babe?” Jimmy says breathlessly, and it’s obvious he’s still ticked about Stan’s little stunt earlier, but other things have clearly taken over his mind. 

There he goes using that word again, “babe”. It doesn’t bother Stan any, they almost never use their real names with each other anyway, always a nickname or endearment. But it always makes Stan think, just like Stan always thinks when it comes to Jimmy. Stan doesn’t know what they are, well, not exactly. They had never bothered to label anything, and Stan likes it that way. You can’t have too many expectations for something that’s never been defined. Stan knows they’re queers, can’t exactly fuck a dude without being one, but they’d never outright called themselves a couple. 

(And if  Stan is being completely honest– he doesn’t want to talk about what they have going on. He’s scared he’ll fuck up this one good thing, his words were always a double-edged sword– waiting to strike down whatever positive thing he’d managed to scrounge up.)

Stan forces his musing from his mind and takes Jimmy’s cock to his mouth, licking a few lingering stripes up the length of it before stopping to tongue at the slit, and delights in the stilted groan he receives from the action. Stan relaxes his throat and takes Jimmy down to the root, swallowing around the cock in his mouth to stop himself from gagging. 

“F–Fuck, Stan!” Jimmy shouts and reaches his hand to grip at the base of Stan’s hair, keeping him in place. Stan lets his tongue work around the cock in his mouth for a moment before hollowing his cheeks and sucking, continuing to slide his tongue across the length as he begins to bob his head, liking the slight pull and sting from Jimmy’s hand that is threaded through his brown curls. The blond  curses loudly as Stan speeds up his movements, bobbing faster, now reaching up with a hand to fondle and stroke whatever isn't in his mouth at any given moment. 

And Stan knows he’s good at this. Has been for a while. And he knows Jimmy knows it too, made obvious by the resounding moans and tugs as Jimmy hits the back of his throat repeatedly with the blunt tip of his cock. Jimmy starts to shallowly thrust into the wet heat of Stan’s mouth and Stan relaxes his jaw further, looking up at Jimmy through lidded eyes, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth. When Jimmy looks down and makes eye contact with Stan he immediately throws his head back, a low groan rumbling from his chest, gripping the back of Stan’s head even tighter. Stan hums around Jimmy the way he knows the blonde man likes and Jimmy rewards him with a harder thrust that brings the beginnings of tears to Stan’s eyes. Stan can’t help but moan around the length in his mouth and his own cock twitches in his pants at the sensation. He wishes Jimmy would just let loose, fuck his throat with abandon and damn Stan’s feelings in the matter. But Jimmy never does. It drives Stan up a wall; the moment Stan even begins to show even the slightest hint of discomfort Jimmy gets it in his head that he needs to hold back, like he’s is some fragile thing that can’t take rougher treatment. If Stan didn’t know Jimmy it would piss him off (it still does sometimes) but that’s just how Jimmy is– gruff, but thoughtful in a way that always manages to throw Stan off his game. 

Stan can feel Jimmy getting close, his breath coming faster and his thrusts becoming jerky and quick, but the conman  has a bit more planned for him, so he pulls of the other man with a wet pop, licking his lips before smirking at Jimmy’s wheezy groan of despair at the loss of Stan’s mouth. 

Stan nudges Jimmy with hand to his chest, pressing the other man down so that he’s splayed across the seats. Jimmy goes down with a well-natured eye roll and a brow quirked up in question. Stan just rises so that he’s straddling Jimmy’s lap again, hovering with one leg folded on one side of the man’s hip and the other dangling off the seat. Stan keeps himself raised slightly using the hand not still placed on Jimmy’s chest to pull down his own pants and boxers quickly. He hisses quietly when his own hard-on makes contact with the open air, having grown painfully hard while he was giving head. 

Stan’s actions are hurried as he sticks two fingers into his mouth, roving his tongue across the digits to coat them in as much spit as possible before reaching behind himself and shoving two fingers inside simultaneously. Stan bites back the pained yelp that wants to tear free from his throat, and his whole body shudders at the sting, but he forces himself to relax as he spreads his fingers inside himself. It doesn’t do much for the burn, but Stan finds he doesn’t truly mind it, if his twitching cock isn’t evidence enough of that. He barely gives himself another second before he’s plunging his fingers deeper inside and scissoring himself, intent on opening himself just enough that he won’t be uncomfortably tight for Jimmy. Stan unconsciously finds his prostate and he can’t help the startled gasp that leaves his lips, pushing back onto his own fingers. Stan looks down and he can feel Jimmy’s heated gaze just as much as he can see it, the man lacing his fingers together with Stan’s free hand, the light touch a complete juxtaposition to the man’s ravenous expression. Jimmy reaches with his other hand to grip one of Stan’s hips in a manner he would almost call possessive, the thought has Stan biting his lip to hold back the unwanted whimper Stan knows he would be making without his own prevention. 

Stan pulls his fingers out with a small grunt and doesn’t wait a second longer, taking Jimmy’s spit-slicked cock in hand and guiding it to his entrance, spearing himself on the hard length. Stan can’t get his teeth in front of the pained grunt he lets out, but fuck, Jimmy stretches him perfectly. 

Jimmy has always been that perfect size in Stan’s not-so-humble opinion, just above average and wide enough for it to hurt in that delicious way Stan craves. And it burns, fuck it burns so fucking good. This is what Stan needed, needed to ground himself with pain the same way he does in the ring. Something to remind himself that this is just another way he can be useful, remind himself that this isn’t really about him, that Jimmy should come first in this situation. 

Using his one foot on the car floor as leverage, Stan rises off Jimmy’s cock and slams home. Stan chokes  at the feeling of being overfilled– like he might even tear a bit. Under prepping would do that to a man, but Stan feels his erection twitch into the open air as the painful pleasure scorches all coherent thought from his mind. Jimmy lets out a rumbling groan and his cock twitches inside him; Stan feels a grin stretch across his face. He continues to work himself up and down on Jimmy’s length, usually, Stan is able to keep a pretty good poker face when doing the deed, but Jimmy always made that difficult– something about feeling safe enough to show his actual emotions or other mushy nonsense, so all that is to say– Stan isn’t sure he’s able to keep the slight grimace off his face when he’s doesn’t adjust as quickly as he’d like. But Stan doesn’t slow down or stop, determined to keep Jimmy feeling good under him. Stan lets out a gutted noise, something small and embarrassingly vulnerable that he cannot believe he lets leave his lungs. Jimmy's eyes snap to Stan’s face as his grip tightens on the dip of Stan’s hip, eyes concerned in the way that only he’s has ever been. 

Jimmy squeezes their interlocked fingers and his hand on Stan’s hip tries to slow the quick rolling of his  hips. Stan panics just a bit, not wanting to disappoint Jimmy just cause he can’t take cock like he should. 

Stan grinds down harshly and Jimmy growls, the sound not entirely human but Stan ignores it like he always does, flashing  a reassuring smile and saying, “Don’t worry about me cowboy. You know I’m made of tougher stuff.” The statement is firm, punctuated by another quick roll of Stan’s hips that has them both seeing stars. 

And though Jimmy is still clearly apprehensive, he doesn’t try to slow Stan anymore. 

Stan works his thighs, shaking with the effort of plunging himself onto Jimmy’s dick in a steady rhythm. The sounds of skin slapping against skin is loud and obscene in the cramped car, Jimmy pants loudly and groans low in his throat, and Stan can’t help but love the noises he makes, serving as motivation to pick up the pace, riding Jimmy quick and dirty and perfect. 

Soon Stan finds himself finally fully adjusting to the intrusion and he almost misses the sharp sting, but he can’t deny that it does make the slide of their bodies easier. He shifts down slightly, and it makes Jimmy hit the spot inside him that lights up all the nerves that make his head swim. Stanley keens and fucks himself on Jimmy’s cock harder, desperate to feel that sensation again. The older man takes the hint and sits himself up a bit, unlocking their fingers to place both hands on Stan’s hips and thrusting up into him  hard. The moan that Stan lets out is positively whorish, and (to Stan’s genuine surprise) completely real. He can’t help the needy whines and whimpers that pour from his lips as Jimmy cants his hips up to meet Stan’s downward motions. Pleasure shoots up Stan’s spine as Jimmy continues to slam his hips forward in a way that makes Stan’s whole body lock up. Stan practically screams out his pleasure, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open, a trail of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. 

The pace turns brutal when Jimmy takes the reins, fucking up into Stan deep as if he’s trying to bury himself in the hot warmth encasing him. And it’s so fucking good. Stan doesn’t know what changed, or why Jimmy finally decided to let loose, but Stan needs to know what he did so that Jimmy gets like this every time they fuck. 

Jimmy finally sits up completely so that he and Stan are face to face, forcing their mouths together in a desperate kiss as he  continues to pound up into him, and Stan does his best to keep up. The angle change has him gasping into Jimmy’s open mouth, tongues colliding inelegantly, the kiss more teeth and mess than a proper kiss allows for. Jimmy’s tongue is now forked at the tip, but Stan is not surprised, not anymore, and he can’t complain when said tongue practically chokes him as it fills his mouth and maps out his soft palette. Jimmy pulls back to let them catch their breath and gives a forceful thrust that has Stanley mewling. He has no time to be embarrassed about it when Jimmy’s grip on his hips turns absolutely bruising and he pumps into Stan like he wants to merge their bodies together and become one. Stan only gets a glimpse of Jimmy’s softly glowing eyes before the man is leaning in and latches onto Stan’s shoulder, the bite harsh and powerful enough that Stan thinks he feels skin break under the offending teeth. 

“Ah!” Stan’s ragged moan is piercing and vulgar as Jimmy's jaw stays locked onto the sensitive flesh of Stan’s shoulder, the pain a perfect contrast to the all-encompassing pleasure coming from the fevered pounding of his hips and Stan’s own bouncing. Stan has no idea when this turned into focus on everything Stan likes hour, but he can’t find himself hating it as much as he should. Stan rocks his hips against Jimmy’s brutal thrusting and Jimmy unlatches from Stan’s shoulder with a groan. He makes eye contact with Stan as he licks the newly made mark and Stan jolts when he sees the flash of red before it’s quickly licked away. Stan’s dick twitches against where it’s been pressed between their sweat-slicked bodies, slightly uncomfortable in an addictive way as it rubs against the fabrics of their shirts. 

Jimmy smirks at Stan’s obvious interest, snaggletooth making an appearance, and Stan can feel himself flushing even more than he already was. Stan goes to turn his head away but lets out a startled gasp when he feels Jimmy grip his face in one hand, forcing Stan to face him. His expression is aprising and full of a self-satisfied realization. “You like that do you, babe? Like me– ah– marking you up?” Jimmy says and it’s laced with something close to wonder. Stanley doesn’t respond besides a high-pitched whine. Jimmy chuckles breathlessly hips stuttering slightly,  “I can do that for ya, baby. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” Jimmy nuzzles his head between Stan’s neck and shoulder. His hands come up to wrap around Jimmy’s shoulders, one hand coming to cup the back of the other man’s neck as Stan continues to rut himself up and down on Jimmy’s leaking cock. 

Jimmy bites down again, even harder this time and it sends a jolt of pleasure so strong down Stan’s spine that he bucks wildly into Jimmy’s hold, a strangled sound leaving his lips. 

“Mine.” Jimmy growls possessively, arms wrapping around Stan in a fierce embrace, and Stan can do nothing but shudder his agreement and wail as he gives up trying to keep up with Jimmy’s pace as he jackhammers his dick inside Stan, feeling as if he’s rearranging Stan’s guts from the inside out. Jimmy keeps Stan upwards with a hand on his back, forcing an arch that has Stan’s eyes rolling back into his head. Jimmy’s tongue laves against the new mark and Stan shudders at the ache the action brings. He can feel the man getting close, his thrusts becoming sloppy, and Stan goes to touch himself when Jimmy slaps his hand away with his own. Stan whines his misery, but Jimmy just takes Stan into his own large hand, pumping Stan in time with his thrusts. 

Jimmy slams his hips upwards again, one, twice, and then Stan feels that familiar warmth pooling inside him, filling him to the brim. Stan whimpers at the sensation of  Jimmy growling against his ear, jacking Stan off until he comes into Jimmy’s waiting hand with a gasp, vision whiting out for a split second as orgasmic pleasure burns through his veins. 

Stan grinds against Jimmy through the remains of their orgasms, milking Jimmy for all he’s worth before they collapse onto each other, foreheads pressed together in a gesture that seems too intimate no matter what had just transpired, their chests heaving and panting breath mingling. 

Stan’s brain is blissfully silent and he feels a spark of self-satisfaction when he looks to see Jimmy looks wrecked, but completely content. Stan feels good about a job well done, and maybe he’s not too upset about getting something surprisingly good out of it himself.

Stan feels Jimmy shift and it jolts the cock still buried inside him, making Stan hiss in overstimulation. Jimmy is immediately back to soft hands and soft actions as he hushes Stan quietly, lifting Stan off his softening dick with a small grunt. A torrent of cum spills out of Stan and coats the seats below him and stains his thighs; Stan tries not to think about how he���s not as disgusted by that as he usually would be. 

Jimmy sits Stan in his lap and this is the part that Stan had never been good at. He could do sex just fine, but the after, well, it was always the hardest thing to navigate. Most just tossed the money they owed him and left, he tended to appreciate that more than the ones that stayed and acted like they cared and tried to clean him up or, god-forbid, cuddle him. 

But this is different. This isn’t a John or a one-off hookup, this is Jimmy. And something about this time with Jimmy felt different, more purposeful than any other time they had fucked. Maybe it was Jimmy finally letting loose, maybe it was Jimmy’s possessive nature shining through, or maybe it was that Stan had finally acknowledged that Jimmy was different than anyone else he’d been with.

And Jimmy was different. Because Stan didn’t want to run away for once. He wants to stay here and just be alongside Jimmy for as long as the blonde man will allow it.

Stan startles when he feels Jimmy push a brown curl behind Stan’s ear, his gaze one of complete endearment, and it has Stan’s face heating before he laughs off his own embarrassment. “That good huh, punk?” Stan teases, although his heart isn’t in it. He just wants Jimmy to stop looking at him like that. Like Stan is worth something more than just the quick fuck they had shared. 

Jimmy hums and reaches to cradle the back of Stan’s, carding his hands through Stan’s hair and scratching lightly. Stan can’t help the quiet pleased sound that rumbles from his chest. “Always is,” Jimmy mutters and Stan feels another flash of pride. Jimmy looks like he wants to say something else, but Stan interrupts by going to sit up off Jimmy’s lap, intent on cleaning them up.

Stan is stopped by a hand on his hip and Stan looks at Jimmy with a questioning frown.

 “Come on, babe, let me hold ya for a bit.” Jimmy’s voice is filled with an emotion Stan can’t quite place, but the vulnerability there has Stan pausing before nodding his head silently. 

Jimmy’s smile is soft but very present, and Stan can’t stare at the expression long before he starts to feel way too mushy for his liking. Jimmy leads them down so that Stan lies on top of the other man. Stan is a bit nervous his full weight will be too uncomfortable for Jimmy, but the man beneath him just sighs a pleased sound, so Stan lets himself relax against the welcoming warmth encasing him. Jimmy wraps his around across Stan’s back, locking him in an embrace that doesn’t feel constricting, but pleasantly comforting. Stan rests his head against Jimmy’s chest and listens to the man’s slow heartbeat. They just stay like that as both bathe in a soft afterglow together. 

Stan doesn’t know if this thing he has going with Jimmy will last, but for now, he just lets himself be held by strong arms and tilts his head to press a chaste kiss to the man below him. 

[jasmines-library]

Hi there! I absolutely adore the way you write and how you approach heavier topics. If it doesn’t bother you, could I request a Batfamily fic with reader who has an ED? I know a lot of people struggle with it and I feel like we all need a little affirmation sometimes. <3

Just The Way You Are

Warnings: Eating Disorders - please read with caution.

Word Count: 1.1k

Note: This one hit home hard. As someone who has struggled with and ED, I think it is important to raise awareness about them. Please note that this is based off off my personal experiences and from research. EDs present themselves in many different ways that vary for everyone. Please remember to be kind to yourself and others and if you are struggling and are able to, to reach out. I have linked some helplines below for those who are in need. Please remember that you are loved and you are perfect just the way you are. You are special. You are loved. You are unique. never let anyone take that away from you.

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

You hadn’t touched most of your food. It sat there getting cold as you pushed it around the porcelain listening to the way your fork scraped gratingly against the shiny surface. You had taken a few bites, longing to savour the taste of Alfred’s cooking as it melted on your tongue, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to bring anymore of the food to your lips. Even the smell began to make your stomach churn. And you felt so stupid as you sat there staring at the plate as everyone else delved in. In some ways that made you feel worse. But eating had begun to feel like a crime. 

When it first started, you never thought it would go this far. You just wanted to lose a little weight, to tone your stomach and your muscles just a little bit more. You weren’t even entirely sure why. Perhaps a cruel comment made in passing? It didn’t matter. But what did was the way that your mind seemed to wrack with cruel thoughts every time you looked in the mirror. Pointing out everything that seemed to be wrong. Or didn’t look like the models in the photos in Jason's magazines. 

So, you started cutting back. Just a little at first. Snacks in between meals. And you started working out more, trying to burn off calories faster. But when you checked the scales it felt like it wasn’t enough. When you looked in the mirror, your mind still screamed at you, replaying comments and thoughts in your mind like a broken record. They scratched away at you until soon you began to cut back on meals. Breakfast. Smaller portions at lunch and just a few bites here or there at dinner, so that your family wouldn’t suspect a thing. And still even that didn’t seem to be enough. You still felt wrong every time you glanced in the mirror. You still felt like your body wasn’t good enough. 

Soon they noticed. You were becoming more withdrawn, often slipping away into the bathrooms after meals. Often not at meals at all. You were sluggish too and seemed to lack the spark that you used to hold. They would ask you tenderly if you were okay, but most days you would scatter or pretend not to have heard them. And other days you would just tell them that you had already had something to eat. That you weren’t hungry.

And somehow lying to them made the situation feel so much worse. Like you were harming them as well as yourself. Your mind was a blur. Days seemed to pass by in some strange mess of time and the only thing that consumed thoughts were the lingering, cruel jests of your inner monologue. Sometimes, you begged for it to stop. You wanted to stop. But you couldn’t. Because you felt as though if you did you would feel disgusting. You would feel as though everything you had done had been for nothing. 

“Not hungry?” Tim asked from across beside you. You had zoned out, not sparing the rest of them aside as your mind wandered off on a tangent. 

“Hmm?” You frowned. “No. I had a big lunch not too long ago. It was stupid of me really, I should know better than to eat too close to dinner.”

Jason frowned. “You’ve been doing that a lot. Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” You hummed, keeping your eyes plastered on the table cloth, not daring to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast either today Y/N.” Damian added. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing down the anxiety that rose within you quickly. “I’ve already said I’m just not hungry.”

“You’re looking a little pale kiddo.” Dick said “I don’t want you getting sick. Why don’t you try and take a few more bites. It’ll help.”

And soon it all became too much. Everything seemed too much. Too bright, too loud, too hot. And a tear that had been threatening to spill from your eyes for weeks now finally slipped free of its cage. 

“I can’t.” 

It was a simple phrase, but your voice trembled. 

“Why not, kid? What’s the matter kiddo?” Jason asked calmly. 

“I just… I just can’t.” you sobbed. “Because if I eat then I feel like my body isn’t good enough! I don’t look like a model. Everytime I look in the mirror I see a body staring back at me that is mine, but it doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t look like how I want it too. How it’s supposed to.”

They fell silent for a moment. But then Damian spoke up. 

“Oh Y/N/N… your body is beautiful.”

“Is that why you haven’t been eating?” Dick tilted his head.

You nodded meekly.

“Oh kid…you’re so perfect. You don’t need to change for anyone ever. Who cares what you look like?”

