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fakeplasticlovers · 1 month ago

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sweet summer sweat | j.m.

part ii of hotel california

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

wc: 2.6k

warnings: smut (18+, mndi!). age gap (reader is in her late twenties, joel early forties). reader goes by the nickname polly. reader has no descriptions other than her hair is long enough to be pulled (aka moodboard doesn't count). oral (f!receiving). fingering (f!receiving). they get freaky in the pool AND the hotel room. protected p in v. joel's kind of old and pathetic.

hotel california masterlist · hotel california tag

So much for never seeing you again.

Joel's fist curled around the leather straps of his well loved duffle bag, the one that Sarah had sworn she would replace for his Birthday. Don't need a new one, he had objected, works just fine.

The prickly breeze wafts the scent of your cigarette to his nostrils, those of which he didn't realize were flared. Behind the bitter punch is a tinge of sweetness; sticky booze, fading perfume, and something intoxicating he can only imagine is your sweat.

"Neighbor, huh?" He repeats back with a small huff, almost missing the doorknob when he goes to turn the key to his room. His palms are a bit slick — he blames it on the warm weather.

The entrance swings open, like his head swings in your direction once he realized you've decided to perch yourself by the doorframe. Not in an imposing way, but from a place of misguided curiosity. Like a feral cat that's a bit too trusting, but you can tell it'll still bite.

"Yep." You chirp back, watching his broad shoulders as he retreats into the shadowed hollow of the room. He's kind enough to not tell you to fuck off and slam the door in your face. You take the liberty of reaching into his domain, flicking on the switch that rests on the wall next to your free hand.

"Thanks." Joel nods in your direction, setting his bag on the palm tree printed bed spread, dirty work boots drawing a sharp contrast against the hot pink shag rug.

You can't help but giggle at the scene — the big, burly contractor plucked straight out of the hot Texas sun and dropped into a Golden Girls episode.

"What's funny, Pollyanna?" He quirks a brow. He doesn't look angry — he surely hasn't kicked you out yet — but you can tell he still thinks you're a pain in the ass.

"Nothin'." Masking a grin, you stomp the remainder of your Marlboro out before it starts burning the peach fuzz on your knuckles. "Donna must not like you."

The mattress squeaks as Joel graces it with his weight. His shoulders sag like the weight of the world lays upon him, the blanket of dust that's stirred up silhouetting him like a shrine.

"Front desk lady?" He figures, knees cracking slightly as he places his hands on them. Fucking old.

You hum, shifting back and forth on the worn soles of your chucks. No matter how hard your lips try to hide it, the apples of your cheeks want to beckon that wicked smirk like it's home.

"Gave you the honeymoon suite."

Joel's tired demeanor cracks like his aching bones, the lines in the corner of his eyes meeting like old friends. His body shakes with genuine laughter, a feeling that he's not use to faking. He hasn't had to go diving in the deep catacombs of his chest for it in a while, like a forgotten toy in an attic.

"Got another one of those?" Joel gestured to the remainder of her cigarette, now a forgotten stamp on the concrete, praying to be remembered by the small flakes of ash it tosses into the dead air.

According to Sarah, no one in California littered. Clearly she hadn't met you.

Now it's your turn to chuckle. In fact, it always has been, if it weren't obvious already you have the upper hand.

"We sell 'em in the bar, you know." A haphazardly manicured brow quirks, same time your lips roll.

"Suppose I could bum you one. No smoking inside, though, Cliff would have my ass."

With a swift nod, Joel rises from his place in the bed. "Wouldn't want that, now would we?" He stalks towards you, causing your heart to stutter in your chest. You shuffle back on your heels as he joins you back in the desolate air.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Give him a cigarette and go to bed.

So, of course, you do the logical thing, and throw the pack square at his chest. Of course, he catches it swiftly, and you avert your eyes like you're oh so fucking cool.

"Can I get your light?" He cocks his head, fishing one out and placing it between his plush lips. Not fair. Without a word, you retrieve the zippo from your jacket and smack it into his awaiting palm.

"Gimme one too." You mutter like a petulant child, beckoning for your pack back like it's the only thing that will anchor you from the reality that you are pining for a complete fucking stranger.

The smoke fills your lungs like an old friend and suddenly, you're aware of the fact that his gaze has your feet filled with lead. You can't leave now, and he can't stop staring at you, so now you're fucked.

"Is it always this hot out here?" Of course, Joel the contractor has some small talk to toss out into the heavy air. You know it's bullshit, the man is from Texas, he's clearly experienced worse than this.

"Yeah. That's why I usually go to the pool at this time." You choke out, coughing slightly as the cigarette begins to burn your throat. You blame it on the smoke, but you're not so sure.

Quiet wraps around the two of you then, only interrupted by the humid breeze and the sound of crickets crying in the night.

The gusts rolls up, sending your hair whipping in the wind. Joel has a look on his face like he's been faced with the most difficult question in the world.

"Pool, huh?" He drags the last of his cigarette, "Too bad. Didn't bring my swimsuit."

You snort, tossing yours before he gets a chance to.

"Bold of you to assume anyone does." You shrug, "I'll be down there if you'd like to join. I'd let you borrow a bikini, if you insist." You grin.

Trouble. He shakes his head.

"Thanks." He nods in your direction, handing your lighter back. No fucking way he's going to that pool.

Needs to take his old ass back to bed and get ready to help his daughter in the morning.

"Goodnight, Joel." You can tell it's not happening.

You'd still take a dip in the pool, and let your hand creep in between your thighs as you shower the chlorine off once you get back to your room.

Maybe you'd even moan his name loud enough so he'd hear it through the decaying walls.

So, with that you retreat into your room, tossing the heavy leather off your shoulders. You think this is the most fun you've had since you decided to take this job, since you've decided to live at a hotel in the middle of nowhere.

It's just a phase, your family back home insisted, but judging by the knick knacks you've accumulated collecting dust on the side tables in your suite, you're not so sure of that.

So, you head to the pool. A red bikini you picked up at a gas station on the way down adorns your body. The pool bar is still open, and Doug has your usual nightcap prepared by the time you lay your towel down on the sun weathered chair.

You thank him, stripping your t-shirt off before the water beckons you. The elder patrons begin the return to their rooms around the same time your body is engulfed by the water.

And you roll your neck, the cold chlorine aching the unsatisfied bones of your back. You let your hips hover, the feeling of floating about the only thing that helps you in the midst of the unknown of your life.

You try to tune out the sound of the bar closing up, ushering it out with each sip of the High Life supplied to you. It's not until the gate cracks with a squeal that you're brought back to life.

Joel the Contractor is standing there, clad in his boxer briefs, and you think you might have died.

"Doug, you still have beers?" You question, "Leave them out. I'll close the bar."

Joel walks in, toting a bath towel. You feel comforted in the fact that he's not used to this. In fact, he stands there awkwardly.

You pull yourself out of the water, dripping with every sense of the word. "Want a beer?" You ask, tossing him a beach towel.

He nods, and you know he's staring at your ass as you creep away. The seal is cracked, and it's handed to him. You grab your own beer off the ledge of the pool and cheers him.

"To Los Angeles?" You toast, and he retorts with a huff. Those dark eyes stare at you the whole time. And it's awkward, it's hot, so you decide to jump in the pool. And to your surprise, Joel follows.

"You're trouble." He finally says out loud, cracking his face above the surface. He can't remember the last time he jumped into a pool when it didn't involve his daughter.

"Me? Trouble?" You laughed, floating on your back away from him, "You're trouble."

Joel wades towards you, both of you hovering in the deep end. Eyes locked,

"How am I trouble?" He presses, hands softly caressing your waist. Gaze pinning you like a dart to a board.

"Because I want you."

And then finally, Joel kisses you. Lips weave together, hands on your waist now deliberate. Water splashes around you. And you're lifted out of it, always a protector.

"Let me do this, please," It's almost like he's begging, your ass lifted on the ledge of the pool. You nod.

He pulls at the strings of your bikini bottoms, but not before he's kissing down your stomach. You take the time to untie your top because, you'll be damned, Joel the contractor is eating you out.

Your thighs are hoisted over his shoulders, and he shows you how much he wants to taste you. Then he stops.

"Come back to my room." He seals it with a wet, sloppy kiss to your clit. Your hips cant towards his mouth, and he appeases you, sealing his mouth over your pussy before landing a swift smack over it. You moan louder than you think you ever have before.

And he's scrambling to grab your top, and you're trying to tie it back on, before you give up, and hold the bikini in your fists. Joel wraps you in your towel, and you're ushered around the corner back to your room.

"My room's right here," You giggle, standing in the corridor of your room. And that's when Joel kisses you. And it's deep, it's wet, and you need it.

"Take me inside." Joel already knows what you mean.

"Fuck." He grunts as he rips your towel off, "Take it off," He's pulling your bikini off, then he's hovering over you naked as you lay on his mattress. All spread and ready for him.

You're fucking gorgeous. He knows that. Your soft body, spread legs. Chest heaving. Toes curling.

"Let me taste you again, baby," He breathes, cradling your face, hands hovering like he's scared.

"Kiss me." You grip his wrists, "Then taste me."

So he does. Joel licks into your mouth while his fingers tweak your nipples. He has you begging for his mouth on you.

He thinks it's a privilege to taste you, his head cushioned by the soft grip of your thighs once again. You taste like something he's been searching for his whole life.

"Fuck, Joel," You arch against the bed, toes curling on his shoulders, "Gonna come,"

And he wills it. Come in my mouth. Need to taste you. One hand curling over your breasts, the other holding your hips down.

The sound you make when you come will haunt him until the day he dies. You try to buck him off, but his arms keep you sealed to his mouth.

You will yourself off the mattress, lips parted as you stare at him between your legs. And then you're bucking him off. You're breathing heavy.

"Fuck me," You whisper, "Please,"

In the midst of it, he's lost his briefs. You reach for his cock, hand curling around him. A small moan escapes your lips, he seals it with a kiss.

"Fuck," Your swirl your thumb around the tip. "Is it my turn?"

And he feels like he's going to faint. What he would give to feel your plump lips wrapped around his cock. But you just asked him to fuck you, a promise he's not even sure he can complete.

"No, baby," He finds a place to breathe in your neck, hand cascading down the side of your body, "Lemme fuck you."

And the sound that comes out of your mouth will be the thing Joel thinks of while curling his fist around his cock in the shower. He's rubbing against you, and you're willing him inside of you.

"Need a condom, Polly," He laughs, kissing your forehead. With a huff, you start to fiddle with the bedside drawer.

"Told you it was the honeymoon suite."

Joel rolls the condom on, and kisses you as he urges in. He's all encompassing, arms curled under your back, legs curled high on his back. And you almost wail, his hips snapping against you. Feels fucking fantastic.

"Joel," You cry out, head fisted in the crook of his neck. It's been a long time since you've been touched, and by god, he's so fucking deep, cradling you as he fucks you.

And does Joel work above you, working his cock into you by the beat of your moans, holding you tightly, licking on you until he feels you tighten around him.

"That's it, baby," He breathes, "Feel so fucking good, Polly, gonna come for me?"

And you nod, because he's everywhere, he's so deep, your knees are curled around his back. And so you did, you cum for Joel the Contractor, thighs shaking around his back, hands pulling his hair.

And Joel comes hard too, pushing you into the mattress, panting into your mouth. He whines, you think, and that makes your pussy clench around him. He looks a wreck above you, so you grab him and kiss him like it's the only thing you have going in your life.

Now he's looking at you like he doesn't know what he's done. You're panting, and not really in the mood to placate a man.

And Joel can't bring himself to pull away from the shangri-la that is between your thighs. He thinks fucking you might have been his greatest achievement.

And yet, you're both looking at each other like a gong has been banged.

Joel has the willpower to pull out of you, at least. He tosses it in the wastebin. You wince a little.

"Pretty," He drags, tongue dragging through the mess he left. "Will you let me clean you up?"

So you do, you let him clean you up with his mouth, then you offer to go back to your room. He insists you don't, so you fall asleep on his chest watching Jeopardy reruns.

He wakes up in the morning alone, which he is used to. He packs up his stuff, but has half a mind to search for your bikini. He knows you're right next door, but he can't bring himself to knock before he leaves.

What he doesn't realize is the fact that you left a note.

Joel might have checked out of the Hotel California, but he's not sure he can ever leave.

And you sure as fuck won't bring breakfast back to a passerby ever again.

happy bday peps ❤️

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfiction #fic: hotel california

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slowsonic69 · 1 month ago

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Leave My body

Chapter 2

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc

Author's note: So I did write another part to this. I don't even know where this is going but it is fun to write. I hope you like it!

Word count: 1.8k

With a cigarette between her chapped lips, Alex watched the snow fall. A soft white blanket coated the streets of New York — accompanied by an eerie silence that didn’t befit the city. Perhaps she had just grown used to its chaotic nature: police sirens morphing into white noise, drunken shouts replacing the songs of birds, beeps of cars blowing like harsh winter winds.

That must be the reason. Not the guilt or regret that had overtaken her every step — a simple but difficult acclimatization to the life of a civilian. Alex blew one last frozen puff of smoke into the air before pushing the cigarette’s butt into the ashtray. Turning, she headed back into her apartment, leaving behind her now completely snow-coated balcony. Only the mark of two shoes broke the harmonious white of it all.

Alex herself was covered in snowflakes, shaking them off her coat before hanging it back into the hall closet. Two mud-covered combat shoes and a stashed-away A H-S Precision sniper rifle stared back at her. She should get rid of those.

She knew she wouldn’t.

She knew she couldn’t.

Instead of reminiscing on these recurring thoughts that had haunted her for the last few months, she closed the closet and walked to her bathroom. Removed her office clothes, dumped them into the dirty laundry basket, opened the shower curtain, and stepped into it. Scorching hot water spurted against her skin, the sensation fogging her brain numb. The day, and the sentiments that came with it, seeped out of her and into the shower drain.

Her father had always told her she was stuck in her own mind. That when it came to it, between life and death, it wasn’t thoughts and ideas that saved you — but the movement of your hands, the shuffling of your feet, the grit of your teeth.

He was right, because of course he was. And yet Alex felt lost. Even with his training embedded into her — scratched so deeply into her skin, her soul must have scarred with it. She ate like he taught her, she breathed like he taught her, but she didn’t live the way he told her to. Not anymore.

There were no fists to block, no guns to recharge, no bodies to hide. It was her, only her, left to think and rethink about everything and everyone. Imprisoned in the echo chamber her mind had become.