“Me! Everyone! I don’t know!” 

“We don’t care. We think you are beautiful just the way you are. You are perfect y/n, and we wouldn’t want you any different.” Tim told you gently, placing his hand atop of yours. 

“We love every inch of you. You are beautiful.”

You sniffled, wiping away your tears. 

“We’re sorry you couldn’t tell us how you feel. But we are here for you. Always.” Damian told you.

“We’re always going to be here kiddo. We’re here to help you. Here to love you.” Jason added. 

“We don’t know what we would do without you. It’s so important that you take care of yourself, beautiful.” Dick said. “And it will take time, as recovery does, but we’re going to be here to help you every step of the way.”

And they were true to their words. The four of them began to help you on your recovery journey. Often they would sit with you, taking small bites of food with you or offering you your favourite treats, reassuring you that it was okay. 

If you ever felt overwhelmed, they would wait with you, allowing you to take your time. 

Everyday they reminded you of how proud they were of you, even if you felt your progress had gone backward that day.  Because they truly were.

Often they would slip you notes. Sometimes they came under your door or were left by your bathroom mirror. You had quite the collection. Each one was different. A different reason why they loved you, or a reminder of how proud they were of you. Reminders that you are loved and you are beautiful just the way you are.

HELPLINES

BATFAM TAGLIST:

@aestheticdaisies

@hell-o-kittys

@xxrougefangxx

@mamapucket

@hearts4robs

@harleycao

[scriptnoir]

SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN.

you develop a strange friendship with the pretty college girl who visits your library.

pairing. olivia hayes (jessica alexander) × female reader

length. 12.9k words

themes. smut, uni student!olivia, librarian!reader, legal age gap, praise kink, pet names (princess, ma'am), fluff, angst

warnings. homophobic and blackmailing antagonist, age gap, smoking, get even spoilers, maybe ooc olivia but NO ONE GETS HER LIKE I DO DON'T @ ME

author's note. HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!! yall dont know how special this fic is to me. i started this in september, continued writing it in february (!!!) after being down bad for jess then, after watching get even, revised it to be for my baby olivia hayes :) also my first fic on this blog ! olivia hayes and get even in general are pretty niché in fics, but i hope you'll give this a chance </3 also, i will be writing for more female celebs so stay tuned !!

There was a library - a nice, wide place located in the smaller parts of the university. It’s where the students seldom went to study for their exams, perhaps find a little reprieve from all the youthful stress that curled around them. They’d lounge on the sofas with a textbook in their laps, or hide behind an aisle of novels to make out. That didn’t matter to you - what you cared about was that your second home was a safe space for them, just like it was to you, where nothing else was out to get them but the smell of new books.

That’s where it all started.

It was all supposed to go so normally, but then she came in. 

Suddenly you weren’t so safe anymore.

Oh, but could she do any naught? You heard and dismissed rumors, but she was just a schoolgirl - well, the better and more guiltless term was perhaps college student. Still, you're a handful of years older than her with a degree she's using the end of her teens to fight for. She was young. Innocent too, with those bright, casual eyes that passed around the library fascinatedly. But it was far from easy to remember that when those long legs strode confidently in your vicinity, underneath that short skirt which ought to get her in trouble with the dress code. But why? It was standard uniform - it wasn’t her fault she was beautiful. Ah, and one couldn’t forget the socks, simple white ones yet looked painfully beautiful on her with how they wrapped around her thighs like a present. 

When she looked at you and smiled, it was a cut straight to the bone. No remedy here. Stitches couldn’t save you.

In the second minute since she arrived here, you realized that she was familiar. That was the kind of face you never forgot - engendered into the ripples of your brain forever, a flame of memory kept alive. Because she was just a college student - many years your junior - but she was so goddamned beautiful that it ached your tongue and left it numb.

“Hi,” she said softly. From one word you could tell that curled preppy accent - something that teetered between an heiress’s and a sweet friend - was natural. From one word you were left breathless.

“Olivia Hayes.” You mentioned her name without thinking and with too much a realization, and now it sounded as if you didn’t know her, and oh, how rude that was. How dare you be rude to a girl like her, known and adored by everyone, a princess? You wanted to say you just recognized her, that you knew her already - which wasn’t false - but she’s already smiling.

Her smile, sweet with tender full lips and her eyelids reaching for their other halves, was something you could swim in forever. Oh, you’d drink from her, too - she was a saltless sea that tasted of nectar instead.

“That’s me,” said Olivia, beaming. “I’m the president of the student council. I think that’s where you remember me?”

Of course. She was the pretty face that always led a group of giggling schoolgirls to the hallway; the pretty voice that spoke at auditoriums for the school’s events; the pretty body that flexed as it twisted to send a ball that’s just as small as her head over the net. While you weren’t a professor by any means (you had tried to be, but that dream was whisked away quickly), you were a frequent presence for the student activities. The one who always, always stood out to you was her.

You suddenly found it very, very hard to gulp down another rough bout. She was beautiful in a way that was impossible to perceive without falling for her. When she had that relatively tall yet slender form all compact and tight in her uniform, with lips that became her brand - (because the other girls would always gossip and say how they wanted lips that full, and maybe you were jealous too) - and had their glossed signature, it forged a path that only led to wanting her.

“Yes, you’re right.” You collected yourself. “Anything I can help you with Ms. Hayes?”

“Do you have anything about Greek mythology?” 

That was the lilt of tone she used with her close circle of friends, fondly. Were you a friend to her now? Oh, but you had just met. Not just, perhaps, but this was the first time you actually talked to her lengthily. But she knew you - she’d said your name, and she, with the allowance of you basking in her sweet voice, considered you as someone trustworthy.

But you were far from that. A trustworthy individual did not reach desperately after a kempt schoolgirl like her, or fantasize about doing away with that skirt and scheme to watch all that royal composure dissolve from the princess that she was.

It was only now that you came to the realization that you had always, after all this time, wanted Olivia Hayes.

“Ma’am?” she asked, and all you could think was, oh, it’s the end. It was the beginning of the end the moment she was a polite girl and called you a name that was as innocent as her. It was of no ill intent when she called you that - she was merely asking for your help - but your fist curled up and your throat was tight.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” 

You had to act before you did anything stupid, like make her use those perfect lips on you, put them to good use; get your hand all up in that golden-brown hair. Instead of acting upon all those sinful fantasies, you placed a book she might like, the one you recommended for her only, and brushed the old crumbs of bookshelf dust from its cover. Because you’d hate to see those long, pretty fingers get stained. 

As you handed her the book, which she accepted with a smile, you asked, “You read a lot I presume?”

She giggled. “I try to,” she said. “Haven’t got time for it lately. But I have to.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re excellent,” you told her, not being able to help yourself. It wasn’t like it was a lie - Olivia Hayes had a lot of potential in her. A great leader, having watched her create the rules to keep the students in line; a great actress, having seen her perform at the theater with emotions that shook you to the core; a great person in general.

“Oh.” Olivia’s cheeks filled with pink. And you found out that when she got shy, her ears flushed too. You ought to smile. “You think so?”

And this was the kind of schoolgirl sweet you pictured her as. She found everywhere but your eyes to look at, and her legs began to sway to and fro, shifting her weight from here to there to stabilize herself. Olivia Hayes - president of various important clubs, prom queen and honor student - could also be . . . adorable?

The rumor mill claimed she wasn’t such a sweetheart. A real fucking snob, a boy claimed after leaving her classroom with tears on his face. Stuck-up bitch. Too arrogant for her own pretty good. 

You never believed them. You . . . .did, perhaps? But it was not a belief you held to defame her. 

You actually found the roll of her eyes, the snide of her scoffs and checking of her perfect nails a little hot. 

But the pink on her face was how you realized that she’s the type of girl who’d melt if called anything remotely complimenting. It’s what she was used to; what revolved her world. 

“I know so.”

“Ah,” she mumbled, nodding thoughtfully as she looked down at her black Mary Jane shoes. “Thank you.”

Quietness settled into your humble library. It was what you insisted upon hearing, but there was something about Olivia - how she rolled her words, giggled when she was nervous, spoke softly but easily - that made you want to break your own rules. And several others.

“You have a library card?” 

“I don’t.” You envied how she managed to recollect herself before she melted more. You could never say the same thing about yourself. Suddenly her chin was up again, and a small smile played on her lips. “Is it alright if I read here for a while Ma’am?”

What else could your answer be?

The day became night, the moon stark in the sky from behind your library windows. All the students had filed out. It was time to close.

You looked at your log book. Plenty of people came in today. You were happy about that. As a librarian (you taught too if that meant anything), you were naturally passionate about books. Having a job related to them was a dream right from the start. When you were young, you wanted to be a librarian. When you entered high school, you wanted to be a librarian. When you finished college, you became one. The pay was nothing close to meager which was enough for you. You wanted this job and not one day passed that had you upset about it.

Mostly, people came here to hang out or hide. That didn’t matter to you, but what struck you was Olivia. Ever since dismissal time, she was in that corner reading. A pile of books sat on the table with her. All of them were about mythology, whether novels or retellings or anecdotes. 

You pretended not to notice her as you rearranged books and disposed of unattended belongings. It kept you busy. Sometimes nobody cared about the system you ordered your books in, or the tidiness overall of your little place. So it took a while, one you were pleased about, until you walked over to Olivia.

She was on the four-hundredth page of the novel. Her thumb pressed above the high number on the foot of the page. Didn’t she just start that? And she was still going. 

“You’re a fast reader,” you remarked, fascinated. 

She looked up in surprise. A sense of calm passed over her features when she realized it was you. “Y-yes I am. Other days I finish books in like a year, but I guess this isn’t one of those days.”

“Same here.” You liked how you had that in common with her. She was pretty already, but a voracious reader? That was the key to your heart. 

You picked up her bag beside her chair and placed it on the table. She returned to scanning the book, the pages crisp between her manicured nails and eyes bright and thoughtful. In her lap was a notepad. Her writing was tidy and smooth. Small letters spelled details about Odysseus, gods, and fables.

“You have a quiz about Greek mythology?” 

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I’m doing research since I got the part in a play about this stuff.”

“Let me guess: Aphrodite?”

It was a basic line - so easy, actually, so obvious. But it fit so well and her ears started to color again. She covered her mouth to giggle, then sat up straighter. The form of her back was like a duchess's: composed, slant, smooth. But she wasn’t a duchess. No - perfect lips, eyes shimmering; she was something more. Something else.

Olivia pursed her lips before smiling softly. “If I were naïve Ma’am” - there was that word again, sweet and faultless but making you pent up, as she considered you with a serious gaze - “I’d think you’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Too quick for that, don’t you think?” you backtracked. You had to be appropriate. Yet you reeled forward again: “But you’re a beautiful girl, fitting for the part.”

You normally didn’t go for the model-in-the-making girls, much less ones who were younger than you. But she had this different aura about her. She was quiet, sweet, and incredibly polite while maintaining her popularity and schoolwork. She was each one of those but people still chose to put her down. You wondered how she dealt with everything. What was behind that pretty, pretty face?

“Unfortunately, being pretty doesn’t free you from my rules.” You pointed at the clock. Regret filled your heart as you informed her. “It’s 7 PM. According to school regulations, I was supposed to close twenty minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you close then?” A smile creased the corners of her eyes and emphasized her lips. “I thought being beautiful didn’t exempt me?”

There it was. She knew how to reply, how to send back a maimed question with a bigger bullet. This was why people liked to deem her an intimidation.

She was smart, cunningly sweet. You never doubted Olivia’s intelligence but it still surprised you. She looked at you knowingly while you flustered. You searched for an answer when all you searched for was the hike of her skirt up her thighs. She knew your game, and she was not afraid to play it.

Olivia was a tactful, patient pupil. She sat with her hands folded in her lap - like a good fucking girl - and waited for your response. You mustered nothing. It felt stupid to stand there and wordlessly admit you got cornered by a nineteen-year-old.

“It . . . does now.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Fuck.

“You know you can take these books back to your dorm? All you need is a library card.”

“Oh!” Delighted, she stood up and beamed with a light that always was with her, even in the night. “When can I get one?”

“Here tomorrow. Like I said, library hours are done.” 

Olivia didn’t take your sternness to heart. She picked up her bag and slung it on her shoulders. She began to leave. 

She was simply following orders but you hated to see her go. You were already yearning for her. You would have wanted to like her in a purely pure way, but you weren’t a good woman. You yearned for the slip of her stockings down her knees, the prop of her neck, the flight of her hair as the wind pushed past her.

She turned to you at the doorway. Did she read your thoughts? Did she forget something?

“Well,” she said, “if here’s where you want me to be.” 

Then, in a low voice and the final smile of the day, “Ma’am.”

Plenty of students came in after her. They were either the ones who didn’t have friends to eat lunch with (you didn’t enforce the no food rule for them) and the ones who were rowdy, using your sanctuary as a place to yell and make jokes (you tapped the silence rule taped to your desk.) Everyone signed their names in your log book, but the words flew past your notice. All those days gone and your eyes still remained on Olivia.

Everyday she sat on the loveseat with her legs crossed. She didn’t speak one word. Olivia simply read and read and read, occasionally pausing to rest and take notes. Her nose was buried in the book, but you could see her brilliant eyes above its edges. They disseminated, observed, analyzed. The rest of her face was covered and you still found her beautiful. 

“Ma’am,” spoke a student nearing your desk, “can I get a library card?”

The background blurred. You looked at the student and realized you were staring at Olivia for too many an hour. You had to focus. Ogling at a student was inappropriate, and not what the private university paid you for.

Also, the title didn’t sound as nice as it did if it came from someone who wasn’t Olivia Hayes.

“Of course.” You rose from your chair as you took his ID. 

“It’s free, right?”

“Yes, no charge.”

You typed in his name. It wasn’t long or a unique one but you had to read it several times over to ensure its correctness. Typical procedure. Ronny. Soon, his library card was laminated and printed. You placed it on your desk for him to take.

Thanking you, Ronny picked behind his ear. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he began, “you were looking at Olivia for a bit there.” 

You swallowed. Were you that obvious? You hated to think so. The last thing you wanted was your ogling at the girl to be something controversial. (It was.) You were doing it for days, ever since her initial visit. 

What did you say to him? What did you do?

“Oh, uh. No. I just space out a lot.”

He saw through your lie. His easy grin made you uncomfortable. Why? He was just making conversation. “I mean, I understand. She’s really pretty and popular, but she doesn’t have many friends.” 

You turned to look at Olivia. She was still reading. The whole time she was quiet and preserved, not taking time to speak to others. She liked to keep to herself for a girl who was the talk of the campus.

“Doesn’t she?”

“She needs someone to talk to,” he told you. His words were overly friendly, like he was lulling you into a drunken false sense of security. “I think you’d be perfect. She’s just getting into reading.”

“I-I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

He gave you a smirk of knowledge and left. Shit. Why did you have to be so indiscreet? You quickly collected yourself and returned to your book. You had to forget about it.

The characters in your book fought against dragons and fell in love and fell apart and passed on. Chapters became nothing like the minutes. There were rare moments when you had to look up and assist someone, but aside from that, the day was relatively uneventful. 

Night arrived, slowly like it always did. You were a dedicated reader, but the story was uninteresting compared to the pretty girl lounging across you. She was the only one there now. 

Before you could return your eyes to the book and stop watching at how she flicked her hair back and checked her phone, she caught you. Her attractive smile was full of awareness of your plight. You quickly looked down at the pages. It was too late.

School shoes tapped a rhythm on the floor as she approached you. She leaned down on your desk. You tried to ignore her and pretend she wasn’t there. But Olivia had a face people would never forget. She was most likely someone’s first love, who, even when along came a girl who filled their life, was not erased from memory. No, she was too precious to let go.

“You know,” stated Olivia, her tongue curved upwards at the side of her lips, “you could just talk to me. I’m not scary, am I?”

You lowered the story. She was so good to look at. Her hair was tossed over the side and she wore a carefree smile that invited you to close the book.

Was she scary? Yeah - her exclusiveness, tight-knit friendships and beautiful wit - you’d call that scary. 

But the fear always turned into a yearning - please notice me when I walk past; please say my name again; please ruin me- let me ruin you-

“Sure.” You gave in. “What do you wanna talk about?”

She thought for a while. “Anything that’ll make us friends. I like you. It’s gonna be easy.”

Being friends didn’t sound dangerous. What could happen? It’s not as if the moment you bonded you would suddenly grab the small of her back and let your lips meet.

“Wanna get out of here?’’ She framed her cheek with her fingers. “I’ll put on a jacket. Nobody will know.”

You’d love nothing more. But was it alright? There were lines being crossed here: the relationship between a student and a mentor; the rules; the propriety.

She looked you up and down, taking note of everything, then cocked an eyebrow. Oh, it was a challenge. Would you give in?

You found yourself buttoning your coat and walking out with her. The library had to close early. She grinned and looped an arm through yours. You made an excuse that your sudden freezing up was due to the night air.

Well, it was chilly. The breeze puffed Olivia’s hair into the night. She always made herself look like a femme fatale from a fan favorite watch - red lips; smoky eyes; and a tendency to make anyone want her. Ah, not a tendency - she was a natural heartstealer. She broke it even if you weren’t a thing when you saw her with boys, with girls, with anyone looking to tear her uniform down in pieces when you felt the exact same thing.

The school looked more serene in the darkness. It was so grand but looked just like home. Old bricks built themselves up into pillars that resembled castles. Dim light illuminated from dorm windows. 

“It’s nice to get out of that place for once,” Olivia said. She tilted her head to the school and sighed humorously. But the smoke of air that left her mouth shook a little too. “It’s kind of suffocating in there, honestly.”

The branches reached for her hair. Your shoes were torn by growing roots. But through everything, you kept walking. You wanted to know: what was more to this forest? What was more to her?

“Let me guess,” you said. “It’s the popularity contests? Friends? Math?”

She rolled her eyes, a confirmation. “Ugh, math.” 

“You’ll get through it,” you assured her. It was cliché to say, but everything would eventually come to pass. You were on a planet in a galaxy in a galaxy in a galaxy, or whatever. It didn’t matter. “I mean, I did. If anyone could do it, it’s you.”

“I was gonna say you did excellent getting through it, but I don’t know you that well.”

“So get to know me.”

You talked, and Olivia was surprisingly easy to connect with. She listened with attentively creased brows and an occasional laugh. You narrated the basics: “read” was your first word. You did your classmates’ homework in exchange for candies. Reading was your foundation. If you had to go without it, you died.  

You thought that she would make a joke about the cheesiness, or worse, laugh at you. But she didn’t. She kept listening. She sometimes threw you a few interesting questions that kept the drain of conversation going. The thoughtful, caring energy in her face was solid and you felt undeserving to bask in it.

“What I like to say is I’m a reader before a woman,” you told her anyway. The depths of the forest came up and for some reason you weren’t scared. It was the rumor mill for ghosts and hookups, but you were with Olivia. Why would you be scared? “That’s how I wound up here in a uni, letting them read what I have.”

Olivia nodded, hands on opposite elbows. The trees towered over you and made horrific shadows on the dust. Fear didn’t get to you. “Do they pay you well?”

“They do.”

“Must be fun.” She bit on the inside of her cheek, making the soft skin hollow. “Doing something you love.”

There was a wistfulness in her voice. Her expression was dreamy as she thoughtfully stepped over the roots and twigs. 

“Well,” you began, carefully, “what do you love?”

Olivia smiled self-assuredly. “Me.”

She told her story. She was born rich, lived rich, and would die rich. Her mother was an heiress whose love was a businessman, and the wealth would go on for the next ten or more generations. She wanted to be an active and proper student, behaving well enough so as not to take advantage of her father buying her out of any situation. She participated in many clubs and, according to this year’s paper, was the school’s Actress of The Year.

You didn’t think you had too much coffee today but you thought that it wasn’t illusion she had inched closer. Olivia’s knee was beside yours, and she was speaking and chuckling like you weren’t close to being insane about how smooth her skin felt. 

Was this the “bitch” who supposedly broke hearts and ruined lives? She flipped her hair and giggled like she had all the time in the world. She didn’t seem so terrifying.

“I try not to be so stuck up. I want people to leave me alone, but only when I need them to.”

You shrugged. “That explains why . . . ”

“Yeah?” She was not going to let that obvious halt pass.

You blinked. “Oh, I didn’t mean-” 

“It’s fine,” she dismissed, continuing the path down the forest. Olivia studied her fingernails. “It’s not like I don’t know people think I’m a bitch.”

So she knew. She had that admirable composure steadying her, but how did she deal with the falsehood? There was everything to cope with - the pressure of her parents; school; and friends who expected a lot from her. What was her method?

“For the record, I don’t think you’re a . . . ”

“Say it.” Olivia’s eyes flicked up from her nails and shot you with a cheekiness that made you feel lightheaded. “Call me a bitch.”

She slipped her hand in yours. The textures of your skin were vastly different. Hers was as soft as a baby’s cheek. Smooth and blemishless too. 

“Actually,” she added coyly, “call me whatever you want . . . Ma’am.”

You stared back at her. What did you just start? She winked at you then continued talking like she didn’t almost cause a heart attack.

The moon was stark and sent bursts of wind whipping you around. Sometimes you felt her grip tighten around the slots of your fingers to keep her balance. You hoped your palm wasn’t sweaty.

“They’re right though.” She giggled, fixing the blazer of her uniform. “I need a little redefining. So I’m doing some self-improvement, working on my habit of rolling my eyes.” 

“You’re a perfect student,” you joked, but you meant it. Every word was genuine. “You’re intelligent, pretty, studious, and committed. Who do I have to fight to be you?”

As expected, she rolled her eyes with a stifled simper. You both burst out laughing and for a few seconds it was all you knew. The lines of her smile, the shrink of her eyes as she chuckled - it was all so beautiful. 

“Seriously! You’re a beautiful girl. And that hair is lethally gorgeous.”

“Thank you. It’s smooth too. I guess combing like ninety times a day helps.” She scooted closer, as if close weren’t close enough, and turned her head. Golden-brown locks showed themselves to you. “See for yourself.”

Was she bold or just friendly? You gingerly ran your fingers through them. No knots blocked your way. Each thread was silky and clean. This was the kind of soft you’d feel on pillows in hotels you couldn’t afford. You were pretty sure she had well-paid, adoring women who attended to her for this.

It felt intimate. Too intimate. There was hesitance as she observed you, like she wanted to do something but had to think twice. You were getting so comfortable in the familiarity of her features that you had to remember she was a student and you were . . . you. This was like busting yourself out of the closet and getting yourself a case of being improper with a student, although she wasn’t a child by any means.

You put your hand back down. “What color is it?” you asked.

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “Brown? Blonde? Somewhere in between?”

Whatever it was, it looked good on her. Everything looked good on her. She was the only student you saw who never looked stuffy in the hot uniform. The British air was hot in the morning but not one drop of sweat stuck to her skin. Her mane of somewhere-in-between was articulately brushed and straightened.

Footprints of athletes still were visible on the ground. You stamped your foot over a mark of a rubber one. She followed suit. With that, you left a sign you were here. It might be the only sign that you ever lived. 

Books and shelves faded over time, but the earth would always remember your mark. It was sort of sentimental. This would be the first and only time you live, and you were glad to spend it enjoying a night with a girl you liked and getting to know quickly. Maybe you knew her all along. 

“If you really think I’m all that,” Olivia said, toying with the zipper of her jacket, “you should come to the play. I’ll prove my worth. It’s next week.” 

“I’ll be there,” you instantly replied.

You’d love to see her act again. Plays weren’t your thing but it would be good to see Olivia onstage, reciting her lines with deep emotion and twirling from prop to prop. You knew she wouldn’t disappoint. 

Her eyes lit up, and that response told you, without overassumption, of a mother who was too busy to come to her activities, of a father who wasn’t there. Never was. “You promise?” 

She was holding you to it, you could tell. It was a promise you were willing to keep. You’d never break it if the circumstances tested you.

“If that’s where you want me to be.”

“That’s my line,” she objected. She pulled the end of her skirt down to her knees. The waistband sank and unveiled modest skin. It was so devoid of ill intention that it was just right to make you feel guilty for looking. “If you use it, you need to have a nickname for me too.”

She turned to you. The crescent moon refracted in her pupils. Olivia was dead serious. You stopped in your tracks and tried to think. But she was there - so gorgeous, so put together and so lovely - that it made your thoughts go static.

Right from the start, you yearned. You thought it began when she visited your library for the first time. But now you thought that it dated back to watching her act, watching her and her group of friends, watching her be herself in a midst of elites. You wanted her since the moment she stepped in the university and it was difficult to deal with.

Why? Because you wanted to call her a lot of things. Each would be sweet or sour, whichever she chose, as she sank between your legs and/or sat in your lap and/or just kept being the tantalizingly beautiful thing she was.

“What’s something people call you?” you offered weakly. 

“Uh. Ollie and um, Hayes-Are-For-Horses” - you laughed and she had to explain it was back in primary, when she used to be bullied by the people who desired her now - “Liv, Livvie, Livia, Princess-”

“Princess?”

She looked down, a little embarrassed. “My friends call me that. It’s my code name.”

She was a princess, truly. Olivia was everything a princess should be. That’s why her peers loved her. That’s why her peers hated her. She was royalty, and people didn’t know if they wanted to lust for her or reject her just to say they had the opportunity to.

You nodded approvingly. “Very fitting.”

“That’s it then,” she said, satisfied. “You’re Ma’am, and I’m Princess.”

Saying the name felt like sinning - you realized this when you thought it over. But she was smiling again, so of course you’d do it without penance.

The play was beautiful. The props were crafted diligently and all actors quoted with diction and importance. You sat at the front as staff should and kept searching for your favorite student. She came in a white dress and hair styled in endless curls, and delivered a performance deserving of whatever Oscar there was for college plays. She was an excellent actress. All bias melted when you believed she was the best out of the whole drama club. Even her fellow actors said so.

While Olivia performed her nuances, she looked at the crowd, as if willing them to come onstage and save her. The fourth wall was broken through. You were too. She saw you at the front, went out of character with a smile, and got away with it. Her slip-up was so unnoticeable that at the end of the play, you thought you would have signed up for drama club if you were a student. She made it all look so easy. 

“You came!” she said, bouncing off the stage stairs and wrapping you in an unexpected hug. 

You fought back your giddiness. She was just being friendly. You returned the embrace like a good friend should. “Of course.”

The purple dress swayed around her like water, the little details and seams the seashells that fit the siren that she was, born from foam. You saw it hug her waist and flow around her legs and - despite everything: your promises to remain professional, a good senior, a good friend - you couldn’t deny she looked insanely good.

She ushered you backstage as the curtains closed. The cheers erupted for her, and you could picture her making it really big out there. She was gorgeous, talented, and excessively charming - a director would ditch screenplays to cast her. The coach was sure to die if they watched her rehearse. And anyone’s going to fall in love with her, really.

“Beautiful,” you remarked, and it could mean either way: the performance or the pretty little thing in front of you.

“You liked the yelp I did when Paris dragged me?” asked Olivia. Her eyes contained all the stars in the galaxy. She made a wish to each of them, asking for an eager attendee to her play. “I strained my voice, but I did good, right?”

Never did you ask about the black wig, or the smoky makeup, or the way she was almost in tears - almost like she never expected you to come. Or anyone for that matter. 

All you said, squeezing her forearm where you could feel the beat of her excitement, was: “The Princess was more than great.”

She never got that library card. Olivia chose to stay in your library for hours at a time rather than take them back to her dorm. The play was done but she began reading for fun instead of necessity. You recommended her thrillers and romance. Your heart grew bigger. She was actually very easy to be fond of. 

Now she took a seat near your desk where she occasionally asked questions - what does this word mean? what language is this? have you read this? - and left you biscuits in your lunch break. You enjoyed her company. You were insecure about a lot of things but one: she did back.

“Coffee.” Olivia brought a cup of steam to your desk. She pulled a chair to your desk and sat on it, crossing her legs. “Nobody’s here. The rules don’t exist.”

Your heart did a little offbeat thump. She was a generous girl. You forgot to thank her upon seeing that her strawberry blonde hair was tucked into a bun on her head. The strong curve of her jaw and her swan’s neck were just out there.

Olivia’s full lips closed on the straw of her iced coffee. You couldn’t stop watching her. You could help her out with her lessons - there’s her opened textbook, her reviewers - but you had eyes only for her. What a cliché. But you’re a reader. You liked your fair share of clichés. You could give this one a pass.

“Thanks Princess,” you said. You took the coffee and blew its smoke out. “You’re really kind.”

She was the kindest girl you ever met. These past few months, she did nothing but keep you company and spoil you. Olivia was a generous princess - she stepped out to meet the populace, give them food worthy of a royal, and kept them company. That was why you liked her. 

You stopped there. You didn’t want things to go too far. Not yet. These feelings you had for Olivia were inappropriate and deserved hindering. But she was just so beautiful and lovable that blocking the thoughts from your head felt like torture.

“It’s no problem.” 

She was smiling again. You really wondered how her peers carved her out to be an alleged pain. She was so thoughtful that you were beginning to think if anyone had chosen to befriend you this way. Were you even deserving?

“What are you studying?” you asked her. You had to make conversation before you slipped up again.

Olivia’s simper melted. “Math.”

You looked over at the formulas, fractions and calculations. It already made your head hurt. “Can’t help you with that,” you said regretfully. “It’s either I don’t know it or I forgot that thing a long time ago.”

“Can you help me with something else?”

After you nodded, she began to speak. Well, tried to. She trailed off, looking blankly at her textbook. Her face wore a blue little look that was a break of character from the serious one she always had. Olivia Hayes, as far as you knew, was not once lonesome.

“It’s been . . . really hard these days. I’m sorry, I know it’s completely out of topic but-”

“You can tell me anything.”

Hope crossed her features. She didn’t really have anyone to trust with her feelings. Her mother was too busy. Her friends would use them against her. The guidance counselor would just tell her to pray. Would you listen to her without bias?

“I don’t know if I’m hanging with the right people. I don’t know if I’m even that good. I don’t know if I-” Olivia stopped and made complicated gestures with her hands. A defeated sigh sounded from her slim throat. “-am.”

Self-doubt. It was your accurate diagnosis. You were surprised that a girl like her would experience it, but even the most confident people went through that. It would be easy to assume from the way she walked, talked, and acted that she had all the assurance for herself.

Olivia sighed at her textbook and shut it. Her shoulders were trembling. Was she sulking? Nearly crying? You couldn’t bear to see it. 

“I don’t think I know myself at all.” She swallowed, then without looking at you, asked, “Do you ever feel that way Ma’am?”

She was too young and too pretty to be going through this dilemma. You couldn’t say you didn’t go through the exact same thing yourself in the younger years of your life. But seeing the look of pride and strength disappear from her face was a death to your own self-pity. 

You looked at your hand close to her. The pins you gifted for her bag. The jacket you let her borrow after she lost it. Foolish to think, but maybe you finally found someone you could care about more than you did yourself.

“Every day of my life,” you said quietly.

“Oh,” she whispered, nodding. She said nothing more. Olivia’s view was focused on the cover of her textbook, which boasted happy students reading from it. It wasn’t the case for her. Revising this subject, being in this school? It didn’t make her happy.

Well, one thing did.

It hurt to see her like this. Had anyone ever considered what she felt? Or did she put up a front, being pretty and kind? 

“I just feel like I’m wasting borrowed time,” Olivia muttered. Each fragment of her broken sentences grew heavier.  “I want- I need-”

Before she could burst into tears, you tilted her face up. The water in her eyes remained there. What held them back besides your gentle hand was the tight frown of her lips. She was trying very, very hard not to break down.

“Hey. Chin up Princess,” you told her. You offered her an encouraging smile. “I know you. You’re a strong girl, aren’t you?”

Her eyelids were still puffy in their fight to keep her tears back. She didn’t quite believe that. But you would make her.

“Look at you. You’re smart, studious and sensitive. Nothing would make me think otherwise.”

Her gaze lingered on you, thoughtful. Did you really think that? Were you this sweet to anyone else? She chuckled and looked down shyly. “Alliteration.”

Smart girl. “That’s right,” you said. “I’m rubbing off on you.” 

“I guess that makes me okay.”

“You’re doing great. I promise.”

Light coffee stained the end of her mouth. You wiped it away with your thumb. A bit of her lipstick smudged your skin. An indirect kiss? 

When you retracted your touch, you thought the coffee was doing something to your head again. You could have sworn that Olivia leaned in.

And just when you thought lines couldn’t be crossed further:

People like to believe in things that they can see. Why trust in ideas that aren’t visible to the naked eye - it’s a lie for sure, right? Thus, the concept of atheism. Thus, the need for eye witnesses in court, primary sources, the like. Thus, the school not believing that the odor of cigarettes from behind the library could possibly be from you.

Well, they’d be damned.

Gray floated from your mouth like a lost dream. Vices aged along with your soul. See, you weren’t a bad kid. You stayed in school, did your homework, only tried a few prohibitions. But the smoking stuck to you - it reminded you of a more youthful time. It also made you feel a little light on your feet.

The thing was: the school couldn’t know. So you sank into the wall of the back of your library, fingers twined between a cigarette. You may not know yourself but you weren’t depressed or anything - it’s just a thing you do, like drinking coffee in the morning and writing. People often got that wrong.

The forest was just close by. Naturally you mistook the crunches of leaves for the usual PE class. Then they grew louder, and when you turned your head, there was-

“Ma’am? Oh!” Olivia stopped in her tracks and gasped sharply. It was a sound only an actress could make - sweet, tiny. “I’m sorry, am I-”

You waved your wrist. “Not at all,” you said. If there was anyone in the school you trusted with this secret, it was her. “It’s just smoking. I’m not committing a felony.”

She nodded. Her eyes remained doe-wide. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it time for your classes?” you asked.

It was the middle of the afternoon. She should be having English at this hour. Would they be surprised to find out that the top student was absent? The reason being . . . you?

Olivia swept her hair back. Time slowed down and made permanent the flight of her mane and the pride that stayed. “I’m cutting. I know, I’m a very bad girl.”

She was skipping classes for you. You didn’t want to assume, but was your friendship really that strong? It felt like you knew everything about her. She knew you too, like a book. She read you from cover to cover and annotated your pages. Olivia was a significant part of your life now.

“Oh, what have I done to you.” You played into it as if you were an actress as good as her. What she didn’t know was that you were enjoying it. 

Her nose wrinkled at the smell of your cigar. Still, she stepped closer, albeit cautiously. “Can I-”

“Leave?” You nodded. “Sure. Secondhand smoke’s cancerous.”

Yet if there’s anything you would hate, it would be for her to go.

Olivia shook her head. “I-I’d like to try, Ma’am.”

Your brows were furrowed. You took one look at your cigar then at the student. She was looking down shyly, her side fringes hanging from her face. It was obvious she was trying to prove something. But what else did she have to make worthy to you?

“I don’t think that would be appropriate.” 

“Please?” she said, a pout stretching on her pretty mouth.

“Princess.”

Your sharp tone didn’t hold her back. It seemed to drill her on. Olivia slipped beside you with a look in her eyes that you didn’t know if you liked. Her lashes sat low and her smile - god help me. Like that wasn’t enough, she wore a low ponytail with a few specks of hair left untied. She was too beautiful, and you weren’t strong enough to handle it.

She let a finger twist through the smoke. “It’s just smoking,” Olivia echoed. “I’m not committing a felony.”

Her character was hard to read sometimes. She could be sweet and innocent to you then switch to being a coy serpent that told you to do all the wrong things. Her breath next to your ear didn’t help your hypocritical case. The fight in you yelled to be the bigger person, to tell her it wasn’t right. It was anything but easy when she had a face that you’d die to hold.

“I don’t have more on me,” you excused. It was the truth - your pockets were empty, this was the only one you got.

“Wouldn’t mind using yours.” Olivia was almost whining at this point. The desperate look on her face was one you chased after, and you wanted to make her beg more. She sounded pretty that way. “I’m not a child, am I?”

She had a point. It wasn’t like you were giving away and teaching vices to an impressionable little girl. It didn’t feel right.

“Please, Ma’am?” 

You found yourself giving it to her - not only this, but your everything. Your future, your job, your morals.

Your main takeaway from that moment wasn’t to never do that again, or remind yourself that you could easily say no to a pretty girl (you couldn’t.) It was this: 

Olivia Hayes’s lips looked gorgeous wrapped around a cigarette.

She was made for the part. Her mouth fluttered around it while her stare was distant, piecing something together. She lowered it down and blew a ring of smoke in the air, just like in the movies. Olivia was an old Hollywood actress - a blonde bombshell; the main lead.

“It feels . . . ” She struggled for a word. “Good.”

You took the cigar away from her. “Don’t get attached,” you said. It was genuine advice. “We all know how that ends.”

She was smiling. You were too. 

She rested her head on the brick wall, facing you. Not quite - her gaze was fixated on your lips. “You look beautiful today Ma’am.”

You leaned forward. It was a dare for her to be audacious enough to prove it right. “Really now?”

The bump of her neck bobbed. You realized that your faces were too close to each other. Her lips were so full that it would take a small stumble to accidentally kiss her, to accidentally pin her to the rusty wall of this building. Those wide, princess eyes stared back at you in fear.

It was your signal to back up. This wasn’t right. No matter how beautiful she was or how close you were, flirting with a girl years younger than you wasn’t right.

Even in the silence that carried guilt, the universe didn’t take kindly to your offense. It brought about a punishment you would remember: the snap of a camera flash. 

You jolted. Who was that? 

Privy to your conversation, there was the man who asked for a library card. He was smirking. You knew and tried to avoid him because it was an open secret: he was bad news. He blackmailed, lied, used-

Ronny Kent was his name, and he was not a good person. 

There was Mika, whose reputation was solidly ruined after he leaked a picture of her. The rumors were too loud to keep secret. Then the janitor who only wanted a private moment with his partner. Ronny turned everyone inside out and it wasn’t pretty.

“Chainsmoker and a slut,” he said to Olivia, lowering the camera. “You play every game, even your friends. Gotta respect you for it.”

“Shut up,” said Olivia. Her jaw was tight. She spoke very softly that the insult bore no real bullet. “Please.”

But she meant this one. You hadn’t seen her this uncomfortable. There was real fire in her eyes but a downness in them too. This was not the first time Ronny had seized her dignity and smashed it beneath his feet. You could tell from the sudden rigidness of her body, the loss of her stability.

You couldn’t speak. He was so close to her, and you were afraid you would shove him if he came closer. Maybe you should.

“I don’t think so.” Ronny’s mouth sat next to Olivia’s ear. She cringed in spite of trying to remain nonchalant. Hot odored breath huffed on her face. “Get out of my way.” 

Olivia stared down at her socks. Nothing else existed to her. She felt cornered, afraid and humiliated. 

“Mr. Kent.” Your authoritative voice was no match to a teenage rebel. You glared at him and crossed your arms, but he took none of the signs. “It’s not your place. I’ll kindly ask-”

“When I told you to be her friend,” he said, completely ignoring you as he stroked the camera lens, “I didn’t mean to try hooking up with her. What would her boyfriend think?”

Boyfriend?

Olivia lifted her head with a short-lived defiance. “He broke up with me, Ronny.”

“Of course, because he found out she kissed me.” He was proud of it too. “She took me on a date. Ice cream and coffee.”

Olivia had just cut things loose with Donté. She never told you why. But this couldn’t be true. That wasn’t the girl you held close to your heart. Anger was clear in her face but she didn’t move. She took each word to heart as tears welled up. 