The itch to just take her AutoMag III and empty its magazine into Suzie’s face was overwhelming. So much so, there were days when she truly considered it. If not Suzie, someone else, someone random. Just so she could see blood splatter out of them, its iron smell filling her nostrils one more time.

No. She had promised Hannah she woul—

Thud.

Alex halted, water still streaming down her face and body. Waiting. Listening.

Thud.

She shut off the water, her senses sharpening. A moment passed —cold air creeping up her wet skin, no noise to hear until—

Thud. It came from the living room.

Alex hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around herself. With a hesitant hand, she opened the bathroom door and peeking through the gap.

Nothing. The appartement was empty.

Thud Thud Thud.

The sound grew louder —impatient. Hollow, like someone knocking on glass. She frowned—she was on the seventh floor.

The Balcony door.

Still hunched low, Alex crept into the living room. She darted toward the couch and retrieved the hidden gun tucked beneath it. Crouched behind the frame, she edged her head forward until her eyes could peek out.

At first, she could only see an arm lifted upward, its connected body laid on the floor —out of sight. Its hand sliding down the glass of the balcony door. Then a head finally lifted up — glistening brown eyes catching hers. Poindexter.

Alex bolted upright. Unlocking the door. Face with full view of a bloody and defeated Poindexter sprawled on her balcony, wearing a weak red grin.

“About time.” He rasped. Voice hoarse, tired — beaten.

Without another word, Alex hauled him up. He leaned heavily against her shoulder, groaning as they staggered inside. She hesitated, eyeing the couch—he would ruin the fabric—but laid him there anyway.

Poindexter winced and moaned as he adjusted himself with difficulty.

“What happened?” Alex asked, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. A faint ache of worry creeping up against her will.

A gurgled chuckle took over him, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

“Work.”

“Right.”

She nodded. He wouldn’t say more; she understood.

Heading for the bathroom once more, grabbing the med kit from behind the mirror cabinet. Faced with her reflection, she was reminded that she was still practically naked. Only a slipping towel guarding her modesty.

A tingle of embarrassment colored her cheeks — even when they had lived together, Poindexter had never seen her this way. He most likely hasn’t noticed she was half-naked, too busy on not dying. The notion comforted her. Somewhat.

She pulled on her pajamas, grabbed the med kit and a wet towel, and hurried back to his side. His eyes were closed now—a relief. She could scan him without interruption.

His black uniform masked most of the blood, but the wet sheen gave it away. Abdomen and left upper arm—bullet wounds, she guessed. Bruised ribs from the way he breathed. A swollen, battered face. He must have bitten his tongue.

“You can just ask where I’ve been hit, you know.” Poindexter murmured, startling her. Alex looked away.

“Right. I never tended to somebody else’s wounds before.” She admitted, surprising herself. Admitting to a flaw, a weakness laid bare. Pathetic.

He hummed in response, his eyes slipping closed again. The adrenaline seemingly wearing out, now only left with anguish and exhaustion — the worst part of getting this hurt.

She first lifted up his shirt to show his abdomen. As expected, he was indeed hit by a bullet. She noticed even more blood leaving the wound at his back. The bullet went straight through, not hitting any major organs at first sight. He got lucky.

Getting antibiotics and painkillers out of the med kit, she handed them to him.

“You’ll need these. Do you need a cup of water?”

Poindexter shook his head, popping a few into his mouth and swallowing them dry.

Without wasting another second, Alex went to work. Cleaning up the wounds, getting as much of the bullet fragments out. Cutting the sleeve of his left arm open, tending to the bullet wound there as well. This time, the bullet was stuck — she had to get it fully out. The rest—bruises, swelling—would heal on their own.

Through the whole ordeal, Poindexter seemed out of it, groaning and moaning here and there. The painkillers working wonders on his already feeble state.

Alex tried to keep her composure, tricking herself into believing she was tending to her own wounds rather than those of another. It felt forbidden, invasive, personal.

Had he felt the same way when he took care of her? Had his fingers tingled too? Had her bare skin burned against his palms? Had he looked away when her curves overwhelmed him?

She hoped so.

She feared so.

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

A gasp slipped out of his lips as he sat up, followed by a deep groan as the stitches pulled and stretched at his abdomen.

“Careful. You’ll open your stitches.”

Dex felt his eyes widen as Alex came into view, a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. She placed them carefully on the living room table in front of him. She had made him an omelet — he suddenly felt dizzy.

“I was about to wake you up. Good timing.” Her tone neutral, familiar. Unbothered by his presence — but he knew better.

Dex barely remembered getting here — only flashes. The pain, the struggle of climbing the building walls, the cold snow melting into his wounds — turning beet red. Alex’s face somehow appearing above him, staring back at him with an unusual, contorted expression of concern.

She, who always seemed so far away — detached and cold — had felt warm against his side as she dragged him inside.

He wished he had felt every poke of her needle, the tightening of the surgical sutures. To ingrain it in his mind as much as it would on his body. For it to scar ugly and ragged, so he couldn’t even try to forget it.

But Alex was precise and meticulous. He knew the scarring would be faint — calm and collected like her. A thin white line that could never resemble the way he had felt then. Comforted and irrationally angry about it.

The urge to vomit out all these obscene thoughts to her was strong. To beg on his knees for her to understand them — to understand him. To see him like she had back in that empty warehouse where they fought like one. To continue watching him sleep on the couch every morning before work, trying to stay as quiet as possible. To make him an omelet despite disliking eggs.

To tend to her wounds, and she to his.

Instead of giving in, knowing the rejection that would follow, he sat up — slowly this time — and started eating. Slurping at the orange juice in between bites.

Alex stayed put, upright in the middle of the living room. A lost animal in its own habitat. He wanted to laugh, to insult her for her strangeness. To make her bleed and hurt like he had.

As if hearing him she unfroze, he could see her move from the corner of his eye.

The couch sagged a little as Alex sat down next to him, a soft pull against his side, as if the couch itself drew him closer to her. His teeth clenched, scraping against each other as he forced another piece of omelet in him.

“I’m -” Alex hesitated, cutting herself off before starting over again. Hands held tightly atop her lap —knuckles white.

“I’m glad you came back.” It was a murmur, the softest her voice had ever sounded to him. Like a scolded child coming to apologies. It’s that what it was, an apology? An olive branch, thin and weak — ready to break at any hint of wind.

His hand tightened around the butter knife. He could plunge it into her throat, make her drown in her own blood — in her own words. He wanted to, so badly. To watch her claw at her neck, panic overflowing her eyes. Her gurgles filling the room as life drained out of her.

"Me too," Dex said instead, setting the knife down next to the plate she had made for him. She had even sprinkled paprika powder on it, just the way he liked.

#benjamin poindexter fanfiction #benjamin poindexter #dex poindexter #benjamin poindexter x reader #Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc #benjamin poindexter x oc #bullseye

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friendlyneighborhoodslut · 7 days ago

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The Roommate Agreement |7-The Mischief Night.

Pairing(s)/Tropes—Eventual Steve Harrington X Reader, slow burn.

Summary—The night before Halloween, where kids and adults alike get up to no good. What’s the worst that could happen?

Warnings/Extras—strong language, drinking, smoking, recreational drug use (not consumed/used by any of the main cast), angst and arguing, sad party girl hours, the sexual tension is strong with this one, let me know if I missed anything!

MASTERLIST | | PREVIOUS PART | | NEXT PART

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Steve Harrington is avoiding me like the plague and doing a terrible job of hiding it.