You had never seen Olivia Hayes cry before. This might be the first time.

“Everyone knows what you did to Mika,” she said, slowly and sourly. The end of her sleeve brushed at her eyelid. “You can’t hurt people anymore.”

“Oh, you don’t know that, Princess.” Ronny squeezed her shoulder. Each move he made stenched of bad luck. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Olivia was trembling so bad you had to step forward to hold her. You had to defend her and set a boundary with Ronny, who had crossed anything you could have made. To your shock, she left before you could speak up. Her shoes clicked angrily to her exit. 

And there was Ronny’s cruel smile that told you nothing good was going to come out of this.

And there was her somewhere-in-between hair: soaring in the wind, like a closing curtain.

You finished several good reads and Olivia was still not visiting you. She hadn’t been for the past three days. It was beginning to concern you. 

You watched the campus from outside of your library. It was full of rushing, bustling students, but you couldn’t spot Olivia. Your heart ached. She was a face you could spot in a crowd miles away but she wasn’t showing up in one or alone.

Was that her friend? A pretty girl with hooded eyes and an atmosphere around her that reminded you of Olivia. “Excuse me?” you asked. “Amber, right?”

She looked almost irritated to entertain you. She always wore that bored expression anyway. “Yes?”

“Have you seen Olivia? Olivia Hayes?”

“She’s probably here. Or there.” Amber lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if you see her, please tell-”

“I don’t want you looking for her,” interrupted Amber seriously. The little once-over she did told you that she knew something, and everyone did too. She wasn’t afraid to be upfront about it. “If what they say about you is true, you shouldn’t be allowed near her.”

She left without another word. That was the end of it. 

Now you knew why less and less pupils logged in. Ronny had done the job: spread the rumor, took the reins, rendered you completely of your power. 

It was your fault. If he had crossed a line, you crossed thousands with Olivia. From your thoughts to your gestures to the bond you had - none of it was supposed to happen. None of it.

You brought this upon yourself.

You didn’t want to seem suspicious by asking around. Anyone who visited your library knew you and Olivia were close. You didn’t want to ruin the girl’s reputation.

Maybe someone already did.

The days felt empty without her. No biscuits, no fun conversations, no Olivia. You missed her coquettish laugh and lean posture and thoughtful little gestures. The desk across yours was devoid of a girl who became important to you. Everytime someone entered, you hoped it was her tall and pretty self coming to check in on you. Much to your dismay, faceless pupils were the only people logging in. 

It hurt. You didn’t want to make this about you. But it hurt. 

You had to quit being selfish. She probably needed space. Space? She wasn’t your girlfriend. She couldn’t be. 

You were finishing up for the night. The screen of your computer was bright. It reflected in your tired eyes an Excel sheet. It was a record of late fees and damage compensation. Someone had missed their return date and as much as you didn’t want to charge anything, you had to. Generosity wasn’t a skill they hired you for.

Calculus. It was exam season; you expected that.

What you didn't expect was the loud banging on your door. 

“Jesus-” You flung out of your seat, clutching your chest. The clock said it was past 7 PM. Didn’t they have a watch? Elite heirs usually had watches whose prices skyrocketed past your salary. So who was it?

You ignored it, sitting back down. It wasn’t your fault they couldn’t read the rules.

The rummage of the knocks grew louder than the typing sounds. Along with the darkness and otherwise complete silence, it was beginning to terrify you. Words didn’t make sense for the first time ever. You had to tell them to cut it out.

You stood, paced to the entrance and opened the door. 

“Ma’am?”

It was Olivia. 

She was crying.

Tears streaked her face. Sniffling, she threw her arms around you. Her back rose and rested to the tempo of her sobs, an unwelcome rhythm. The redness in her eyes and the desperation in them - full of need to be comforted, to be held - you ached seeing it.

Something was wrong. You closed the door and hugged her. She was shaking like she had escaped a rainstorm. The only rainstorm here was the flood of sobs that stained her cheeks. Now they spotted your collar.

“Ma’am,” she murmured. Her lips were on your neck, vibrating her cries into your skin. Oh, if you could, you’d take that with her pain. “I thought I lost you. Ma’am-”

Olivia’s voice was broken. She said your nickname not only to call you, but almost like a reminder that you were here. She had nobody else. 

You held her tight and let her cry it out. It was alright, you told her. You were here. Your hours were done but you had and would add more if it was for her.

“I’m here. Hi Princess.”

Your Princess.

Olivia didn’t let go. She was suffocating you with her arms knotted behind you, and a mouth that muffled her pain into your shirt. The pain that bubbled in her chest killed you. but you’d die a thousand times if it were for her. 

Olivia shivered when you let go. You led her behind your desk, her safe place. She leaned against it and tried to control the tears dropping from her red eyes. But the rainstorm was inevitable. The whole day poured down on her ruthlessly.

The familiarity of everything seemed to calm her down a bit. Hands on her hips, you gently pushed her down her usual box. She didn’t sit alone. You were there for her this time.

“Hey,” you repeated. 

You wanted to call her your girl, your baby, your Princess - anything that would comfort her. You wanted to take care of her. You’d wrap a blanket around her and take her out to eat. You’d kiss her and tell her you were here. You’d say: hey little dove, you don’t have to soar all the time. You could just sit here with me.

All you could do was hold her waist and try to control the shudders. “What’s wrong?”

She whined and placed her face into her hands. “I’m sorry.”

What was she apologizing for? She did nothing wrong. She couldn’t do anything wrong. She was so frail and weak as she supported herself at the end of your table that you wrapped her in an embrace again. You knew she needed it.

“Sorry for what?” 

Her words trembled, regretful too. “He . . . he leaked the photos . . . ” Olivia stammered.

Your heart dropped. You didn’t need to ask to know what photos or who did it. Ronny’s visit was a revelation of the end. “Oh baby-”

It was one of a girl’s worst nightmares. There came a deceptive boy whose threats held bite to them, who deceived and lied and manipulated. Nothing could ever be given to them without the fear of the tables turning. 

That was why you couldn’t find her like you always did. That was why she didn’t visit. The world was against her, and she couldn’t keep her resilience anymore.

Her breaths kept tying around her neck and choking her. You kept a hand on her back so she could at least catch them. Her shaking was knives to your chest.

“I was looking for you. I thought they . . . they took you away.” The thought got to her and she looked at you with begging written all over her face. Her frowned lips uttered the words you didn’t think would hurt you this way: “Ma’am, please don’t go away, please don’t go away-”

You pulled her close. Her hair stuck to her cheek, glued with teardrops. 

“I’m not going anywhere Princess,” you told her. 

She didn’t quite believe that. Sniffling, she pushed you off.

“I lied to you Ma’am,” she laughed sourly. Her thumb soothed a teardrop at the end of her mouth as she stood up. “All this time. Did you know that?”

What was she talking about? Was Ronny right? You denied it with all your heart.

Olivia looked villainous. The rage was new. She’d contained it all these years, keeping it together, keeping pretty. But this was the end of it. 

“He’s spreading it around too so I think you know already. I’m not an heiress. Fuck, I’m not even rich. My dad’s been gone for years. My mom would rather die than go to my shit. But I thought that everyone would love me if I was just like them.”

“Olivia-”

“I’m sorry for lying to you!” She broke down again. She was the victim and the villain - crying, laughing; hurting, hitting. She was hysterical, hands together as she pleaded for your forgiveness. “You like me so much and I like you so much but you won’t trust me ever again. So I’m sorry-”

“Olivia.”

She beat her wrist on the counter in frustration. “What?” 

Her scream deafened you. The feedback ringing was so high yet it didn’t cut out her frantic crying. It couldn’t save you from the pain of hearing her tear herself down.

You took the red trunk of her wrist and held it close. She wasn’t going to hurt herself. Not when you were around. “Olivia,” you repeated, “I don’t care if you’re rich or not. I want you anyway.”

She tossed her head back, trying to keep the water in her eyes. It pooled and overflowed. Olivia couldn’t hide anything anymore.

You squeezed her forearm. “I still wait for your gifts.”

She glanced down at your touch enveloping her. Slowly, there was a realization that sank into her. 

She swallowed. “I still look if they have your favorite on the menu,” Olivia said softly.

“I still read the notes you leave.”

“I still want you to call me Princess to get through the day.”

You pulled her in. It was an unconscious decision but you didn’t regret it. Her skirt swished against your legs. You were chest to chest and stomach to stomach. No boundaries. Just her skin against your skin. Her eyes connecting with yours. 

“I still pray you never get a library card,” you confessed softly, “so you can read with me everyday.”

Olivia was silent. Her glimmering eyes pierced through your soul and saw what you didn’t need to say. Actually, she would have said something herself, had she not chosen to kiss you.

She was whimpering as she devoured your lips. She held your cheek and let the passion infect you too. It was like in these little kisses, these little touches, she found a promise that it would all be okay. 

(It would be - in all due time.)

You closed your eyes. Shock melted into passion, passion melted into the need to carry her to the edge of your table. Everything about her was perfect. You believed that until now.

It never stopped. Your fingers laced into her golden brown hair to lead her face closer. You would burn if she left you. Your mouth trailed hotly down her neck anyway. Even here, in the little space where her skin flexed and sweat, she was delicious.

You noticed her ragged breathing and stopped. Was it alright if you tore away the line that put you apart? 

You couldn’t say anything. Were you really doing this? To a student? To a girl that you adored?

Olivia’s legs were spread open. Her chin below yours, she blinked up at you. “Ma’am?”

Your thighs squirmed together. The word eternally had this meaning, this double-edged sword that killed you. “Yes?” you asked.

“Wh-What do you think of me?” Olivia asked weakly. The vulnerability in her question was painfully sweet.

You kissed down her chest and opened her blouse. Little gasps coming from her pulsing throat sounded like heaven. Her pretty bra cupped her breasts and she was just singing these tiny moans - begging you to take it off, begging you get your hand all up under her skirt; make the lines of her mouth twist with shock and pleasure; change the color of her face to red. Oh, she needed you to do a lot of things to her - you knew you wanted to do each one of those when you saw her walk in through that door.

Your tongue played with her stiff nipple. She began to move around, afraid to moan yet afraid to leave you hanging. 

“I think,” you said, before giving a final peck to the sensitive chest that came up to your mouth, “you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Pretty face, pretty soul. Eyes as big as the heart everyone thought was ice cold. Lashes as long as her patience, her understanding. The beat of her heart matching the loudness of her need to feel good, just for one night.

“Oh.” She sighed. A familiar pink settled over her cheeks. “I really like hearing that from you.”

“Want me to keep talking to you?” It was impossible how every scape of her flesh was appetizing. You licked behind her ear, where she could hear every word. “Want me to tell you how pretty my Princess is, what a good girl she is for me?”

Her thighs clamping around you was enough answer. She was nodding and nodding, the desperate little thing. She was just coming undone. The student, who was so confident and collected, sat on your desk with her uniform tor and lips swollen from kissing.

Her lips. 

You pressed a kiss to your fingertips before tracing them to her mouth. Olivia’s lips were cushiony soft. When you slipped your digits past them, she rolled her eyes back.

Your fingers were the source where she drank and drank. Small moans fought their way out of her. She was enjoying this too much. The angry heat left in her body changed to one she enjoyed. This one made her feel giddy, made the little hairs on her skin rise. And Olivia had to voice it out in tiny sighs which provoked something in you. 

It wasn’t right, but weren’t you entitled to a little sin?

You freed her mouth and instead imprisoned her chin with your hand, letting them float around her face. “You know where these are going Princess?” 

Olivia shook her head. Behind that innocent look, you had a feeling she knew. 

A path forged down to her skirt. It was unfair that the uniform fit her so perfectly. Under the blazer, the blouse, the curve of her body slanted beneath your touch. There came the hourglass line of her waist then the flare of her hips, full around your palms.

Olivia was getting an idea now. No sound needed to leave her mouth when it could all be read from her face. The puppy dog eyes, the quiver of her lips, the red of her cheeks.

“These are slipping right under this skirt,” you continued. You did as you said. Her slim thigh was held by a long, white stocking. It would stay on. “Right between your legs, through this pretty white underwear. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Oh god.” She shut her eyes. “Take it off, take it off-”

Olivia gasped sharply as you touched her. You weren’t in her - not yet. But she was already this sensitive. She squirmed around at how you cupped her core, felt how she was cleanly trimmed through the thin undershorts, how the heat was unbearable. You had to do something about it.

Not yet. You clicked your tongue, continuing to feel her. You would take your sweet time with this princess, make her feel good, make her remember this night. 

“You can’t boss me around, Sweetheart.” Sweet talk never truly left your conversations despite the scolding. Punishing a poor little girl who keened and sighed to your touches was cruel enough. It was like wielding an upside-down cross to an angel. “Play nice. What do you say when you want something?”

Olivia kept shimmying her hips into your palm. Her fingers struggled on the desk to keep her stable, and her mind struggled as well to do the same. 

“P-Please.”

“Yes?”

“Please . . . ” Olivia breathed, “please fuck me, Ma’am.”

Shit.

You wasted no time. She was true to being a princess - her panties were lace, frilled and white, a bow on the top. Perhaps it was simply you admiring Olivia like you always had, but it was making you so pent up: seeing her with her skirt lifted, the front of her blouse unbuttoned, her long legs embroiled in a fight not to close.

Olivia whined in response to your thumb caressing her clit over the fabric. The rhythm had her chest tightening while her breathing abruptly lost itself. She was done with the teasing. 

So were you.

You hooked on the sides of the fabric and gently pulled them down. And God - if her panties were pretty, her pussy was even more so. Her wetness glistened, as if telling you it would look better coating your fingers. Filling your mouth. Sheening your thigh.

You pushed first, not pulled. 

“Oh . . . oh.” Olivia lowered her head with her eyes squeezed shut. She was throbbing like crazy. She lifted her head and you could see the gratification written (no, scrawled) all over her face. “Ma’am, I- oh . . . ”

You let yourself curl inside her for a moment. The texture of her walls slid over your skin and the wetness satiated your thirst. Slowly, she took over you. And it was the same on your end - you slid yourself deeper and felt for her sensitivity. It was everywhere, taking from the whines she let out and the frown on her lips.

“Princess,” you said. ”You are so fucking tight.” 

You couldn’t even start thrusting. What if you hurt her? 

“Just clenching around me, yeah?” You caressed her nub in slow circles. “So damned wet too. Fuck-”

One hand on the small of her back, you buried yourself inside her. Her gasps were shorter and blunter as you fixed yourself inside her. The only thing that made it easier was her wetness, sticking to you and allowing faster movements.

You smoothed her hair as she threw her head back. Her collarbone stood out from beneath the fabric. You pressed your lips there with a nibble gentle enough to increase the sensitivity that set her skin on fire. As her jawline grazed your mouth, you felt her moans vibrate below it. You wondered if she knew how pretty she sounded. 

She lost everything once you sucked on that spot. Olivia sounded prettier.

“Ma’am, Ma’am, please-” Olivia thrashed around as if she were a wild animal. What if she were? And not the royal she made herself out to be? She rode your fingers with a fury that beat the angriest of hearts, but she was whimpering - lips pursed; sweet little sounds barely escaping their soft prison. No, this girl was too angelic, too fragile to be feral - but the ferocity of her hips and the grip she had on your wrist said otherwise.

Maybe it was fate that she took you so well. All the little conversations, all that twisted yearning pinned the thread right to this moment wherein you got lost immediately upon sinking inside her cunt. She was so tight, almost too tight, but her wetness let you finger her without having to be careful. You had a feeling she didn’t want you to be careful at all.

And the thing between you and this pretty girl you had literally wrapped around your fingers? The intuition was always right. 

Yes, she wanted you to nip at her beautiful shoulder so she moaned louder. Yes, she wanted you to keep a hand firm around her ass so she wouldn’t collapse against the wood. Yes, she wanted all of this - and it’s not in you to say no.

Neither was it in Olivia. The pitiable girl was tearful. Turns out it wasn’t the cigarettes that would eat away at her cleverness, the breath leaving her weak lungs - it was the pleasure. “Yes yes, oh my God, I need them, I need it, need you to ruin me-”

Her words were an invitation to add another finger, and perhaps fuck her harder on this desk. No one had to know. Not the school, not the students - it was just you and Olivia, in your own world, kissing and touching.

It was, too, an invitation you accepted.

Her chin tipped back. “M-mmm, oh!” Olivia cried. Those long lashes carried big tears that fell down her cheeks, as if she were a mystical saint, the monarch of monarchs, a girl worth worshiping. Saint Olivia Hayes, martyred by a want that blossomed in her chest for far too long. Drink from the nectar between her legs and she’d grant a miracle as good as an orgasm. “It’s just- it’s- oh-”

You thumbed at her clit fast. It was so easy to get her moaning and whining but you still felt that you had to work hard. You had to make love to her in a way that she’d forget everything. You had to drive yourself in her like you were trying to start the engine of her insanity. Oh, come on - whose approval were you trying to gain? Olivia’s? 

Plausible. Because the ache of your wrist you would trade over and over  for the shiver of her body and those big blue eyes staring at you with this subtext that said if you give it to her harder, she might just be yours. 

“More.” You felt her twitch around you, your fingers wrapped by the heavenly feel of her pussy. “Oh fuck me now, faster. I deserve it, I’ve been so good.”

“Of course you have.” You lifted her face and looked at her with the gaze of a doting teacher, almost making this moment justifiable. You were only taking care of her. This was nothing out of the ordinary, teacher and student. “You deserve everything, Princess. Oh, you don’t even have to ask for anything. I’ll give it all to you, baby, I promise.”

And this was around the time, or perhaps exactly when, Olivia melted. Her cheeks flushed and her pout ran deeper. As queen bee and campus celebrity, she carried herself as if she didn’t need anything, not even a compliment. But the need throbbed and screamed inside her. This was the true Olivia, wanting to be petted and praised and kissed. You were the one to satiate it.

You rubbed the tips of your fingers along her weak spots while thrusting quickly. The marriage of your eyes obligating her to meet them, the curl of your fingers, the thumb at her chin - it was too much. She was pushed to the edge and she could fall at any moment.

“Don’t-” Olivia shook her head. Tears ran freely. She didn’t know what she was feeling anymore. The lust was overwhelming and there were too many things she wanted you to do to her. “Fuck… oh God, please!”

Your thumb worked on her swollen clit; meanwhile, you’d spread her legs and instantly slid your tongue through her slit. It’s fucking crazy - when her flavor pooled in your mouth and you drank her freely, she tasted like a memory. You’re already missing her. She was a habit you wouldn’t think to kill off and she’d grow within you and become part of you.

And you would lose her. Just like that.

But you would never, ever, forget her.

You lapped her up. You savored her because the repercussions would catch up and you had to save every last bit of her until you could. Oh, she was screaming, loud and raw - you heard her despite her soft thighs clamping around your head. You kept them there. You wanted to stay in her forever.

“Too much,” Olivia implored, but not for you to stop. She had a fist around your scalp and another around your heart. “Ma’am please, you’re going too fast!”

This was the first time in her life she liked being overwhelmed. Her novel plot of an expression twisted and turned - (it would end like this: beautifully, yet not the way you wanted.) She pouted, she smiled in spite of, she gaped. She did everything and showed you how good you were being to her. But nothing quite prepared her for the feel of your lips tight around her clit.

Her river flowed and flowed. She arched her back and screamed for what all of it was worth. She fell in love with you and you let her dance on the tip of your tongue. You fell in love with her and she let you quench your thirst with her taste. You - two women, from two different lives - fell in love with each other, and you weren’t quite sure how to end that.

You secured her clit in your mouth and sucked as hard as you can. She burst into tears, trying and crying and swearing that she couldn’t handle more but she’d chew off more than what she can stomach, for when the orgasm bubbled in the pit of her stomach, she knew that it was going to be difficult.