He has his odd detached moments just like everyone else—when his eyes gloss over and you can tell he just wants to crawl into bed and hide. But this is different. Steve’s dandy around everyone else but me, a harsh cold shoulder I’d accept if I had actually done anything to deserve it. The extent of our conversations are limited strictly to the topic of Archie—who we had inadvertently began raising together in some bizarre split custody agreement—and even then he’s straight to the point and ducking out of the conversation quickly. Gone is the flirty, arrogant Steve Harrington, a hollow shell replacing him. I hate to admit I’m offended by it, mostly because I thought we were actually friends. Well, maybe a little more than that.

Sure, we’d exchanged some moments that blurred the line between friendship and something more, but we had never made explicit commitments. Which is why I have no business being upset when Steve brings a girl home after his shift at the bar. But I am.

She’s all tan legs and soft brown hair with hazel eyes and a tight dress, the exact type of insanely beautiful girl you’d expect him to be with. Robin and I share the couch, sitting at opposite ends and our legs resting on top of one another as we sip on wine and complain about life and Archie sleeps in my lap. We freeze mid conversation as the clock strikes 1:33 AM and the bright blue front door swings open. That’s when I see her, drunk and stumbling but not nearly as much as Steve, whose failure to stand straight reminds me of a newborn giraffe learning to walk.

“Oh my God, hi!” The girl grins, releasing her hold around Steve’s neck to stumble over to us. The smell of her expensive perfume nearly drowns out the reek of Tequila on her breath. Huh, I guess Steve was right about Tequila imparting judgement to an extreme. “I’m Hannah! You guys must be the roommates!” Before we’ve got time to run away, she’s tugging us both into an uncomfortable group hug. My aversion to strangers and physical touch makes itself wildly apparent and I suddenly feel the urge to shower. Steve tugs on her shoulder lightly and I avoid looking at him just like he does to me. They’re down the hallway and barreling into Steve’s bedroom in a flash, and I turn the TV volume up to avoid the risk of hearing whatever they get up to in there.

“Uh, what the hell was that?’ Robin leans forward, nearly spilling her wine on my blanket.

I shake my head, swallowing my hurt and replacing it with false indifference. He’s not yours to be jealous about, remember that. “Damned if I know,” the words slip through my wine-stained lips and give me away.

Robin frowns and her shoulders slump. “I thought for sure you two had something going on,” she presses.

I grip my drink tighter. “No.” I deadpan, my voice reverberating off the glass.

She raises her brows and her eyes drift to the little orange furball on my lap. “You’re kidding, right?” She snorts. “You guys have a freaking cat together.”

“Not together,” I correct, pointing a finger. “We have a mutual interest for a living creature’s wellbeing because we are good people, therefore we agree to share the responsibility of making sure he doesn’t get himself killed.” I tell her, scratching between Archie’s ears. His white stripes and feet are growing prominent now, stark contrast against fiery red hair.

“…So you guys have a cat together.” She stands her ground, her stance fact in her mind. I roll my eyes and bite my rebuttal on my tongue because I know what she’s doing. She wants me to admit I have feelings for Steve, which I don’t—or maybe I do—Who cares?

A faint moan echos down the hallway. My face turns numb and my hands tingle. I get this sick feeling in my stomach and my lungs constrict as I stare into the abyss, trying to think about anything other than what’s happening back there. Robin’s eyes ghost over my face and she gives me a pitiful smile. “Hey,” she nudges me. I look up at her. “Wanna watch Twilight and drink every time we cringe?”

“Buckley,” I smirk. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

We giggle, grabbing the remote and settling deeper into the couch.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

The digital alarm clock on my nightstand screams to life, scraping me out of my comatose. The little box of nightmares hurries me to get out of bed, the red numbers flashing 7:00 AM until I smash my hand lazily on all the buttons, desperate for the reprieve of silence. I roll out of bed, body heavy and aching. It’s a fight just to get into the shower, sleep beckoning me back to the bed. I don’t need a job that bad, do I? Yes, you do.

Maybe if I didn’t live in a thin-walled apartment with Dumb, Dumber and Dumbass, I’d actually get some sleep around here. Eddie’s always up playing his guitar, writing a song for his final at school. Steve’s bedroom is a revolving door of very vocal girls and that doesn’t bother me other than the lack of sleep I get..right? Of course it bothers you. No it doesn’t. Goddammit!

Ben’s taken to coming home late at night in a not-so-quiet way, stumbling drunk into the apartment at ungodly hours of the night, and I can’t help but wonder what type of shit influence this new girl is on him. When I’m the most normal person in the room, you know something’s terribly wrong. I don’t know what’s up with them; everyone’s been so cagey recently for one reason or another. Eddie, who lives as my human shadow, remains mostly unchanged towards me however. Though his comments about Steve and I’s nonexistent relationship have ceased.

The little tabletop calendar on my vanity reads October 30. One day before Halloween, and I’m buzzing with anticipation. The Cafe’s got itself on the roster of businesses on the Loop that will be passing out candy to Trick-Or-Treaters. Some of my favorite traditions include dressing up and seeing the kids’ costumes. I love seeing how creative everyone can get. I’m bummed that my lack of free time has resulted in zero holiday planning, including a costume.

I glance at my phone and realize I’ve taken far too long to get ready and that I am, in fact, running late for the train. By the time I get there I’ll have to wait for the next one, which means I’ll be twenty-three minutes late to work. I drop everything I’m doing and get dressed as I barrel towards the door. “Christ on a bike. I am late, I am so, so—“ The door doesn’t open as I pull on it. Maybe I’m still asleep. I yank on the handle with all my might, and it opens ever so slightly but closes shut swiftly. What the fuck? I pull on it with all my might, peeking into the sliver of open doorway I scrounge up. A rope tethers my doorknob to Eddie’s across the hall. There is boyish giggling on the other side. The shuffling of feet. I groan, hammering my fist on the door. “Ugh, boys! Knock it off, I gotta get to work!”

When the door doesn’t relent, I give up and return to the bathroom, where a second, smaller door leads out to the hallway. I unlock it and storm down the hall. I catch Eddie dashing away from me to take cover in the kitchen. I tail after him, socks slipping on the cheap flooring, and I slide into him with force. He catches me, hands gripping my arms tight but lovingly. “Could you at least wait until noon to start being a little shit?” I huff, making his curls fluff outward.

He pats my head, releasing me. “Sorry, Sweetheart. No can do. It’s Mischief Night,”

“It’s 8AM,” Ben feels the need to remind him that it’s not nighttime from behind his laptop screen. His hair is gelled back like a Ken doll and he’s wearing the nice suit he bought for Aunt Karen’s wedding. He must have an important meeting today.

“Mischief Night is the greatest day of all,” Eddie emphasizes the word as if to highlight the fact that despite its name, the holiday is active for a full 24 hours. “On the night before All Hallows Eve, children may partake in mischief. Get it out of their system before the main event,”

“Sounds very Medieval,” I attest, yanking my shoes on my feet.

The front door opens. I pivot on one foot as I tie my shoe to see Robin with a plate of pumpkin shaped sugar cookies and bags of beer. “Good morning, family! Happy Mischief,” she holds up her treats. “I brought treasure!” Archie dashes down the hallway and circles her feet, rubbing against her ankles. He’s quite a bit bigger these days, the difference most noticeable with how much more he eats now. My wallet sure does notice that part.

“Does everyone else know about this made up holiday besides me?” I complain.

“All holidays are made up.” Of course Ben is the one to point that out, sipping on his coffee flavored with cream and the need to always be right.

“Treasure for what?” I ask Robin.

“Tonight, duh!” She dances in place. My blank expression is met with her confusion. “…the party?”

I glare at the boys. Eddie shrugs, Ben hides behind his coffee. “Thank you, people who live in the apartment I also pay rent for, for telling me we’re throwing a party tonight.” I’m not mad, just annoyed. Not only do I not have a costume, but this place is a mess and I don’t trust Eddie to get it clean in time while the rest of us are at work.

Footsteps I assume to be Steve’s trickle down the hall, but as they get closer I realize those feet are far too small to be Steve’s. Just as I turn, I hear her. “Uh, who the hell are you?” A voice I don’t recognize demands, like this is her house to make demands in. I look up from my stubborn Converse. A blonde haired, blue eyed girl in an oversized T-shirt and nothing else stares at Robin and I. I realize pretty quickly by the way Eddie and Ben are avoiding looking at her that she doesn’t belong to either of them. That’s when I realize, heart sinking, that she’s with Steve. Yet he’s nowhere to be found.

“Uh, I live here?” I have the tendency to match people’s attitudes, but Robin’s presence simmers me down as she bumps her hip into mine. The girl looks at Robin expectantly, like she’s sussing out which of us if Steve’s secret girlfriend he neglected to inform her of.

“I don’t live here but I’m like… super gay,” Robin adds. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, cringing. I guess it’s the thought that counts; Thanks, Robin.

“Speaking of, where’s your girlfriend?” Eddie asks, completely ignoring the little blonde half-naked girl in our kitchen.

“Setting up Trunk or Treat at some old church,” Robin discloses. Her and Eddie devolve into heated debate about whether or not most churches are haunted.

Steve’s bedroom door opens. He doesn’t bother closing it as he bolts down the hall at record speed. It’s as if he already knows she’s caused some trouble, the way he wraps an arm around her and smiles nervously. “H-Hey guys, this is Jenny,”

“Hello Jenny,” I force myself to smile, doing my best to hide my annoyance. I can’t pass up the opportunity to glare at Steve for not warning her of his roommates. Jenny seems to be the only one to catch it though, and throws a nasty look back at me. It wasn’t meant for you, Wench. Her attitude agitates me just enough to set my sleep-deprived brain off. “Steven, if you’re going to bring girls home, would you at least warn them you live with a woman? And shut the hell up at night, remember that we share a wall.” Steve and Jenny look equally mortified.

Ben laughs. I pivot to him. “And you, Elephant Feet! Come home quieter or not at 3AM!” his face drops and he frowns, offended. Eddie doesn’t dare laugh, afraid and knowing he’s next. “You—oh, goddammit. I can’t stay mad at you—but drive me to work! I’m late!” I shout at him. I really can’t be mad that he’s working on his music, I just wish he wouldn’t do it at night. I can however be a little mad about his dumb prank this morning.

Eddie perks up, dashing to grab his keys. “Yes sir!” He salutes, wiggling out the front door. I spin on my heels to follow him, shutting the door a little too hard behind me. Our footsteps shuffle in unrhythmic chaos, down winding halls and three flights of stairs. Gloria’s parked behind Ben’s blacked out Mazda in all her rusty glory, ready to carry me to the salvation of getting to keep my job another day. Eddie unlocks the passenger side door and opens it for me with a bow. I snicker and swipe the stray food wrappers and empty cigarette cartons off the seat. He closes the door behind me and trots around the front of the van to hop into the driver’s seat. “Steve’s girlfriend of the week seems…nice,” he murmurs, shimmying the key in the ignition until the car roars to life.

I make a noise similar to what you’d produce when there’s a bad taste in your mouth. It’s not that I mind Steve dating. I mean, let’s be honest, did I really think it’d be any different? The idea of us dating gets muddied with complication just on paper. My coworker Tristan tells me there’s an unspoken rule for men about dating each other’s family members and exes. Nevermind the golden rule of Never Shit Where You Eat, or in other words, you should not cause trouble where you regularly find yourself.

My little crush on Steve Harrington—if you could call it that—gets shoved down when I weigh the consequences. Brother’s best friend. Roommate. Wildly differing personalities. Not to mention what will happen when we graduate. Who’s to say we end up in the same place? Who’s to say any of us stay together?

The thought of that makes me nauseous, the mere concept of not living with Eddie’s shenanigans or my brother’s nagging or Steve’s thoughtfulness everyday enough to unsettle my stomach. Eddie steers the van to the curb outside the Bluebird Cafe. “What time are you off? I’ll pick you up,” he inquires. I grab my purse and shove my body against the door to force its rusty hinges open. The drop from the van to the pavement is steep and I trip on my way out.

“I love you, Edward Munson,” I gasp. “Five o’clock!” I call out to him, skipping into the shop. He kisses his hand and blows it out to me, a stupid platonic gesture we’d picked up somewhere along the late nights and early mornings. I never understood how you could have two best friends until Eddie rescued me in Daizy’s absence.

I tumble behind the Employees Only counter, narrowly avoiding Tracy’s office and her disapproving gaze as I clock in at exactly 8:30AM. Shoving my purse under the register, I fumble to I put my employee ID into the register.

“On the dot again,” Tristan, a lanky boy with sandy hair and brown eyes, tosses a rag over his shoulder as he says this. He takes me in, scanning me up and down in my disheveled state. “Rough morning?”

I sigh. “Cover for me?” he hears this plea frequently, my lack of a vehicle resulting in frequent tardiness, and he lies to Tracy and tells her I forgot to clock in every time. Our manager expects us to be here and ready to go five minutes before start time, a stupid rule I hate but attempt to comply with regardless.

He cracks a smile, turning to the espresso machine on the bar. He reads the ticket taped to it carefully, robotically moving to pull shots. “Always.” I let out a breath, a mixture of relief and exhaustion. I join him at the machine, looking over another ticket before kneeling to snag skim milk from the fridge below. I pour it into the steam pitcher and flick the lever downward, swirling the milk around loudly. It’s so noisy that I don’t hear Tristan speaking at first, until he nudges my shoulder. I turn the steam wand off and look up at him. “Your roommates still giving you grief?” He asks with pity. I hate how easily he reads me. It’s unsettling.

“Yeah,” I indulge, shoulders slumped as I finish curating this woman’s complicated coffee order. The ticket reads Susan, because of course her name’s Susan. I scribble the name on the cup and call it out. “Ben’s still on this bender with that random girl; Steve’s girlfriends don’t know how to shut the hell up during…y’know; and Eddie’s, well…Eddie,” I ramble. Tristan has heard my woes time and time again, listening intently even to repeated stories.

Tristan nods as he continues to outpace me in coffee making. It irritates me. “Steve as in…the one you’re in love with?”

I gasp, smacking his shoulder. “I am not in love with him!”

Tristan giggles. He’s pressed a nerve for his own amusement and I’ve fallen into his trap. What an ass. “Then they spring on me that they’re throwing a party tonight, for some stupid tradition or something—“

“Mischief Night!” he exclaims.

“Oh no. Not you too,” I whine.

“Got something against it?”

“Uh, I don’t know—it’s made up and stupid?”

“Don’t you ever disgrace the season of Halloween like that ever again, you grumpy old woman,” He points a finger in my face like a disapproving parent.