“Ma’am, please, I don’t think I can handle it.” 

You were sure you were going to suffocate. The hold of her thighs around your neck was deadly. 

“No, please make me cum, it’s too much!” She sobbed and rode you harder. “I can’t I can’t I can’t, Ma’am, Mommy-”

And there it ended. With the sudden drumming of your heart you didn’t know how to do it. But it finished itself with your Princess finishing on your face, static shock running through her blood and looking quite lost in her own world. 

It happened. The expectation of it did not make it easier. Ronny’s photos reached the school authorities and the students. Every detail was out there in the spotlight. It included how you met, how you admired her from afar, how you were caught smoking suspiciously alone with her.

You were brought in and quietly dismissed. Nobody wanted attention brought to the school already gained by the murders happening. It was an unsafe place, for both your heart and soul. It was just right to leave.

You didn’t get to have a last conversation with Olivia. Afterwards, she simply sat there on the desk with her eyes closed and exhausted. Her head rested on your heart. You could still feel it now, as you sat at home, looking for another job. There was no use tearing up about it. It was wrong from the start and it was wrong now.

A few tears did end up on the black and white ink of the classifieds.

Not a day went by that you didn’t think of Olivia. How was she doing? Was your Princess coping? To be outed like that to what she saw as her world, to be named a slut and villain by her peers . . . it couldn’t be easy. You wanted to apologize to her in some sort of way. It would be to pay back all the good things she’d done for you. She was a good listener, a good student, a good girl. She deserved to be okay.

But how?

The answer came to you one day in the form of an email, from an unknown address but a familiar name:

We broke the rules. How about we and some good friends of mine break more to get even?

You in? ;)

Yours, 

Princess

[filthyloveforemesis]

With nothing much to do with my free time, I've been binging people's vomit stories and GOD the details are heavenly, my heart is racing. I've always wanted to share these stories somewhere so I'll just help myself.

I was in grade 4, waiting with my mom for bus to get home. One middle aged lady, her back turned to us, leaning against a wall was hunched. I was curious as to what she was doing, thought some bug caught her attention. Right after that I saw her stomach convulsing and after few seconds, a gush of yellow liquid came out of her. I was standing there in awe, finally realising that she's sick and is vomiting. I wonder how ill she must have been feeling and the exact cue her body gave that she knew she was going to vomit. The sexier part was, every wave was like waterfall and I used to think that if a lot comes up at once then it only takes few heaves to empty the stomach but that lady could fill the bucket with how much she vomited. The entire incident is etched in my memory as if it were yesterday. I sometimes fantasize walking up to her and rub her back, maybe feel her stomach. And oh my God, the noises of vomit climbing up. From loudest to the most silent puker, all of them are sexy ! I am always grateful to be around people who get carsick easily. That reminds me, there was another time I saw mother and son standing beside eachother puking in sync. Although I didn't get to enjoy watching the entire thing.

I surely am going to hell so I am going to confess here. I am dead scared when my mom is puking (scared that it may be indicator of some serious illness) but whenever I think back on it, I'm always turned on. And boy does she have a weak stomach ! I kind of wished I inherited her weak stomach but then again, the exact moment when the food started to crawl up my throat and there were no breaks in between the heaves and me internally pleading for it to stop because I can't stand the taste anymore, or how the chunks feel coming back up... I don't want to go through that. I sometimes forget what vomiting feels like since it's so rare for me, but puking 2 nights ago helped me reconnect (?) with the feeling ig. Now I can imagine the disgusting feeling more vividly and feel pleasure I guess.

My cousin sister has a weak stomach too, and would vomit every now and then, and boy does she make the sexiest of noises and face when she pukes (I wonder if I look like her when I puke, we look similar since our fathers look similar too ). I was physically present to witness her vomit thrice. The public bathrooms here smell horrendous, even the strongest of stomach would convulse at the smell. I have a habit of holding my breath so it wasn't a problem for me, but my sister on other hand, immediately started gagging. The first one was a trickle of vomit and the second gush was a fountain. She's vocal when she pukes, so that paired with burps when semi liquid vomit was coming up was magnificent! After she thought she was done, we started for the exit and then she stopped and said "I think I'll vomit" and right then started gagging and heading for the sink. God I wonder how much she had in store for her to vomit twice and that too in same huge amounts ! There goes twice and the third time was, she came over to our house for a sleepover. She'd continually complain about feeling nauseous and at times, slap a hand to her mouth but never gagged (but that too was sexy). Then in the evening, for a change of pace, we went out and hopped shopping malls. While we were on our way to return home, she'd constantly complain about nausea and then pause at times, placing a hand over her chest (although her big boobs got in the way). She'd swallow and stay there paused and then start moving again saying "I think I'm good".

Then who knows what took over her but she said "let's race to your house and see who's first". I won because right when she arrived near our gate, she paused again and pressed her hand on her chest (boobs really) and gagged with her mouth closed. (I wouldn't have known it was a gag if I hadn't seen her stomach convulsing). After standing like that for few seconds, she hurried towards the wall, leaned and gave the sexiest sounding gag I ever heard from her. It wasn't the typical same sounding gag but it was harmonious in the chaotic disrupted notes. And how the body caves in when stomach convulses relentlessly, she had hard time bringing anything up (she didn't eat much except sips of water due to being nauseous all day). I was there rubbing her back and holding her still as she violently heaved with only little splashes coming up. And the loud burps from the pit of her stomach every now and then was cherry on top ! If her husband is emetophile, he's the luckiest man on earth !

Oh God I remember so many more of these random instances (including mine) but I guess I'll stop indulging here and start doing something with my life. Thanks for the likes in my previous posts and also reaching out to me in dms, getting attention from same kind of people and getting to indulge in most desired way with same enthusiasm back sent me to cloud 9 😭😭💕 I'll start being active here from now on.

[sorry for my English, not a native speaker]

[quinloki]

Absolutely Not

Marco/Quill

Some angst, still trying to find Quill's voice. I think 1st person is a better fit than second.

I think the canon version of this will be a lot different, but we'll see. The thought gnawed on my brain and I had to type it out before bed.

Love is terrifying.

It hurls you toward a level of folly you could not hope to reach on your own. It removes the wisdom of centuries and crushes beneath the weight of desperation and need. It makes fools of kings, and of all the things I've conquered in my lifetimes, this emotion isn't one of them.

The words slip passed my lips before I can stop them. The fingers that clamp over my mouth are a split second too late, and there's nothing to be done for it now.

I said what I said, and I meant it.

Not that meaning it stops the heat from rushing into my face, or the my gaze from turning away from him. The world is too easy to read. A thousand years alive, and I don't need much anymore.

I try not to read people, because it leaves a gritty taste in my mouth. As though I've sunk my teeth into something I'm not meant to eat. People deserve their secrets.

If I can keep my thoughts close to my heart, then I have to extend that to others.

I can't apologize for what I said, however, because I meant it. All I can do is wait.

Even when I'm not looking into his eyes, his gaze is intense. An immovable object in the face of almost everyone else in the world, and before him I'm little more than spun sugar.

Shattered under the slightest pressure.

"Did you mean it?"

I nod, trying not to analyze the tone, the tempo of his words. I don't want to assume. I don't want to hope. I want him to say there's simply too much to be done, that there's no way for him to return such a declaration.

Something kind.

So long as he doesn't ask-

"Me? Or the version of me from that story?"

I can't stop the wrench of pain in my heart, or the tears. A thousand years isn't enough to hold against a rejection like that. But it's just a couple tears, if I don't bother wiping them away, no one will notice, lost against my hands before they can drip off my chin.

I should say "Who knows?" and wave it off. Dismiss it. How could I prove that the feelings I have toward him are from the last three months, and have nothing to do with a life that was 13 worlds and a thousand years ago?

I couldn't.

It would be better for us both if I just-

"You." I look up at him, matching his gaze despite the fresh run of tears. I can see the surprise cross his features, pain scrunching his brows together. "But I don't know how to prove it."

Thoughts and ideas race through my mind, but I can't hold onto any of them. I don't want to pick the wrong word or phrase and collapse it all before I've even gained the chance. I don't want to hurt him.

I'd rather carve out my own heart, and yes, some of that is because I don't just know him from the last three months. It's insanity, honestly. I should've kept my mouth shut, because now I've done nothing but hurt us both.

I know better. It wasn't the right time.

Maybe it never would have been.

"... So, then I suppose," I need to say I'll leave. I need to say those words, but gods it hurts just think of them.

"There's only one way, I imagine, yoi." Marco says, holding out a hand while he sits down at his desk.

I reach out without really thinking about it. It doesn't matter what he's going to do, if he decides to throw me full off the ship, then so be it.

His hand is warm, soft, and firm. The strength behind it pulls me easily, and this short body is pulled into his in a heavy embrace. His hands on my back are comforting. My brain disconnects for a full second and I don't know what to do or say.

He smells like pineapple and ocean water, wet wood and sand, or maybe that's just the ever present scent of the Moby ground into his soul at this point. It's already started to smell like home to me, and I'm terrified of that.

Maybe that's why those words came out suddenly.

Love is terrifying. It compels you to the brink of stupidity and then kicks you in the ass once it has you there. Gods have been laid to waste because of love. Kingdoms rise, fall, and are engulfed by oceans because of it.

No wise person would ever fall in love.

"I'll just have to keep you near," he hums, lips by ear, cheek nuzzled into mine.

I return the embrace, more to hide my face a little longer than for any other reason. It's bad enough he's handsome, it's worse his voice goes right down my spine and buckles my knees. I don't need those eyes to flicker with phoenix fire while that crooked grin makes me even weaker than I am now.

"Now, what was this 'fan fic' thing you were explaining to Thatch the other day?" He questions, trying to lean back to look at me before I tighten my hug.

Oh absolutely NOT.

[swanmaids]

the care and feeding of an elven high king

for @tolkienekphrasisweek day 2, culinary arts. remix of @welcomingdisaster 's a note on the pecularities... ao3 link. this is a fic about trauma-induced eating disorders.

Many in Gondolin, from the servants to the lords, will say that His Grace the king was never the same since his crossing of the treacherous Ice; that he was so changed by its horrors that he became almost a completely different man. It has become something of a cliche within our city to say that Turukano of Tirion died on the Grinding Ice, and Turgon of Beleriand was born in his place. 

As for myself, I have never seen the Blessed Realm or the long march to Beleriand, and so I can offer little insight into who His Grace may have been before he reached the shores of Vinyamar where my people joined with his host. But I have no reason to doubt the words of those who did know him then. And If I were to ask one of them: how did he change? They would probably provide me with a great list of examples. The way he speaks to his friends and his subjects and his daughter, the way he carries himself, the way he sleeps, the way he eats. 

The latter is the only example that I have any kind of authority to speak on, but I would hardly be surprised as to its accuracy. From what I have heard of the bounties of Aman, it seems truly impossible to me that anybody could be presented with the spoils of the Great Hunter, the King of the Seas and the Sisters of the Earth, and still maintain the same austere diet that His Grace tasks me with preparing these days. 

Just how austere is that diet? His Grace has almost too many rules concerning what he will not consume for one to keep up with - and he is wont to change them on a moment’s basis - but over the centuries I believe he and I have come close to an understanding. 

First and foremost, His Grace will eat no meat nor fish, and requires that all of his meals be prepared separately from any meat or fish in the royal kitchens. He claims that even the smell and sight of it turns his stomach; and I am inclined to believe this, having witnessed myself an incident in which, when seated next to Her Grace the princess Aredhel while she ate a dish of venison, his skin turned clammy and his hands visibly shook. He did not even attempt to pick up his utensils, and left the table with his own plate totally untouched. 

Regarding what may have resulted in this particular peculiarity, I want to be clear that I have no wish to comment on the rumours surrounding what may or may not have occurred among the Noldor as they fought to survive the Ice. His Grace is a fair and just king, who treats his subjects of every station well, and has suffered a great many tragedies since the Noldor fled Aman. There is nothing to be gained by spreading salacious rumours that would only harm his good name. 

Let us instead return to my original topic. Meat and fish are not the only foods that His Grace refuses to eat - he would not be so unusual here in Gondolin if they were, though his aversion is stronger than most. Instead, His Grace is greatly concerned with only consuming that which he does not consider to be “unclean”, seemingly concerned that such “impure” foods will cause his person to become unclean from within. In practice, this has resulted in an aversion to milk, eggs, butter, yoghurt and cheeses, oils, sweets, pastries, many strong-tasting roots and spices, and excessive salt. His Grace despises appearing intoxicated in front of others, and will drink only a small amount of watered wine on special occasions. Coffee, however, he consumes frequently and in great amounts. 

I will admit that it has not always been easy to cook according to such rigid restrictions, but I should like to think that over time and with hard work, I have been able to reach some workable solutions. His Grace tends to favour simple meals, typically steamed grains and vegetables such as winter squash. Nuts are often eaten, and I try to include them in as many meals as possible for the extra energy they provide. Though His Grace eschews sweets, as previously mentioned, he is able to enjoy most fruits, and a dish of pears poached in almond milk is a favourite. This is quite doable, as the soils of Tumladen provide us with a rich bounty of fruits. If nothing else, the lembas baked by Her Grace the princess Idril is of course suitable, but I try to avoid this as much as possible as His Grace is wont to become agitated over the state of the city’s lembas stores. Yes - Gondolin may well be the fairest and most wondrous of all the elven realms, and the greatest work of His Grace’s hands, but the king’s table is one place where extravagance is firmly eschewed. 

I aim too to plan meals well in advance, for His Grace is known to ask me what I have planned for him to eat in the near future, and to become visibly unhappy if I cannot answer. 

As much as I can, I endeavour to serve His Grace within his private chambers,  with his daughter and his closest lords at most as guests, as he greatly dislikes eating in front of others. However, a king must, on occasion, feast with his subjects. During such feasts, His Grace has become very adept at performing the appearance of eating for his audience, while in reality consuming little to nothing. It is likely that I am one of very few citizens who has noticed this. Still, I do my best to help His Grace on such occasions. After last years’ Tarnin Austa , I sent a kitchen maid to His Grace’s chambers with a plate of figs and walnuts, so that he would not go to bed hungry. Finally, it is worth noting that His Grace’s particular anxieties regarding food and its consumption are not fixed, and are wont to wax and wane in severity. When the Eagle came to Gondolin and told us to prepare ourselves for an assault on our enemy, this goal seemed to energise His Grace and loosen the hold of some of his anxieties - I was even able to prepare small amounts of eggs and dairy to supplement his training at arms, as long as it was hidden within porridges and broths. But during times of tragedy, His Grace is known to become even more restrictive, to the point of what seems like self-punishment. For instance, in the aftermath of the horrible killing of Her Grace his sister, he undertook a weeks-long fast that left him exhausted and skeletal, spreading rumours and fear among the whole population. In the days after his return from the Fifth Battle, it was only due to his daughter pleading with him not to fast again that His Grace did not repeat this disastrous ritual.

Please do not mistake me here, however - Her Grace the princess Idril is quite often just as difficult to cook for as her father. In fact, if I were to describe her own peculiarities, we might be here all day.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter Two

Hello, beautiful people! Chapter two’s here!

Now, to be honest, I’ve been getting in my head about this one. The first chapter got so many compliments on its slow building suspense, and this chapter is more of a meandering slice of life/case fic, so I’m not gonna lie, slightly worried it won’t go down as well. So if you enjoy it, please do come tell me and put my mind at ease! It didn’t come together easy and I have been staring at it for WAY too long - but this week I’ve been self-isolating with covid so uh. A lot of writing time opened up.

WARNINGS: Annnngst. Death, loneliness, abandonment, touch starvation, sensory deprivation, along with morbid things like burials and bodies and bones are core themes of this fic. The ending will be happy eventually but we WILL have a sad ride to get there. So please be aware of that before reading.

Thank you everyone who read/commented on chapter one, hope you enjoy this instalment! Also thank you to justafandomfollower on tumblr who offered to beta this when I was getting paranoid - I ultimately did not take you up on the offer bc by the time I felt like this was ready to have other eyes on it I just wanted to post it and get it over with but I appreciate you!!! It was such a kind offer, unfortunately I physically can not edit this thing any more than I have or I will truly go insane 💛

Chapter two is 9.7k. Chapters 3/4 coming soon (hopefully). Also on Ao3 (need to be signed in to read)

~

"So. I kinda feel like I'm gonna wish I hadn't asked," said Crystal, arms crossed and feet shuffling. "But... screw it. What's in the box?"

Charles visibly winced. He stepped into the room behind the trunk he was helping to manoeuvre through the mirror, and staggered on entry. Distracted, no doubt, by the effort of searching for a way to answer her query without causing distress. "It's, uh. Well. It's..."

Edwin, having no such compunctions about stating the facts, set down his end of the trunk with haste. "Me," he said, putting a good arm's length between himself and the awful thing. It had already begun ramping up towards another outburst in the short time the container had been closed. Edwin could feel that insistent, vexatious drone reestablishing itself. Could feel the temperature in the office drop — for him, at least. Crystal seemed unaffected. Definitely spectral, then. "I'm in there. What's left of me, at any rate."

Under different, less harrowing conditions, he might've enjoyed the look on Crystal's face. A slow, dawning transformation from confusion to slack-jawed horror. It wasn't altogether unlike the face she'd made when they'd returned from the case of the disappearing chin with their reward: a mason jar full of assorted teeth.

But the circumstances were far from jovial. Engaging in some good-natured needling of his colleague was quite far down his list of priorities. The comfort of such a ritual — and even the comfort of the sanctuary in which they now stood — lay sullied by the aura leeching from the trunk.

Edwin found himself feeling... unappreciative, of the hallowed space. Of their shared artefacts and ephemera, of the four walls that had housed their agency from its inception. It all seemed so far out of his purview, at present. There was a numbness settling upon him. Different to the ever-present sensory deprivation of the ghostly condition. Different, and worse. His usual lack of feeling was just that; a lack. An absence of heat, of touch, of smell and taste and bodily sensation. It was a simple, neutral nothing. This was a something. This was the presence of an absence. For the first time in decades, as pins and needles bloomed about his person, he was granted a physical symptom of his own lack of physicality. It was troubling. He could feel; but only just enough to be reminded that he couldn't.

His hands twitched, and he tugged his gloves off in jerky motions, finger by finger. As he did so, he tripped headlong into a battle of wills; staring down the sealed trunk with bated breath. The sound of Charles' voice as he explained and Crystal's as she quizzed, they all seemed to fade to an insignificant hum behind that wheedling drone. It was like a whisper into the ear. So quiet and yet by sheer proximity, sheer intimacy it drove all other noise to the background. Drawing his ears, his eyes, his mind to the enclosed space. Urging him to step close, to open the lid. To look, look, look at me...

"Edwin? Edwin, you listening?"

"Hm?" He had not, in fact, been listening. Abashed, he turned his attention to Charles. "Yes. That is, ah... might you repeat that?"

Charles was watching him with open concern, eyes wide and a tension in his jaw. His gaze kept darting between Edwin and the trunk as if he could see the pull between them, following it like a string. "What are we gonna do?" he asked, voice pitched low. "With... with them?"

Edwin hadn't the faintest notion.

Still, he'd insisted on not involving the police, and this was his problem in most every possible sense. So he cleared his throat, and discarded his coat and gloves on the desk. "Well. Clearly, the matter merits further investigation. We are still on a case, after all." He strode over to the bookshelf and perused its titles, fingers dancing across the spines. "The school should be safe, now that the cause has been removed from the grounds."

"Bad new for our office, though," muttered Charles.

"Okay, have I like, missed something?" Crystal cut in, throwing her hands in the air. "This doesn't make any sense! I’m sorry, Edwin, but if these... if these are your bones —" her voice dropped, briefly, into a hiss. As if the harsh truth would soften if spoken in hushed tones. "Then how can they be doing this? They can't be haunted, right? How can they be haunted, when your spirit is —?"

"Otherwise engaged? I've no idea." He riffled through the pages of a volume on hexes, finding nothing of relevance at a glance. He'd already known that would be the case, but the need for familiar motions was... acute. "It's really quite fascinating," he said, in an attempt at airy detachment. He wasn't altogether convinced he pulled it off.

"Edwin," said Charles — much closer to Edwin's ear than he'd expected in his distraction. Edwin jumped a tad, wrong-footed. He cursed the impulse at once when Charles pulled away, apology writ large across his face. "Maybe, um," Charles forged on, hands held where Edwin could see them. "Maybe you should let us handle this one, mate. You're a bit... close to the situation. Yeah?"

Edwin offered a tight, strained smile. "Thank you, Charles. But I'm quite alright. And I'll be even better when this case is closed, so we'd best hop to it. Besides, chances are strong that this holds very little relevance to me, at all. It's possible the remains have been infested or claimed by another paranormal entity. This could all be unravelled with something as simple as a counter-jinx. Now, have you that grimoire — the one we acquired in ninety seven? I think it might be in your bag."

Charles sighed, and clapped Edwin on the shoulder. "I'll have a look."

He sloped off in search, and Edwin busied himself loading books onto his arm; any that could be even tangentially related. Educational texts, diaries, even certain storybooks could point them in the right direction. It was possible they were looking into something unlike anything they'd seen before. They may need to glean insights from unorthodox sources.

He'd amassed a stack of about a baker's dozen by the time Crystal replaced Charles at his shoulder.

"Gimme some of those," she said, hands palm up and fingers flapping.

"They're very dense volumes," said Edwin, barely sparing her a glance. "Spanning several languages, many of them dead —"

"Then gimme the ones in English. We all need to work together." Her hands did not lower, and nor did her gaze; it remained fixed upon him in a brazen manner that dared him to argue. Her eyes were hard, but her voice softened somewhat when she said: "Let's wrap this one up fast, okay?"

He sighed, and accepted defeat. He begrudgingly handed her his (replica, thoroughly de-hexed) edition of The Boneturner's Tale. "Thank you," he uttered.

"This the one, Edwin?" Charles called.

Edwin glanced over and found Charles with one arm in his bag of tricks, the other holding aloft a tattered book. "That's it exactly, Charles. Flick through and find the section on malicious enchantments — bones are a common component in numerous spells. See if you find any phenomena corresponding to what we've experienced tonight."

Books in hand, Edwin picked his way across the office, nigh on hugging the wall — giving the trunk a very wide berth. "Likewise to you, Crystal," he instructed. "We're looking for any mention of cold snaps, telepathic communication, or compulsions in relation to bones or remains. We need to ascertain what we're up against and, ideally, how to stop it. I daresay we have a long night ahead of us."

Crystal groaned, sinking like a stone into the sofa. "I'm gonna need some coffee or something," she muttered, tucking her feet under herself as she opened her book.

"Maybe we can sweet talk Charlie into putting the kettle on," Charles teased.

Crystal snorted. "Yeah, great. She'd like that almost as much as you calling her Charlie."

Edwin loosened his bowtie as he claimed his desk chair. He felt constricted, all of the sudden. As if the new not-awareness was expanding into a new cognizance of the clothing on his person. He looked, disquieted, at the box; and though it simply wasn't possible, he could feel it looking back. It was certainly talking back; on and on, that never ending litany, uttered without breath or pause, a rolling patter of desperation. Look at me look at me look at me please —

He slammed the first book down, decisively, and flipped to the index. "Onwards and upwards..."

Charles picked up another book from the stack — one that made him go a touch cross-eyed upon opening — and perched on the desk at Edwin's elbow. "Don't worry, mate," he said, delivering a companionable knock to Edwin's arm with his knee. "With all three of us on the job, the Dead Boy Detectives at full force? We'll have this sussed out by morning!"

~

Two Days Later…

"How's it feel, now?" asked Crystal, pen poised over Edwin's notebook.

Edwin, with gritted teeth, wrestled his jumbled thoughts into some kind of submission. It was so hard just to think — and it got harder with every step down the corridor. "Six," he bit out, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. He could scarcely hear himself over the racket in his head. "Definitely six."

Crystal jotted it down. Edwin wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of adding her chicken scratch handwriting to his meticulous notes. But the way these tests had his own hands shaking, his writing was no better at present.

"It's getting worse," Crystal muttered, brow furrowed as she scanned the page.

"Obviously it's getting worse," he snapped. "I think we've quite thoroughly established that, Crystal."

"Oi! Leave off," Charles cut in, stern. He was wearing the same stormy expression that had followed Edwin on his slow, arduous odyssey down the hall. "She's only trying to help."

Edwin sighed, and dragged his hands down his face. Perhaps he could up and disappear into them. "Yes. Yes, I know." He risked a peek over his fingers, down at Charles. They were shoulder to shoulder, two abreast in the narrow corridor. But while Edwin was upright (just about) and forward-facing, Charles was hunkered down and reversed. A necessity while he unspooled the tape measure along the floor at the pace of Edwin's cautious feet. "Charles, how far?"

Charles checked the tape measure against the toe of Edwin's boot. "'Bout thirty feet."

"About?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, you bloody pedant! Thirty point... three."

"It's not pedantic to record our findings with accuracy," Edwin grumbled. "Write it down, Crystal. Please," he appended, with haste.

She did so — but she frowned at Edwin like he was the one being tedious and unreasonable. "Is this really the best thing we could be doing?" she asked.

"Our research has been a dead end. We need more information to build off. We need to establish rules, parameters." He straightened up from his resting position, and adjusted his rumpled waistcoat. A vain attempt, with the garment unbuttoned and hanging limp from his torso. "This haunting must have a boundary to its area of affect. At the school I didn't feel it at all until the second floor. It'll get worse, and then better when I'm out of its range."

"Or," Crystal contended. "You triggered a trap when you opened the box, and now it's not gonna let you go."

Edwin scowled. "If that proves to be the case, then I shall gladly add it to the information we hold. But logic and due process dictates we gather every available piece of evidence before leaping to conclusions. Now, if there are no more objections, let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You should take a breather, mate," said Charles, eyeing Edwin with disarming intensity. "You're looking a bit peaky."

Edwin sniffed, steepling his fingers. "We've had two fruitless days already," he said. "I'll not tolerate a third."

He took a bold stride before either could respond — and hissed through his teeth as the clamour in his head roared to the fore. It was rather like radio static, scratching upon his frayed nerves. And that was to say nothing of the cold, which was creeping back and making him regret stripping so many layers.

It was like there was a thread, pulled taut between him and the object in the office. With every step he stretched it tighter, felt the pressure more keenly. With every inch of distance, it pulled back harder — like one of Charles' rubber band slingshots. He wondered at what point it might snap him back by force.

He exhaled, and watched the phantom breath condense in the air before him. He channelled the discomfort and pain into his hands; clenching the fingers, grinding his fists.

"You alright?" asked Charles, eyes narrowed.

"Quite," Edwin rasped. A graceless recovery; and it only worsened on his next step, when he was unable to suppress a pathetic whimper.

“Sounds legit," Crystal muttered.

The thread was pulling tighter, tighter, the cry more insistent. Begging him to turn around, to come back — come and see, come and see, come and see...

"Mate..." said Charles, a note of warning in his voice.

Edwin took a breath; and then another step. And the thread drew tight, white hot and razor sharp; so sharp as to slice through his very mind like a wire through soft clay.

He gasped, his knee buckled. His ankle disappeared into the floor as he lost his concentration on the material plain.

Crystal winced. "How'd that one feel?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. "Six... and a half."

"Right," said Charles, matter-of-factly. "That's enough of that."

He hit the retract button on the tape measure, sending it spiralling back into its casing.

"Charles, really —" Edwin protested.

"No! I'm not having it!" said Charles, straightening from his crouch and taking Edwin by the shoulders. "Not gonna stand here and watch you hurt yourself for some stupid bloody experiment. C'mon." He spun Edwin around and began near-frogmarching him towards the office. "Back you go."

"Charles," Edwin snapped, struggling against the undignified manhandling. But when he really did feel measurably better with every step, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm to fight. "I survived seventy years in hell. I think I know my own limits!"

Crystal snorted, falling into step behind Charles. "Kinda sounds like the reason you don't know your limits, honestly."

"Yeah! Yeah, exactly," Charles agreed, emboldened. "You've been ripped to shreds in that place. God only knows what else you'll put yourself through. If this is a six —"

"And a half," Edwin corrected, miffed.

"If this is a six and a half," said Charles. "I don't even wanna know what a ten is."

The racket in Edwin's head subsided somewhat — and flustered ire filled the void it left behind. He brushed off Charles' hands and turned on him, quick as a whip, burning with indignation. "I do not need to be mollycoddled. Perhaps, Charles, for once, you might take a rest from your ceaseless fixation on safeguarding my feelings in order to actually solve this case!"

He regretted the words before they were even out. But his pride was wounded, and so he turned on his heel and stalked away; before he could see the matching hurt on Charles' face.

Some things, like cursed skeletons in trunks, were liable to drive a man to madness if looked at directly.

~

The office, of course, was just about the last place Edwin wanted to be. But with the invisible bond tethering him, it was the only place to which he could retreat in solitude. Almost solitude, that is. It was hard to feel truly alone, with that thing so close at hand. With the way it seemed to burrow into his consciousness, whisper its wretched pleas in his mind. Look at me look at me see me please see me —

Edwin pounced upon the bottom desk drawer — the 'stuff drawer', as Charles so descriptively dubbed it — and rummaged around. He uttered a soft 'a-ha!' of triumph when his fingers closed around a large, weathered brass padlock. Another donation from a satisfied customer. It was enchanted to open only for the person who'd closed it.

He hastened over and, with shaking hands, threaded the shackle of the padlock through the staple of the trunk. He felt the answering hum of the enchantment flaring to life as the mechanism clicked shut. Spells, at least, were tangible even to a ghost.

The pleading magnified, sharp and anguished. Then it subsided instead into a quiet hum of dismay, and a further drop in the temperature of the room.

Edwin collapsed like a de-strung puppet, sagging down upon the trunk and breathing raggedly. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, hands on his head, head practically between his knees. He sat, and breathed, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

It wasn't Charles who found him in such a state, but Crystal. A fact he was at once disappointed and relieved by. He didn't care for Crystal seeing him this way, depleted and vulnerable. But considering his last words to Charles, he had no immediate desire to be confronted by him, either.

"Edwin," Crystal greeted, in that uncharacteristically formal manner that she reserved for him alone. Usually, she applied it in jest, as a running joke. Rarely had he seen her deliver it with a face so grave.

He collected himself on a slow inhale, straightening his back. "Crystal," he answered in kind, standing and marching to his desk.

She followed. He was careful not to look at her, but her platform boots on the old wood floors telegraphed her location. "So," she said, coming to halt on the opposite side of the desk. "You ready to apologise to Charles, yet?"

Her confrontational manner rankled, made it all too tempting to deny any wrongdoing. But try as he might, he couldn't deny the evidence.

He sighed, folding into his desk chair and massaging his temples. "Soon." He risked a glance, found her looking at him not with anger, but with concern. It unsettled him. Crystal's anger, he knew what to do with. Generally they sniped back and forth until the tension broke or someone stormed off. Anger and pettiness was their shared dialect. He wasn't so well-versed in the vocabulary of her earnest worriment. "I am... sorry that you had to see that," he offered.

"I've, like, never seen you like that," she said, sitting down in the chair generally reserved for clientele. She was watching him like she was studying him, reading him. He half expected her eyes to go white as she went in for a closer look. "You guys bicker all the time, but. I've never seen you actually mad at him." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "He's pretty cut up about it."

Guilt curdled in Edwin's stomach. "Is he...?"

"He's okay. I left him bugging Jenny with his angst." She shrugged. "She kind of always knows exactly what blunt shit to say to snap you out of it."

"Ah. Yes, good. Very good."

She watched him. She had a very stubborn stare. It had served them well on occasion, usually in the acquisition of information from a tight-lipped witness.

He fidgeted, tugging at his shirtsleeve. "It was... unkind. What I said to him. Not to mention unfair. Disingenuous of me, to complain about his protective tendencies. Considering how greatly I've come to... value them."

She raised her eyebrow.

He returned the gesture. "... Depend upon them, even."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was pretty messed up, what you said to him." She leaned on the desk, arms folded. "But... I guess you're pretty messed up right now, huh?"

Edwin scowled. "That is... one way to put it."

"What's with the scratching?"

"Hm?"

"The scratching." She pointed at his hand, and he looked to find he'd abandoned his sleeve in favour of itching the wrist beneath. "That's not one of your things, your twitchy, gesture-y... things. You only started doing that when..."

Her eyes darted over her shoulder. "When you brought them in."

Edwin didn't follow her glance. He was trying not to look at the object in question any more than he had to. "I hadn't noticed."

She tilted her head as she regarded him. "You can still feel them, can't you?"

"Truthfully, I'm not altogether sure what it is I feel," he said. "Only that I am feeling considerably more than usual."

Crystal toyed with the sleeve of her ratty cardigan. "Must be super weird. Not being able to feel. I never really asked, but like... how do you even, like, ground yourself? How do you get a sense of where you are in the world?"

Edwin hummed, considering. "There is... an awareness, I suppose. Broad peripherals, so to speak. In lieu of other sensory input, one becomes quite keen of eye and ear. Sometimes that translates into the illusion of pressure from objects we know are at hand."

"Is there anything you can feel?"

"Pain," he said, bitterly. "Only from particular sources, I grant you. But yes, we're quite familiar with pain."

"That sucks."

He huffed. "It does, indeed, suck."

"There's seriously nothing else?"

He hesitated. "Well. I suppose, in a manner or speaking, we can feel ourselves."

She leaned in closer, inquisitive. Edwin didn't much care to dwell on this subject — but he did wish to encourage her scientific curiosity. She was a detective in training, after all.

With a beleaguered sigh, he propped his elbow neatly upon the desk, hand pointed to the ceiling. He folded his sleeve down, neatly, exposing his wrist. Pale skin, sparse hair, blue veins that remained only as a faded shadow of the blood that once pumped through them. With an attention-summoning flourish he lifted his other hand. Slowly, he scratched his fingernail down the length of his wrist. He felt the scraping drag of his nail edge against skin and hair — at least he could imagine he did, quite vividly.

"I theorise that it's once again a matter of awareness. Amplified, in this case. Awareness from visual input; plus that from conscious and subconscious intention and expectation; equals sensation. Or at least a convincing enough replica." He spread his fingers and swept his palms out, embellishing the point. "I know that I intend to scratch my arm; ergo, my arm is scratched."

"Just your intentions?" she asked, gaze turning from his arm to his eyes. "Not other ghosts? You guys can't feel each other?"

He gave a sad smile, dropping his hands to the table. "No. No, we're not mind readers. Without being attuned to the intention, even other ghosts may as well be far apart on the mortal plain."

"Guess I always figured you guys must feel something," she said, rubbing her arms. Despite the gloomy subject, she managed a small, teasing smile. "With the way Charles is always hanging off of you."

He smiled, ducking his head. "Well. There is something to be said for the comfort of a gesture. Wishful thinking can go a long way, in our circumstances." He watched her hands, wondering what the texture under her palms felt like. It looked like a soft cardigan, well-worn, well-loved. His own hands clenched into fists on the desk. "After decades of the same, one learns to take what one can get."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Well that's. Depressing."

"Yes, quite."

"But you're feeling stuff now. Aren't you?"

"Yes." His jaw twitched. "Unfortunately, not a pleasant experience, in this case."

"Look." She clasped her hands on the desk, leaning towards him like a co-conspirator. "I get wanting to figure this out, I really do." She lowered her voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "I know how much it royally sucks to have a voice in your head you can't shake."

Edwin flinched, guiltily. The comparison hadn't even occurred to him.

"And I'm gonna help you," she continue, eyebrow twitching like she knew what he'd just thought and was choosing to move past it. "But let's... let's take the pain experiments down a notch, okay? Because if you keep hurting yourself, Charles is gonna give me the sad puppy eyes and I can not deal."

Edwin gave a soft snort of laughter. "He is rather compelling, isn't he?" Fondness crept into his tone, unbidden.

She seemed to pick up on that unspoken thought, also, her lips pursing against a smile. "Yeah, yeah, he's adorable. So. Back to work? No more weird, fucked up self-torture shit?"

Edwin may be stubborn, but he knew when he was outvoted. He sighed. "Very well."

"Cool. let's do it." She cut off his agreement with a raised finger. "After you apologise to Charles."

He raised his eyebrow. "You're quite the canny negotiator. Have you been practising?"

"We got a deal?"

Edwin sniffed, haughtily rolling his sleeve back into place. "Well. As it happens, I was about to do that, anyway."

She smirked. "Sure you were."

~

Of course, Edwin was not currently able to make the short trip to Jenny's new establishment, where Charles was offloading his woes. He could've tried, but he imagined the wilful endangerment of himself would undermine his apology for... well, for wilful endangerment of himself. So he sent Crystal with word to Charles, and waited.

Edwin found waiting around to be a fretful exercise at the best of times. The presence of the object only made matters worse.

He paced along the breadth of the wide window, listening to the drizzling London rain. Usually, he found the sound of the droplets on the window pane calming. It was marred on this occasion by the more insistent sound in the back of his mind, buzzing for attention. The temperature in the room dropped with each lap of the window; every time he turned on his heel to retrace his steps, and refused to acknowledge the trunk in the slightest. He wanted to don a coat or jumper, but refused to give it the satisfaction.

Soon, another sound broke through the drone. Footsteps down the corridor. The door opened, and in walked Charles.

"Alright?" he greeted. He was eyeing Edwin with wariness — but, thankfully, not with distress.

Edwin let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. He'd been afraid... well. He often feared that one of these days, he'd finally exhaust the bottomless well of Charles' patience, his kindness. "Charles," he breathed, steepling his fingers to keep them from twitching at his sides. "I owe you an apology."

Charles' tense shoulders dropped, infinitesimally; like a weight had fallen from them. His entire countenance softened in turn, and he smiled at Edwin with fondness as he closed the door behind him.

"Already forgotten, mate." He said. He advanced in long, even strides across the office, sparing a vigilant glance for the trunk on his way. He rounded the desk to stand before Edwin, planting both hands upon his shoulders and addressing him directly. "You're pretty stressed out, yeah?"

Edwin exhaled on a breathy laugh. "To say the least." He looked down at Charles' hand, the thumb tracing circles on Edwin's shirt. Perhaps it was a result of his discussion with Crystal, but he was above-averagely aware of the absence of weight, of feeling. Of warmth. He swallowed, tightly, and placed his hand over Charles'. "But I should not have taken it out on you."

"No. You bloody shouldn't've." He gave a self-effacing little grin. "Lucky for you, I'm a hardy sort of bloke."

What a ridiculous boy he was. A steadfast, self-sacrificing fool, always to quick to forgive Edwin his trespasses. Affection bloomed in Edwin's chest, bright and effervescent. The cold, the noise; for an instant it all melted like ice dropped into hot tea.

Charles' grip tightened; Edwin saw him squeeze his arms."But seriously, yeah?" said Charles, sober. "No more torturing yourself for this bloody case. Else I'll have Jenny come up here, give you a right telling off. And she's proper good at it."

Edwin smiled down at his feet. "Well, then. I suppose I have no choice."

"Too right."

Charles hesitated, gaze raking Edwin's face, taking him in from his eyes to his lips. Edwin cocked his head, questioning; if only to mask how tender and raw he felt under the close, gentle scrutiny.

Wordlessly, Charles pulled him close. He wrapped his arms tight around Edwin's shoulders in a fierce embrace; slotting them together like two puzzle pieces.

"Thank you," he mumbled into Edwin's neck.