“I am not a grumpy old lady!” I whine, scrubbing the countertops of caked on coffee grounds from the morning rush.

“I’m Y/N, I spend all day at work or school then go home to read and knit in my room!” He hikes his voice up in a high-pitched girly tone, waiving his arms about as he tugs at the hem of an imaginary skirt. I roll my eyes and throw the dirty sponge I was cleaning with at him. He catches it, tossing it into the trash can behind him.

“I told you the knitting was a one-time thing!” I counter. A month back I decided it would be an interesting test of my capability to learn a new skill, so I knit a blanket to ship to Houston for Daizy’s birthday. He continues to torment me throughout the shift. Coming up behind me when I’m lifting something to take it from me, uttering something about ‘not wanting me to break a hip’; wincing as I bump into the counter during a rush and reminding me to put my glasses on. I don’t wear glasses. He begins calling me Margaret, because according to him, everyone knows an old woman named Margaret. You think you’re a real funny man, don’t you, Tristan Briggs?

The mid-noon rush of office workers getting coffee on their lunch breaks fizzles to a crawl. Tristan restocks the walk in fridge while I scoop grime out of the drip tray. I find my task much more tolerable in comparison to hanging out in a 35 degree metal box. At the 20 minute mark I fill a cup with the scalding hot water we use for Americanos and set it off to the side. I’m wiping the shelves of the mini fridge below the bar when the door chimes for the first time in forever. I stand at attention, straightening my apron and kicking the fridge door closed with my foot. “Welcome to Bluebird’s!” I greet, not looking up as I sign into the register to cash out the incoming customer. “What can I get started…” the words die on my tongue when I look up, a pair of hazel eyes framed by untamed brown locks.

“Hey Sunny,” to hear Steve say those words after weeks, sets a fire off inside me. He’s wearing his signature crisp white T-shirt and blue jeans, telling me he’s on his way to work.

I choke on air trying to get the words out. “Hi, Steve,” I say slowly. “What do you want?” I cringe at the way my words deliver aggressively, but yet he still smiles. Always smiling.

“I wanted to apologize for Jenny this morning,” his words serve as a brutal reality check that he isn’t here for me, he never was. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m a bit bitter about it. I can convince myself all the live-long-day that I don’t have feelings for him, that it doesn’t bother me he’s with someone else. But it does because I wasn’t the only one guilty of flirting. Now he’s here, apologizing on behalf of another girl and I realize he lead me on. Ben was right, I should’ve stayed away from him.

“She can’t apologize for herself or what?” My hometown accent slips through when I’m at my top tier of annoyance, and it doesn’t go unnoticed judging by the look on his face. I feel like my insides are made of sandpaper.

Steve winces. “She’s not uh… great with people,”

“Noted,” I deadpan, replacing the grate on the drip tray. Just leave. Get out, I tell him silently.

“I think you two could actually be friends if—“

“Did you want to order something, Steve?” I interrupt, pressing my palms into the sharp edge of the counter, the pain keeping me grounded. He doesn’t respond, instead looking past me. Trevor slinks up behind me. His Spidey senses must’ve been tingling or he heard me raise my voice.

Either way, he grips the hot coffee cup and warms his hands with it, giving Steve a stern look. “Hey, man. If you’re not going to order something I’m gonna have to ask you to make way for paying customers.” The hospitality version of ‘if you’re not here to buy something get out’.

Steve’s expression falls briefly, he recovers swiftly but not before I see it. “Yeah, right. Sorry. I’ll uh… see you at home, Sunny.” An awkward wave of his hand and he’s gone, leaving a hole where he stood.

“Yikes… that was him, huh?” Trevor speaks casually yet carefully, leaning against the counter. He still cradles the cup of water to warm his freezing hands.

I nod. “Unfortunately,”

“Y’know what, I get it. He’s hot,” He admits.

I scoff. “You’re disgusting,” I lull my head backwards. “But ugh, you’re right. He is. Maybe I should go see a movie or something tonight, avoid the party,” I omit the fact I’m really trying to avoid Steve, but of course Trevor already knows that.

“You’re so whipped it’s actually embarrassing. We need to fix that,” he pulls his phone from his back pocket, swiping furiously.

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking for blackmail I have on Tracy so she’ll let us off early,” he mumbles casually.

“You have blackmail on our manager?” I wonder.

“She dated my brother for a while,” he discloses. “Hmm.. yes. This will do,” he smirks. “We’re getting you a costume, we’re going to that party and you’re gonna look hot and be your awesome self,”

“I don’t know, Trev. Steve—“

“Fuck that guy!” He says a little too loud. A few customers poke their heads up. He grimaces, ducking his head lower. “Don’t even worry about it, I have a plan.”

I cross my arms and shake my head, reaching for my own device to let Eddie know not to pick me up.

Why do I have a feeling this is a horrible idea?

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Running my hands along dusty hangers, I flip through the aisles of clothes at Hawkins Place. Trevor’s on the opposite side of the store, sifting through the men’s section. I feel Robin’s presence behind me but say nothing, waiting for her to speak first. She eventually reaches forward, pulling at a white corset and adding it to the bundle she’s got in her arms, including a white skirt and heels. “You do realize this is a date, right?” She tells me, shoving the clothing in my arms.

“What? No it’s not!” I whisper-yell so he doesn’t hear us.

“So he’s over there, looking for a matching costume to yours, and you’re going to look me in the eyes and tell me this isn’t a date?” She mocks.

I roll my eyes, taking the clothes into my arms and walking away from her before she’s got a chance to get in my head. I approach Trevor and he grins, holding up a silk red shirt and black blazer. “I got the clothes, but I need a pair of wings,” We’d settled on the stereotypical but easy last minute pairing of an angel and devil costumes.

“No biggie. I think my sister was an angel a couple years back. Bet she’s still got the wings,” he explains calmly. It’s like he’s got a solution for everything.

I’m not sure where the urge comes from, but the question spills out of me before I can stop it. “This isn’t a date. Right?”

He pauses and looks at me, the gears in his head turning. Suddenly it’s as if he powers back on, because he laughs. “No, of course not.”

I let out a breath of relief. “Okay, good. Let’s check out and get out of here,” I smile, hopping to the checkout counter where Robin awaits me.

She mulls over the clothes we picked out together, grinning. “Can’t wait to see you in this get up,” she flirts.

“Stop it, I’ll tell your girlfriend on you.” I joke, knowing she means nothing by the comment.

She folds and bags our clothes, refusing to let me pay for any of it. She shoves the twenty dollar bills back into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “On the house. Just pick up some pumpkins for carving before the party. We’ll be over in a bit.”

I nod, folding the money back into my wallet.

Mental note: pick up pumpkins.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

As we trudge up the stairs of the apartment complex, I seriously regret picking out the largest pumpkins as they weigh a metric fuckton. I reach for my keys, the incoherent shouting on the other side of the door prompting me to move quicker. I unlock the door and swing it open. Standing in the middle of an absolutely obliterated kitchen is Eddie, Archie in one hand and the broom in the other. There’s pieces of cereal scattered all of the floor and melted chocolate splattered everywhere. “Oh, thank God you’re home!” Eddie shouts, crossing the room to me. I drop the pumpkins on the ground just as he reaches me, handing the cat over. “Here, take your evil kid,”

I throw Archie over my shoulder, looking back at Trevor. “What’d he do?”

“Vickie asked me to make the rice crispy treats for tonight and your little monster came barreling through like a bat outta hell and knocked everything over!”

“Vickie left you to cook?” I ask in disbelief. “Well, that was her first mistake.” I sigh and set Archibald onto the couch, gesturing for Trevor to follow me deeper into the apartment. He does so timidly, watching Eddie with genuine fear in his eyes. Eddie watches him, confused. “Eddie, this is Trevor. Trevor, Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you, Trevor. Tell me, how do you feel about cat soup?” Eddie grins, wiping chocolate off the stove.

“You are not eating my cat just because he annoys you sometimes, Edward. You irritate us all the time and we don’t eat you.” I scold, snatching the broom from his hand.

“You can eat me anytime, Sweetheart.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” I jab him in the side with the broom handle.

“I’m sorry, are you guys like… a thing or something?” Trevor says it in a way that confuses me and Eddie laughs.

“No. He’s just weird. Careful or he’ll come for you next.” I warn, sweeping stray rice cereal into the dustpan. Trevor has a horrified expression made no better by the way Eddie’s staring at him. I nudge my roommate and glare at him.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Vickie’s Frankenstein Rice Crispy treats are in the fridge to set and the apartment is cleaned just in time for Ben to arrive. He sets his briefcase on the table at the door, reaching to the ground to pick up an already purring Archie. He’s on the way to the kitchen where Eddie and I begin setting up the pumpkins to carve, when he spots Trevor on the couch. “Who the fuck are you?”

Trevor stands abruptly, filling nervously with his hands. “I’m Trevor. You must be Ben, she’s told me so much about you,”

“Bug,” Ben turns to me. I perk my head up to meet his gaze. “Who is this little man on my couch?”

“Don’t be rude. He’s my friend,” I hiss, grabbing the biggest plastic bowl we own from the cupboard, it’s scratched and stained edges rough against my fingers. I look over my shoulder to see Ben still staring at Trevor, fire behind his eyes. My friend looks like he’s gonna piss himself. “Benjamin!” I shout. Ben turns to me, his features softening when he looks at me. “You’re gonna give the poor guy a heart attack.” I wave him over and he obliges, leaning over the counter to whisper to me as I wash my hands.

“You better not date him—you’ll snap him in half if you even look at him wrong.” He tells me, setting Archie on the counter. He paws at the running water.

I scoff, flicking water at him before grabbing a ragged cloth to wipe my hands. Just like everything else in the apartment, it’s stained from Eddie’s greasy hands when he comes home from work. I’m annoyed at first, but it turns thankful for the little pieces of my best friend’s existence littered throughout the shared space. Ben says he’s off to shower and get ready for the party.

“You better hurry up! We’re carving pumpkins as soon as everyone gets home!” I call to him, voice reverberating down the hall just as the bathroom door shuts. On cue, the front door opens.

Robin emerges with Vickie in short succession. They wear matching pirate outfits, down to a plastic bird on Vickie’s shoulder and an eyepatch on Robin’s right eye. “Avast there, laddies!” Robin belts in a poor pirate voice. She reaches into her tote bag, pulling out a bottle of Rosé. “I brought wine!”

Trevor crosses the room to me, leaning in to whisper, “Does everyone just walk into your house without knocking all the time?” I nod to confirm. None of us mind because apartment 406D is practically everyone’s home now, but despite the amount of bodies it still feels empty. We’re missing someone. My face falls. Daizy’s probably already drunk at some frat party, initiating her three-day Halloween party crawl, nonethewiser to the hole she’s left here. I’d give anything for her to come back, but I settle for opening my phone and navigating to her contact. I press the FaceTime button and lean my phone up against a paper towel roll.

“Everyone come here, we’re calling Daiz!” I wave. Robin and Vickie skip over. Trevor is confused but joins anyways. Eddie leans over me from behind, his height making him tower over us like Godzilla. When she answers, her face is dripping with fake blood, a tiara on her head.

“Hey ya’ll!” She grins, cracking the heavy makeup she wears.

A cacophony of hi’s and hello’s, Eddie makes a comment about her costume. “What’re you supposed to be?”

Daizy looks offended through the screen. “I’m Carrie, you uncultured swine!”

“The hell is that?”

I gasp, then turn my head to the side to look at him. “Add it to the list of movies I gotta make you watch.” Just as the words leave my mouth, the door opens again. Steve runs a hand through his messy hair, throwing his keys into the abyss of others before pausing to stare at us, bewildered by our grouping in the kitchen. When he hears Daizy’s voice he meanders over to us, squeezing between Robin and I and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. In doing so, he pushes Trevor off my other shoulder, though I believe that was an accident. Still, my heartbeat picks up in my throat.

“Hey Handsome Man,” Daizy teases him. I’ll take Accurate Nicknames for 1000, Alex! Shit, now I gotta watch Jeopardy.

Steve chuckles like he knows she’s right. “Hey Crazy,” he fires back. “We miss you ‘round here,”

“Ah shit, don’t flatter me,” she blinks against the fake blood spilling into her fake lashes. “Ya’ll better be taking care of my girl out there,”

“Always.” Steve squeezes my shoulder and my stomach flips.

I’m thankful when Eddie breaks the tension he’s blissfully unaware of, snatching the phone from the countertop. “So… tell me of this Carrie chick. Is she hot?” I catch part of his questioning as he fades down the hall with my phone. I remind myself to retreive it from him later. Without the buffer of Daizy or Eddie I realize just how close Steve and I are, my body magnetized to his side and full of warmth. If I could see the look on Robin’s face I’m sure it’d look just like Trevors, all knowing and suspicious rolled into one.

Steve releases me. I feel cold. “Jenny’s gonna be here in a bit,” he moves to run away from us, but Robin snatches him. She tells him if he dips on pumpkin carving for a girl that she’ll skin him alive; and you know what, I believe her. I look at Trevor again and he’s already staring at me, waiting. I form a tight-lipped frown and he nods knowingly, a silent ‘I’m sorry’. Shit, I’m sorry too.

Robin forces Steve to help her haul the pumpkins into the kitchen while I lay out an array of shitty kitchen knives, spoons and markers. I skip down the hall to Ben’s bedroom, knocking on the door. He grunts in response, his way of giving me permission to enter. I push the door open just as he’s throwing on a t-shirt. He roughs his wet hair up with his hand, making it stick out in an array of directions. “Hey, come in. I need to talk to you about something,” he tells me.

My heart-rate picks up and I nod, closing the door behind me. He looks at me, a serious look on his face, and my body stiffens. Here we go, someone died. I bet it was Granny. “What the hell’s going on in this house?”

I groan, flopping onto his bed. “Goddammit Ben, you scared the shit out of me. I thought someone died,”

“Knowing you, someone will die tonight. You’re lookin’ like you’re one inconvenience away from ripping someone’s eyes out,” he sighs.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “Whatever.”

Silence settles between us for a few minutes. I’m on the verge of asking him where his costume is but he beats me to speaking first. “You’re not dating that guy, right?”

My stomach churns, the idea making me sick. “Oh God, no! I mean, Trevor’s a great guy and all—not that great though—he’s here to get me out of my slump,”

“You mean make Steve jealous?”

I furrow my brows. Am I really so transparent? “You mean the guy with a girlfriend?” I deflect, tilting my head.

“Oh please, she’s hardly that. He doesn’t do girlfriends,” he searches my face like he’s looking for a reaction, and I try to hide my disappointment from him.