Edwin's breath hitched, as it so often did when Charles held him so. No matter how common the occurrence, or how absent the physical sensation. The very gesture was bound to leave him gently thunderstruck nonetheless.

He returned it in his usual manner; with the stiff, cautious awkwardness of inexperience. Grateful, in some small, bitter way, that Charles couldn't possibly feel it. Couldn't bear witness to his bungling attempts at expressing affection.

Though he'd accept that humiliation. He'd take it with gratitude. If only for the chance to feel the soft gust of Charles' breath against his throat; to know the warm weight of him in his arms.

Soon, far too soon, Charles sniffed and pulled back. His hands never left Edwin's shoulders as he regarded him with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. A small, mischievous smile tugged his lips. "So," he said. "Back to the books, then?"

Edwin sighed. "Too the books," he agreed, without enthusiasm.

Charles chuckled. "How's this for a role reversal, eh?"

~

One Day Later…

Despite the obstructions of Charles and his mother-henning, they had made some progress in their studies. Edwin's notes on the object and its effects read thus:

Physical properties of the object (as observed by Charles): Faint, blue glow. Slight visible movement — agitation, vibration. No visible runes or enchantments. All bones assumed to be present and correct — Charles unwilling to 'rummage'.

Sense of cold: spectral only, no material plain adjustment. Affects Charles, not Crystal. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

Phantom sensations: a slight grounding effect, connection to material plain. Irritation, itches, pins and needles. Affects neither Crystal nor Charles. Intensifies in close proximity.

Whispering/speech: inaudible to Charles, Crystal. Sometimes unintelligible. Notable phrases: look at me, see me, don't leave me. Other sounds include a slight rattling, at times increasing in frequency to a buzz. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

It was hardly a treasure trove of information to work from, and he did manage to persuade Charles that further experimentation was needed. But he was under quite strict orders to withdraw should the pain top a four on his 'bloody mental' pain scale. A promise he kept to the letter.

Headaches, as it happened, were quite possible to achieve at a three or lower.

"I'm a ghost," Edwin complained, from his repose on the sofa. "I cannot get headaches."

"Well, then you're a scientific marvel, aren't you?" said Charles, patting his shoulder. He was perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at Edwin with pity. "Looks like you can get 'em just fine, mate. What you can't get is any paracetamol." He winced. "Bit rough, that."

Edwin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I miss hemp."

"You what?"

"Indian hemp — you've never tried it? My nanny used to give me a pinch when I was feeling out of sorts," said Edwin, nostalgic. "Always used to perk me up."

Charles laughed. "Fuck me. You telling me you was toddling round, stoned off your tits at, what, six?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — wishing he hadn't when the motion exacerbated the pain in his skull. "I hardly overindulged."

"Perish the thought," teased Charles, in his tiresome facsimile of Edwin's cadence.

Edwin swatted at his arm, half-heartedly. Charles dodged it with laughter and ease, standing up and cracking his knuckles.

"Now, I can't offer you any drugs, but," said Charles, circling round to the end of the sofa. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together briskly. "I can do this."

Edwin frowned. "What are you doing?"

Charles, now standing behind Edwin's head, leaned over it to grin down at him and wiggle his fingers. "My mum used to do this," he said. "Head massage. You'll like it."

Edwin regarded him, unimpressed. "Charles, I cannot feel."

"C'mon — give it a go!"

He remained unconvinced. But, as he'd told Crystal only yesterday, a comforting gesture wasn't to be sniffed at. "Very well," he said. "Carry on."

"Brills. Here we go, then!"

Charles, showed Edwin his hands and made sure he was watching them. Then he pulled them back to just above Edwin's eyebrows and, presumably, began to rub the skin there. Edwin couldn't have said for sure that's what was happening, of course. Charles could be drawing lewd images on his forehead, for all he knew. But the look of concentration was there on Charles' face and so perhaps, if Edwin closed his eyes and used his imagination, he could fill in the gaps. He could imagine the motions of Charles' confident fingers. Picture them against his own skin, carefully working out the tension stroke by stroke.

Charles always seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands. How to swing a bat, how to catch a ball, how to hold Edwin together. Even when he demonstrably did not know what he was doing at all, his moments of utmost impulsivity. Even then, he committed to the act with such decisiveness, such single-minded intent. It boggled Edwin's mind to think that he could have such confidence of bearing, and yet such limited material impact on the world. Charles Rowland's hands could have shaped the universe, were they as substantial in matter as they were in resolve. He'd already managed miracles with nought but air and ectoplasm.

Edwin’s belief, it seemed, was well-founded. Despite his misgivings, he did feel the ache receding. He sighed. Even such a minor relief, after days of such heightened pressure, had him all but melting under Charles' hands. He indulged in a slow, languid stretch of his body, his back arching off the sofa as a soft groan escape him.

"Alright down there?"

Charles sounded ever so slightly out of breath. Edwin smiled. Trust him to put all his effort and then some into a gesture that Edwin couldn't even fully appreciate. "Yes. That's wonderful, Charles." His eyes fluttered open and he craned his head back against the armrest, catching Charles' eye. "Thank you."

He was surprised to find Charles looking even more breathless than he sounded. His mouth hung slightly open, and his hooded eyes appeared to be a touch glazed.

Charles blinked back into startled clarity when he felt Edwin's eyes upon him, and snapped his mouth shut. He pulled his hands away to give Edwin a brusque, chummy pat on the shoulders.

"Anytime, mate," he mumbled. "Anytime."

~

Three More Days Later…

The case dragged on in its plodding, unsatisfactory manner. Edwin felt himself clinging to his composure by the skin of his teeth. He was a raw, frazzled nerve, stripped to his shirtsleeves and the barest trappings of dignity. For nearly a week he'd been enduring this ceaseless psychic bombardment with precious little to show for it, and his patience had worn thin.

So when Crystal barrelled into the room, slamming the door against the wall in her haste, he nearly bit her head off.

"Do you mind?" Edwin exclaimed, smacking his hand down on the desk and sending a small ream of papers flying.

Over on the sofa, Charles snorted into alertness. Though he couldn't doze off, he'd been staring at the same page in his book for so long that he appeared to have drifted into a semi-conscious state. Edwin hadn't had the heart to rouse him — they were hardly making progress either way.

"We're idiots," was Crystal's response to Edwin's rhetorical outburst. She looked about as stretched thin as Edwin felt; hair pulled back into a tangled, frizzy knot atop her head, shadows under her eyes. She'd been wearing the same scruffy jeans and faded t-shirt for at least forty-eight hours. She planted both hands on the desk and leaned in close, staring Edwin down. "The mirror."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The mirror." She threw her hands up. "We never tried the mirror!"

"Never tried what with the mirror?" asked Charles, groggy, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face.

"We never tried sending Edwin through it," she explained, slowly, as if they were small children. "All that time we spent fucking around, trying to see how far he could walk away — did any of us ever fucking stop and think if he could teleport away?"

Silence. Deafening silence. Edwin and Charles shared a look.

"Bloody hell," Charles muttered. "Maybe we are stupid."

Edwin didn't reply. He had more pressing matters to attend to; he near vaulted the desk in his haste to get around it.

He marched with single-minded purpose towards the large mirror they'd yet to relegate back to storage. If it meant passing closer to the trunk than he had in days, he paid it no mind. Though the object in question noticed, and he felt its psychic fingers clawing at his ankles as he passed. Its whispers followed him like a curse; don't don't don't —

"Woah — alright, mate, let's take it easy, yeah?" Charles rushed out, springing up from the sofa and darting to Edwin's side. His hand circled Edwin's wrist, a comfort and a restraint all in one. "Think it through — you know what happens when you don't look before you leap, yeah?"

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, hands clenching into fists. Charles was right, of course. But with potential freedom so close at hand he scarcely wished to admit it. "I need a location," he said. "A target."

"Jenny's shop," Crystal quickly suggested, coming to stand at his other shoulder. "It's safe, and she knows you guys. It's only her working there today."

"Perfect." Edwin held his hand out to the mirror and visualised Jenny's new London workplace. And very old butcher's shop, established not long after Edwin's time. Owned in the modern era by the founder's great, great grandaughter, and her charming civil partner. Despite the transatlantic culture shock, Jenny had rather fallen among thieves. In his mind's eye, Edwin pictured the rustic mirror on the wall, nailed to sturdy old brickwork. Mounted between taxidermy animal heads and antique butchery implements. "I have it," he said, and opened his eyes to find that answering ripple on the mirror's surface.

Charles' grip tightened when Edwin tried to take a step. "You sure about this?" he asked. "You said that mirror hop right before you found 'em felt off..."

That was true enough. But an unpleasant experience was well worth the modicum of freedom it might afford him. "I'll be quite alright, Charles. We know that I can still go through mirrors, it’s how we got the box here, after all. It’s a question of whether it will let me go without it," he said, breaking Charles' hold on his wrist to take him by the hand instead. "But I must try."

Charles' eyes were wide with worry, but he nodded. Though his fretting over Edwin won above all else, this case had been arduous on him, as well. They all needed a breakthrough. "Alright," he said. "But give us a second."

Edwin watched, bemused, as Charles dashed for his bag and rummaged inside. He resurfaced with a large coil of rope. Charles was a blur of frenetic motion as he fastened it in a sturdy sailor's knot around the leg of the desk (he’d picked up some useful skills during the case of the drowned diver).

"Hold this, yeah, Crystal?" said Charles, dumping the slack length of remaining rope into her arms.

"Smart," she said — though a confused frown followed. "Wait, me hold it? What are you doing?"

"Going with him. You feel two tugs, drag us out, yeah?"

"Charles," said Edwin. "I've mirror hopped a thousand times. There's no need for you to —"

"What's the matter?" said Charles, rejoining Edwin and tying the rope around his waist. Despite the nervous tension suffusing him from head to toe, he still found the wherewithal to give a cheeky grin. "Can't wait to get rid of me?"

Edwin's heart, if the spectre of such a thing still existed within him, skipped a beat. "Quite the opposite," he said, gesturing for Charles to hand him the remaining slack when he was finished. "But someone has to spare a thought for your safety — and I think we all know it won't be you."

"In't that what I've been telling you?" Charles teased, lifting his arms for Edwin to loop the rope around him.

Edwin rolled his eyes, and secured the lifeline with a sharp tug. "Evidently, we're a terrible influence on one another."

"Guys," Crystal interjected.

They both whipped their heads round to look at her.

"I have been awake," she said, slow and just a touch dangerous. "For fifty two hours."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Quite right. Time is of the essence." He met Charles' eyes. "Are you ready?"

Charles nodded, slipping his hand into Edwin's once more; a more tangible tether than any rope or chain. "Ready."

"Good luck," said Crystal, bracing her hands on the rope and her feet on the floor. "Don't die. Again."

"Reckon we've been here before," Charles joked. "You tryna make that a running gag?"

She grimaced. "Well, maybe if you two quit risking your afterlives so much, I'd have to say it less."

"Yeah, alright, fair cop." Charles squeezed Edwin's hand. "On three, then?"

Despite his trepidation, Edwin smiled. "We've been here before, too," he said. "Yes. On three. One..."

Charles gripped him tight and pressed up against him, shoulder to incorporeal shoulder. "Two..."

The whispering filled Edwin's skull, dense and cloying. Don't leave don't leave don't —

He looked once more to Charles' face; it was all the courage he required.

"Three!"

~

The space behind the mirror welcomed them, as it had welcomed Edwin back at St. Hilarion's. That is to say, it did not welcome them in the slightest. A journey which should have taken an instant seemed to stretch behind and before them, ad infinitum; thick as syrup, fast as a locomotive. They tumbled headlong through the roiling vortex of here, there and everywhere. Had they the ability to bruise, Edwin was sure their snapping lifeline would have whipped welts across their ankles. He fell endlessly, uncontrollably.

But it was a significant improvement on the last time. Now, at least, he had Charles to fall alongside. His one constant companion besides that damnable whispering — though as they fell it grew fainter, fainter, fainter...

Then they were through to the other side, expelled once more into the world they knew — collapsing together in an ungainly pile of limbs. And Edwin gasped, violently, as that thread which tethered him to the voice snapped behind him.

"Ugh, fuck, I'm gonna be sick," Charles groaned. It was an empty threat; he was by Edwin's side in moments, clear-voiced and intent. "Edwin?" His warm brown eyes swam into view. His hand — the one not currently tangled in Edwin's fingers — cupped Edwin's face. "Edwin, you alright?"

Edwin laughed, breathless and elated, his hand covering Charles'. "It stopped," he breathed. "Charles, it stopped, I can't hear it!"

Charles' grin could've lit the night. "Yes, Edwin!" he crowed, bumping their foreheads together. "You did it, mate — you're out!"

Edwin felt boundless, in that moment. Unrestrained. Unashamed of holding Charles close and sharing his laughter, sharing his breath. For the first time in what felt like a small lifetime, it was all gone. The cold, the itch, the whispers and pleas. All of it lay somewhere else, out of sight and mind, and for a moment he could simply be. Be with his best friend, the love of his life, with his smile and his laughter; no distractions, no compulsions. So surrounded by Charles and nothing but Charles that he could almost imagine how his fingers felt upon his face. How his laughter felt upon his lips...

"What. The fuck?"

And just like that, the moment shattered.

They both startled, landing soundly on their backsides on the butcher shop floor. They looked up to find Jenny staring at them, bug-eyed and incredulous, from behind the meat counter.

"Um. Hullo, Jenny," Charles greeted her, with a sheepish grin. He threw in a wave for good measure — forgetting that his right hand was currently engaged in holding Edwin's. Edwin had never been an unwilling participant in someone else's wave before. He rather hoped he never would be again.

"Miss Green," Edwin added, fumbling to extract himself from the wave. He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off. Now that his head wasn't full of ceaseless psychic badgering, he had the presence of mind to feel self-conscious about his shabby state of... un-dress. He should have put his waistcoat back on, at the very least. Here he was, standing before a lady in a public establishment, and he was bordering on the semi-classical. "Our apologies for, ah. Barging in."

"Yeah, sorry. Should've knocked!" said Charles.

"Yes. Quite."

Jenny narrowed her eyes, staring at the rope that had them quite literally joined at the hip. She gestured between the two of them with her cleaver. "So. I guess you two made up."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, all water under the bridge."

"Yeah, yeah, all sorted," Charles agreed.

She gave Edwin a look, then turned to Charles and raised a razor-sharp eyebrow. "He stop being a dick?"

"Yeah, he did," said Charles, grinning, as he cut off Edwin's indignant protest with an arm around his shoulder. "Can't stay mad at me for long, can he?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — his smile, alas, was irrepressible.

"Great! Happy for you!" Her tone was dry, her smile tight-lipped. "Never jump out of my mirror while I'm holding a fucking meat cleaver again."

She punctuated her edict with a sharp, decisive swing; severing the pork joint on her chopping block with an executioner's resolve.

Edwin grimaced, and adjusted his bedraggled collar. "Duly noted."

Charles opened his mouth, no doubt to come out with another cheeky rejoinder. He was interrupted, however, by the tightening of the rope, forcing both he and Edwin to lurch back a step. They both looked down in alarm at the slack trailing into the mirror as it went taut, repeatedly. An insistent tug, urging them to follow.

"Oh," said Edwin, weakly. "I can't imagine that bodes well."

There was no time to dwell on the implications. In seconds Charles' hands were at Edwin's waist, attacking the knotted rope. "Charles, what are you doing?" Edwin enquired.

"You stay here for a bit, yeah?" said Charles — followed by a muttered curse as he was foiled by his own stellar rope-tying technique. "Take a breather — I'll go back, check on Crystal."

"You kids do know this isn't a clubhouse?" came Jenny's weary interjection.

Edwin gathered his courage, and stilled Charles' hands. "No," he said. "Thank you, Charles. But if there's a problem with... with the case, well. I should be present to handle it."

"You've been handling it for days, mate," said Charles; levelling him with his infamous 'sad puppy eyes'.

To paraphrase Crystal, Edwin could not deal. But, bravely, he held his ground nonetheless. Even forced a small smile. "I've handled worse for seventy years," he said.

Charles scowled. "Yeah, that's not gonna make me —"

"Spit-spot, now, Charles," said Edwin primly, seizing Charles' hand and about-turning to the mirror. "We've been summoned."

"Edwin —!"

But his argument, like Jenny's final bewildered comments, were lost to the currents of the in-between as they slipped once more into the vortex.

~

Yet again, another unpleasant journey through the mirror. Unfortunately, Edwin was growing rather used to it.

What he was not prepared for was what awaited them on the other side.

"Oh, fuck," said Charles — though it was barely coherent as a swear past the chatter of his teeth.

Edwin agreed, whole-heartedly. Though truth be told, he could barely hear Charles over the sudden and vicious return of the cries in his head. He pressed his palms to his ears — though it was futile with the noise seeming to ring out from within himself — and took in the awful scene.

The office that awaited them was barely recognisable as the one they’d left. In part due to the mess of toppled furniture, scattered books and broken memorabilia that littered the place, as if a hurricane had torn through the building during their short absence.

But mostly, due to the snow.

Edwin stared, aghast, at the dense white blanket that now lay across anything and everything. Flakes drifted through the air, but at far too sedate a pace for this kind of coverage. To have cloaked every surface so thickly and thoroughly suggested a veritable blizzard had beset the room behind them. And standing in the middle of it all was Crystal. Untouched, it seemed, by the snow, which must be spectral in nature — but not unaffected. She was shivering, visibly, and her breath escaped in soft puffs of glistening vapour.

"About t-t-time," she bit out, with difficulty. She abandoned the rope in favour of rubbing her upper arms through the meagre defence of her threadbare cardigan.

"Crystal!" Charles bolted to her, hands joining hers, for all the good it would do her. "What the b-loody hell happened?"

"Soon as you guys w-went, it just —" she mimed an explosion, puffing air from her cheeks. "Everything starting s-shaking, and snowing, and — and then this French chick just like, b-burst outta the wall and started yelling —"

"That’s just our landlady," said Charles. "She’s harmless."

"Yes. She’s not even French," said Edwin, turning a slow circle, regarding the chaos with dismay. "If Madame Seine felt the disturbance, then it must have fanned out beyond this room. Quite far beyond — she tends to haunt the attic…"

"I can feel it," said Crystal, shoving her hands under her armpits in an attempt to warm them. "Not — not as bad as it looks, I guess, or I’d be freezing, but I can feel it. I haven’t felt it before."

"It must be getting stronger," Edwin muttered. "Reaching beyond the spectral and out to your psychic awareness." He turned on them. "Can either of you hear it, now?"

"Like a whisper," said Charles, shaking his head as if dislodging water from his ears. "Or a — a buzzing? I dunno." Crystal nodded her agreement.

Edwin’s jaw clenched. "Right. Definitely stronger, then." He closed his eyes. "It is… considerably louder than a whisper, for me."

DON’T LEAVE ME DON’T LEAVE ME LOOK AT ME SEE ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME

"That is enough!"

Charles and Crystal both jumped. Edwin could hardly blame them — it was a sudden outburst, and one he wasn’t proud of. But he could scarcely think with that miserable clamour. He felt browbeaten, harried — hounded mercilessly even in the safety of his own mind. He’d put it off for too long.

He turned, slowly, and he looked at the trunk.

Immediately upon doing so, the air changed. The last of the snow ceased to fall and a chorus of slow drips took its place, as that which had settled begun to melt. The cold did not lift entirely, but it did somewhat. The voice did not cease or quiet, but it did soften in tone — from cries of anguish to cajoling, coercive murmurs. Like it knew it had his attention; like it wanted him to close the distance.

Nothing else for it.

"Edwin," said Charles. "You sure about this?"

"Not in the slightest," he said, as he hunkered down beside the trunk. His fingers closed around the enchanted padlock; it warmed under his touch and clicked open obediently. "But we’re running out of options."

Before he could even slip the padlock free, Charles was at his side — and Crystal followed suit. Their hands joined his upon the lid of the trunk; their eyes found his in silent question.

He exhaled, slowly. "Just a quick peek," he promised them. Promised himself. "Just to… mollify it."

Crystal gave him a look he didn’t much care to interpret. He had no doubt she’d confront him with whatever thought she’d just had, soon enough. For now, they had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Just a look," Charles agreed — though he was focusing far more intently on Edwin’s face than on the box. "See what’s what."

"Yes," he breathed. "What’s what…"

They shared a look — Charles to Edwin, Edwin to Crystal, back again — and slowly, as one, lifted the lid.

The first thing that came into view was the glow. Blue, and cold, and rippling over the surface of the grim contents like a sheen. Underneath, as Edwin’s eyes adjusted, shapes began to consolidate. A queasiness overtook him as, unbidden, the scientific names he'd learned presented themselves like annotations in a textbook. Annotating the withered remains of his own pitiful skeleton.

A cold droplet landed upon his cheek. He startled. Sensation was uncommon — sensations of damp even moreso. He glanced up to find that the snow upon the ceiling light was melting, a steady drip drip drip that happened to align with him. Carving his face like falling tears.

"It’s doing somethin’," Charles muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Warming up in here…"

"I can’t hear it anymore," said Crystal. "Can you guys?"

Charles shook his head. "No. Edwin?"

He nodded. "It’s faint." He frowned. "I think… I think it’s saying something else, now…"

…ay wi… me…

"What’s it saying?" asked Crystal.

"I… I’m not altogether sure. It’s so quiet." He cocked his head. "It sounds scared."

"He," said Crystal.

Edwin stared at her. "What?"

She raised her brows and looked between him and the miserable pile of bones. "He sounds scared," she said, gentle. "Edwin, it’s you."

He bristled. "We don’t know that for —"

"Fuck's sake, Edwin," said Charles. "What else d’you need? It’s in your bones, it talks to you, it went bonkers when you left. What else could we be dealing with here?"

"Any number of things!" he said. "Anything could have… imprinted on my remains. A parasite, a demon, some kind of carrion feeder — perhaps even an infestation of dandelion sprites, it’s certainly attention-seeking enough —"

"They only go for living hosts, Edwin, you bloody know that," said Charles.

"There’s no it, Edwin," Crystal pressed. "There’s no ‘the case’, ‘the object’, it’s — it’s you. We all know that, we’ve known that since the start."

"And I don’t think pretending not to know is helping us any," Charles added.

Edwin opened his mouth to argue — but there were no words left. No more logic that could save him.

Charles watched him, and took his hand. "Edwin," he said. "What’s he saying to you?"

Edwin looked at the bones. At his bones. Met his gaze, eye to empty eye socket.

Sta… ith me…

He exhaled a hoarse, rattling breath.

"He…" Edwin swallowed. "He wishes for me… to stay with him."

"Just you?" asked Crystal.

He shook his head. "I… cannot say."

"Right." Charles gave a short, sharp nod, and pushed the lid back, until it swung open enough to stay upright on its own. "Let’s have a sit down for a bit then, eh?"

"Good idea," said Crystal. She sounded weary beyond her years; aged by the psychic onslaught. "Let’s all just… sit. Fuck, I’m fucking tired…"

"Edwin? Turn around, yeah? C’mon."

Edwin allowed himself to be guided by Charles’ hand on his back, Crystal’s on his elbow. Allowed himself to be propped, his back against the trunk, his knees tucked to his chest. Allowed his head to be pulled to Charles’ shoulder, and laid to rest there.

"This alright?" asked Charles. "I mean, is it — is he happy, with you not looking at 'im?"

Edwin nodded. He had very little energy to expend with the motion. "Yes. Yes, for now it — he seems to be… content."

"Good. That’s good." Charles exhaled, a slow, overwrought thing. Edwin could see a stray strand of his own hair lift and fall in the slight gust from Charles’ breath — his hair had fallen into some disarray, of late. Shameful, really. "Let’s all just… just take a second, yeah?"

Edwin had no strength left to argue. He closed his eyes, tucking his head closer into Charles’ collarbone. Wishing he could feel the rise of his chest, his soft exhalations in his hair. But even a shadow of an embrace was better than nothing. Charles didn’t need a physical presence to be Edwin’s anchor in this world. On his other side, Crystal settled herself, arm tucked through Edwin’s, an ankle flung across his, and for just now he didn’t care to shy away. Her breathing slowed. She muttered something that sounded like 'wake me when the next ice age hits'.

It was almost… peaceful. Here on the floor. No words, no actions, all tumbled together with scandalous disregard for propriety. Edwin hadn't had the ability or the desire to sleep in decades, but were that not the case, he thought he could have here. With Charles his pillow, and Crystal his blanket. He wished he could sleep. Just for a few stolen hours, a brief escape from his own mind and the thoughts lurking there. The theories turning over, and over. No, not theories. Nothing so useful as a theory. A theory would imply that he had any information to form the building blocks of a solution; and he was as tragically, hopelessly lost at sea as he had been days ago. Not theories. Something far more ominous.

Implications.

“Charles,” he said, softly.

“Yeah, mate?”

“How long…” Edwin licked his lips. His mouth felt dry, chapped. He felt uncomfortably, uncommonly real at that moment; so close to his bones they could have merged back into one being. “How long will I have to stay with him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “In order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

And will it be less than forever?

Charles, slow and steady, wrapped an arm around Edwin’s shoulder.

“We'll sort it,” he said, low, unwavering. "I promise, Edwin, we'll sort it."

Edwin released a ragged breath into Charles' shoulder. He watched the spectral thaw seep sluggishly into their shoes.

"D'you believe me?" asked Charles, voice tender, flayed open; like he couldn't bear it if the answer was no.

Edwin took one of Charles' hands in both of his, and clutched it like a talisman.

"I believe you."

~~

Yaaaaay pain!!!!! Hope you liked! I love love LOVE all your comments and seeing you so engaged in the story has genuinely been so incredible and if you keep it up I will be a very happy boy and you will get me through my last days of covid isolation! (I have been stuck in one room for 5 days so far to keep distance from my folks, it’s bad guys, luckily my room is very pretty but I pretty much wrote Edwin’s mental breakdown from first-hand experience lmao) Commentary! Yes, Boneturner’s Tale is a TMA reference. No, Edwin did not hand his friend an actual dangerous evil book. It’s like a cheap and nasty paperback replica or something lmao. Hex or no hex, she’s not gonna enjoy reading it much :/ Honestly, writing Edwin and Charles falling out physically hurt. It didn’t last long in part bc my heart couldn’t take it dkjsfbdsnfagdgf Try as I might this fic keeps turning into Charles-and-Edwin, so there’s still not as much Crystal screentime as she deserves, but I truly enjoyed writing her heart-to-heart with Edwin! I love the ways they’re different and the same and I love it when they’re bitches who care for each other 💛 I am NEVER getting this complex about ghost touch again. For all future fics unless stated otherwise just assume ghosts can’t feel humans/the world but can feel each other to some extent, I’m making myself so sad writing Edwin and Charles in a universe where they’re utterly lost in space! It’ll be worth it in the very end I promise xD Yes I fully ground the fic plot to a halt for tender hugs and horny head massage. My house my rules. Yes, Indian hemp was indeed a headache remedy! I was sort of hoping I could google ‘Edwardian headache remedies’ and found out they used, like, cocaine, so I could have Edwin sigh and say ‘I miss cocaine’, but alas, we take what we can get. Pray for my girl Crystal, she works with these gay losers who flirt nonstop and Do Not Realise they are married. She’s getting so many premature grey hairs. Semi-classical = semi-nude. Been reading up on some Edwardian slang lmao. Don’t expect Jenny to come back in this fic but it was so nice to say hello to her! I don’t know what the deal is with the office - like, if the boys leave money for an actual human landlord who doesn’t ask questions or what - but my personal headcanon is that it’s an empty building that no one can sell or do anything with due to persistent hauntings, and it’s haunted by a friendly former brothel madame who once ran her business out of there. The boys first case they solved together was hers, and she adores them, thinks they’re lovely boys, and she lets them have the office and is basically their eccentric pretending-to-be-French Mrs Hudson counterpart. I don’t know why this is my headcanon except that I find it fun and whimsical and I think Madame Seine and the Night Nurse would be a hilarious MILF double act. Maybe I will write fic about her one day. I know this is a bit of an odd one, story progression wise. I hope no one feels put out by the fact that the story hasn’t exactly progressed much - but as I was drafting the rest of the fic I sort of realised that I wanted, amongst other aspects of Edwin’s journey, for him to have some denial to overcome. Which, in my classic carried-away way, became basically an entire chapter of obfuscating rounded off with a cold splash of reality. He needed to find that connection to the bones and accept it before they can get to the next stage of figuring out how to make them happy and end the haunting. Fun Fact! When writing the very last scene/conversation, the Power of Love by Frankie Goes To Hollywood came on shuffle. This would have been posted an hour earlier but I need to wail into my pillow in anguish. Anyway, that’s it for now! No idea when the next chapter’s up - I think it’ll be easier to write than this one but I’ve also sunk waaaay too much time into this one this week, so I should take a break for the sake of my hands and my other projects! It WILL be up though, probs in a few weeks. Until next time! 💛

[mscresta]

Annie and reader headcannons👀

Annie x reader // life head-cannons!

Cw: panic attacks, marriage, mention of kids, alcohol, death.

——————

- First Date: Annie would be very nervous to ask you out, assuming you’ve both been friends for quite a while. But when she finally gets the nerve to ask you, it’s a beach date. She would bring all types of food, including mini sandwiches, fruit, water, and wine. (She secretly pours herself grape juice instead of alcohol so she can look cool, even though she hates alcohol.) On the date, she’d probably be shy at first, but once the two of you are comfortable, she’d open up with a quiet, warm smile and maybe even share stories of her childhood by the sea. The waves crashing in the background would help her relax, and you’d see a different side of her: vulnerable but full of hope.

- asking you too be her’s: Annie, a total hopeless romantic, plans the perfect moment to ask you to be hers at your special beach spot, the place that holds so many memories for both of you. She’s been thinking about it for days, crafting a necklace with a seashell she found on one of your walks, symbolizing the connection you share with the ocean and with each other. Along with the necklace, she writes you a heartfelt note, filled with the kind of soft, sincere words that she finds hard to say aloud—words like “I’ve never felt more at peace than when I’m with you, and I hope we can be something more.” To make the moment even more special, she secretly collects a few small things she knows you love—maybe your favorite candy, a book you mentioned, or something that reminds her of you—hoping it will show you just how much she listens and cares. As she hands you the necklace, her fingers tremble with both excitement and nervousness, and with a soft, almost shy voice, she asks, “Will you be mine?” The quiet sound of the waves in the background only adds to the moment, and though Annie is nervous and unsure of how you’ll respond, her heart is full of hope as she waits for your answer, knowing this moment is one she’ll never forget.

- physical touch: I personally think Annie is a bit shy. Especially after the games with physical touches. But once she warms up too you, she clings onto you from behind when your cooking, she loves too lay her head in your lap so you will play with her hair.

- comfort: If you have a nightmare, Annie, deeply understanding the fear and anxiety that comes with them, will quietly check in with you, softly asking if you’re okay with her touching you. If you say yes, she will gently wrap her arms around you, her touch calming as she traces up and down your arms, giving you the space to collect your thoughts until you’re ready to talk about it. If you say no, she completely respects your boundaries and will comfort you without physical touch, using soothing words and guiding you through the 5 senses method, helping you focus on what you can see, hear, smell, taste, and feel to ground you back to the present. Annie is patient, empathetic, and always there for you, in whatever way you need.

- purposing: Annie would carefully pick out a ring with a crystal that perfectly matches your eyes, a subtle, beautiful detail that shows how deeply she’s thought about this moment. When the time comes, she would choose the beach—of course—your special spot, where you’ve shared so many quiet, intimate moments. Annie would want the proposal to feel personal and private, just the two of you and the sound of the waves. She’d decorate it softly with small, meaningful touches—maybe a few candles or a simple blanket, but nothing too extravagant, as the natural beauty of the beach would be all the setting you need. Nervously, but with all the love she has for you, she’d ask, “Will you marry me?” in a way that feels both shy and full of hope, knowing this moment, just like your relationship, is something only the two of you truly understand.

- marriage: Annie’s wedding would be a reflection of simplicity, intimacy, and the deep connection you share, centered around both of your favorite colors. She’d want everything to feel personal and meaningful, not extravagant, but thoughtful. The ceremony would include seats marked “Reserved for Lost Loved Ones,” a tribute to those who didn’t make it through the war or the Games, honoring their memories in a way that felt peaceful and respectful. For the flowers, Annie would choose a beautiful blend of both of your favorite blooms, perhaps something calming and natural like soft lavender mixed with gentle white roses, reflecting both your personalities. When it comes to her makeup, she wouldn’t want to go overboard—just enough to feel herself, perhaps a soft glow and natural tones. The same goes for the decor, the cake, and the music—nothing too flashy or attention-grabbing—just a quiet, intimate celebration of your love. Above all, Annie’s only wish would be to marry you in a way that felt authentic, grounded, and full of the peaceful joy of being together, nothing more, nothing less.

- kids: Before the Games, Annie always dreamed of being a mother one day, imagining a future filled with the warmth and joy of raising children. But after everything she endured in the arena, she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing a child into a world so full of violence and uncertainty, knowing there was a chance they might one day be sent to the arena themselves. The idea of motherhood felt like a distant dream, something she had to bury deep down to protect her heart. However, after the war, as she slowly begins to heal and find a sense of peace again, she starts to warm up to the idea of children. She would want to live first—truly live—before thinking about bringing new life into the world. It would take time, and it wouldn’t be an easy decision, but in the end, she would want to give a child the safe, loving home she never had, a future where they wouldn’t have to face the horrors she did. If she did become a mother, it would be with a heart full of love and care, wanting to nurture and protect them from the world she once knew.

[pansy-picnics]

SHE IS SO NERODIVERGENT OMG. i pretty much described the first few episodes to my friend as “rapunzel is autistic and no one else knows how to handle an autistic person” pffft. she’s just so. gosh. she’s so full of love :( she went through so much for her Entire life up until now but she’s still so full of love and passion and sometimes that’s what end up being her downfall, because no one else is taking the time to understand her and they misinterpret how she acts on her care for them. but she just wants to help people :((

SHES SOOO AUTISTIC AND THATS LIKE. HONESTLY I FEEL LIKE THATS ONE OF THE BEST PARTS OF HOW THE SHOW ENDED UP PORTRAYING HER bc it definitely has a lot of flaws but like. she has a lot of traits that neurotypical people would typically consider “childish” or “immature” but the show doesn’t infantilize her for it and as an autistic person thats something that makes me really warm and fuzzy inside…..i think she should be Weirder and i think everyone should love her for it!!!!! AND I THINK THEY DO!!!! i will never let go of the idea that cass and varian despite everything they went through will be in her life forever. they care way too deeply abt each other to just let go because of a misunderstanding on rapunzel’s part!!!!! also cass has a massive gay crush on her so she couldn’t remove her from her life even if she tried /j

nothing about rapunzel is neurotypical and i stand by that tbh. its not even just the missing social cues things its the way she’s so in touch with the world,,, like the way shes always barefoot bc shoes feel weird and restricting? like THAT’S AUTISM? literally i have an autistic friend who’s sensory seeking and she said the exact same thing SHE’S JUST AUTISTIC BRO

sorry i can actually go SO in depth on how exactly i think rapunzel’s autism presents. like she’s the kind of autistic who’s really soothed by deep pressure and thats what she always gives everyone big tight bear hugs bc gothel never let her do that but she’s just trying to share that comfort it always gives her. (varian is like this too so they always squeeze each other SOOO tight when they hug and it looks really uncomfortable from an outside perspective but they’re both THRILLED.) she’s the kind of person who has tons of vocal stims and is always bouncing around in some way. she bites people but like Lovingly. she loves weird smells like rubbing alcohol and people have to take it away from her bc they don’t want her to inhale the fumes for too long. when she was a kid she climbed all over EVERYTHING she climbed on the tower roof a lot too if it weren’t for gothel’s gaslighting she would’ve figured out a way to escape by the time she was like 6 years old. she’s hyper emphatic in the way that she grows super attached to inanimate objects. she enjoys trying the most batshit food combinations just to see what they taste like and she usually ends up enjoying them. she’s banned from the kitchen bc once she put ketchup on a hard boiled egg. she’s the kinda person who only uses swears for Special Occasions.

i actually have this one cassunzel fic bookmarked that’s mostly focused on autistic rapunzel and i hold it SOOOO close to my heart i think about it literally all the time ITS CANON TO ME OK. SHE HAS A COMFORT BLANKET AND ITS THE ONE SHE WAS WRAPPED IN WHEN GOTHEL TOOK HER FROM THE CASTLE…..IT HAS THE SUN CREST ON IT AND THATS HOW SHE STARTED PAINTING IT. IT MAKES ME SCREAM AND CRY AND THROW UP BC I HAD A COMFORT BLANKET WHEN I WAS A KID AND I COULDN’T SLEEP WITHOUT IT. AUGHHH.

rapunzel is the sweetest person in thw world i wholeheartedly believe everyone loves her. LIKE SHE BASICALLY REDEEMED *counting on my fingers* LIKE AT LEAST 6 CRIMINALS??? PROBABLY MORE??? and at the same time shes so Weird. like i think shes weird in a very specific way that doesn’t even have anything to do with the autism shes just kind of a freak bc like she grew up in a tower for 18 years ofc she is. like i think shes so infatuated with the world as a whole she loves Everything shed treat the worlds most venomous creature like a little puppy. whenever eugene is screaming about bugs in the castle shes like “awwwww little guy :(“ and goes and picks him up and brings him outside. shes like holding a tarantula the size of her hand like “eugene how could you be scared of this little face :(“ and eugene’s like “Blondie we need to burn this whole castle down”

its basically canon too like remember that one scene in beginnings where she brought that whole fucking wolf out from the woods and he just didn’t even bother her like they were chill. all animals are chill with rapunzel like that.

but also she probably ate bugs once like one day she got really bored in the tower and she saw pascal eating a bug and shes like “Oh huh i bet it must taste good” and so she just tried eating a couple of bugs because she could. and yknow what she probably liked it too but the only reason she doesn’t anymore is bc she feels bad for the bugs.

i also think she was weird in a sense that like…when she was in the tower something about her always just seemed a little Off yk? something about the way she stared or her body language…it was because of the abuse ofc. but like she generally had this very porcelain doll look to her. like she was so slim and frail (malnourished) and she was strangely pale and the few freckles over her nose just seemed Too perfect. everything about her just looked untouchable, unreal, almost uncanny…..something abt it just made you uneasy but you could never put your finger on Why. and i think it’s especially clear when people look at her like ten or so years down the line…she’s much healthier, shes got some more weight on her, she looks much more comfortable in her body. she always has the biggest grin on her face. she’s got a light tan and shes absolutely COVERED in freckles from head to toe. scars and birthmarks and stretch marks on her skin tell this story of the life she’s lived and what she’s seen. she’s covered in tattoos, all designed herself (because you cant convince me she wouldn’t go CRAZY as soon as she finds out about tattoos ok.) shes always bouncing around everywhere, theres happiness literally RADIATING from her and shes so bright it’s blinding….

GOD she makes me so emotional. she is just so full of love and joy……….she draws pascal with freckles so they match……her favorite color is all of them….she’d sacrifice her life for all of her friends any day. she totally gets all huffy when her loved ones try to care for her when shes sick because she doesn’t want them to get sick too. yk the way everyone talks abt princess diana like thats how everyone in the tangled universe talks abt rapunzel i feel. i’m just. FUCK. PEACE AND LOVE ON PLANET EARTH.