“Good for him. None of my business,” I bite, standing up to leave. Steam must be blowing out my ears at this point, and my hands just barely turned the doorknob when he speaks again.

“Bug,” I spin aggressively to face him, feeling like I’ve been plunged in ice water when I look at his soft expression. “That’s why you gotta stay away from him, y’hear me? He’s only gonna hurt you and then… well shit, I’ll have to kill my best friend.” There’s that accent again. You sound just like our dad. Suddenly I feel bad for being such a brat, the sobering realization that my big brother is genuinely trying to protect me settling like lead in my veins. I nod silently, blinking rapidly to shy from eye contact before stepping out of the room.

A cacophony of voices dance off the peeling wallpaper in the apartment. Robin and Steve are arguing about something, and Trevor occasionally pipes in with level-headed responses. I stop at Eddie’s door that’s open a sliver, wiggling my hands into the opening and pushing it open. He’s sitting on his bed with one foot propped up on his knee, surrounded by clothes and sheets of music and still blabbering into my phone. I leap onto the bed, suffocating him as we wrestle for my phone. After a string of threats shot his way, he relinquishes the device to me. Triumphantly, I blow a kiss to the screen and tell my best friend goodnight. She doesn’t ask about Ben, which surprises me but I’m thankful to push the messy conversation off for another day. My phone enters my pocket to be forgotten about as I reach for Eddie’s arm, using all of my body weight to pull against him. He chuckles, allowing me to drag him back into the kitchen. I sit next to Trevor on the floor and Eddie sits next to me, squishing me between the two of them. Steve sits on the counter, pumpkin on his lap as he doodles on it while Archie sits on his shoulder trying to swipe the marker from him. Ben stands next to him, balancing his own pumpkin on the edge of the countertop. Robin and Vickie are distracted giggling and eating candy, even though this was a tradition instated by Robin years ago. As Eddie told me, it’s been happening since they moved to Chicago—their first Halloween in particular was quite depressing since they were broke and new to the city—and they’d done it every year since.

I nosily look over Eddie’s shoulder to see what he’s mapping out. “Dude! Is that a dick?” I scold. Ever the proud idiot, he gleams and nods, lifting the pumpkin up to display to the world. “You’re a pervert,” I joke.

“No, I’m an Artist,” he puts emphasis on the last word, pronouncing it as Ar-eee-tst , just to be extra annoying.

“Archie, quit it!” Steve complains. My eyes drift to him so naturally, and I laugh when I see the cat attempting to climb up onto his head. A mess of their combined hair, it’s a sight to behold as Ben snatches Archie from Steve’s head and tossing him over his shoulder like a fuzzy limp noodle. He stays that way, Uncle Benjamin with his unruly nephew slung on his shoulder as he carves a pumpkin.

I’m almost done scooping my pumpkin clean when Eddie slaps a handful of the seedy goop strait onto my lap, a wet slop ringing through the kitchen. “Ugh, Eddie!” I whine, stealing everyone’s attention. I scoop the glob into my palm and throw it at him, splattering pumpkin guts everywhere. It prompts him to throw it at Ben, who flinches and throws some at Steve. Steve attacks Robin who lovingly wipes the mush onto Vickie’s cheek. Our kitchen devolves into all-out pumpkin gut war, and there goes our clean kitchen. My skin tingles where pumpkin juice soaks into it, my hair plagued with stringy squash innards and I know I’ll have to shower before everyone else gets here.

“Shit, we gotta clean the kitchen again,” Ben giggles, a welcome sound rarely heard from him. He spins his pumpkin around, displaying his artwork: a—poorly done, but adorable—cat. He picks Archie up and sets him in front of it. “Look, it’s you!” And to think he didn’t even want the cat at first.

I finish my ghost and look over at Trevor’s work. He’s made a goofy face, which is honestly quite in character. He excuses himself to the restroom to dig pumpkin guts out of his hair. I turn to look at what fowl thing Eddie must’ve come up with. “You did not actually put a penis on your pumpkin,”

He gives me a lop-sided grin, holding the pumpkin up for all to see. “He’s well-endowed,” he beams.

“What’re you, twelve?”

“In my soul, Sweetheart.”

There’s a cacophony of laughter, everyone taking turns displaying their art like children showing a project at school. Steve’s showing off his spider with only seven legs instead of eight when the front door opens. I’m confused because everyone that’s welcome to freely enter and exit our domain is right in front of me. Then I hear her. That godawful, I’m-Better-Than-You tone of voice that makes me wanna shove cotton in my ears. The room falls uncomfortably silent in her presence.

“What’re you guys doing?” Jenny snips. I still can’t see her, her figure hidden behind Steve and Ben.

“You’re still here?” Robin blurts and I cover my mouth with my hand to avoid laughing. She makes an excellent point, Steve’s girls typically don’t surpass the ‘meeting the roommates’ phase. Somehow one of us—usually Eddie—scares them off.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Ben asks her as she approaches them but she ignores him. Now I can see her; She’s got a shitty spray tan and golden hair tied into a messy bun, dawning one of Steve’s shirts that conceal the shorts I pray she’s wearing.

“Carving pumpkins,” Steve smiles.

“Seriously? Are you guys ten?”

“Twelve, actually.” Eddie corrects, and everyone gets the joke but her. She’s got this piss-poor look on her face that perfectly reflects her crappy attitude, and I wish I was braver like Daizy to tell her to screw off to her face. I bump Eddie’s shoulder with my own, leaning into him and hoping I absorb some of that dumb bravery he seems to be full of.

Trevor’s footsteps slip down the hallway, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen. “Jen?” He gasps.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, face screwed up in annoyance.

“I’m here with Y/N,” he admits. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here with Steve,” she says proudly, wrapping her hands around one of Steve’s arms. He flexes under her touch but his expression remains neutral.

“Of course you are,” Trevor deadpans, like she’s oh so predictable, whilst I see her as a ticking time-bomb

“Hey man, what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Steve’s brows furrow as he asks the accusatory question.

“I’m sorry. What’s going on here?” Robin chimes in, wiggling her finger between Jenny and Trevor.

Trevor looks at Robin, shoulders slumped and clearly annoyed. “You guys obviously know Jennifer… my twin sister,”

Steve and I look at each other simultaneously, eyes meeting in a silent conversation. Did you know he had a twin? No. Did you know she did? No.

“Well, isn’t this just a fucking conundrum?” Eddie voices what everyone’s thinking. “Your boyfriend and your girlfriend are twins! That’s gonna be one awkward family reunion,” he turns to Steve and I respectively.

“He’s not my boyfriend—“

“—We’re just friends,” Trevor and I’s objections overlap one another. Steve opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it when he looks at Jenny. Eddie groans, reaching into the chest pocket of his denim jacket. He pulls open a pack of cigarettes and hands one over to me, whispering,

“You’re going to need this.”

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

Robin sits in my bathroom sink as I scrub pumpkin material out of my hair in the shower behind her. She’s applying a heavy black eyeshadow to her lids to make herself more ‘pirate-like’, as she put it. Vickie’s sitting on my bed, facing the open bathroom door as she plays with Archie. How the hell did this happen? Trevor and Jennifer being siblings, what’re the fucking odds? I turn the water up hotter to burn my skin and distract my brain.

“Sucks, I really liked Trevor,” Robin pouts.

“You don’t anymore?” Vickie asks.

I stop scrubbing my skin to listen to them. “No. If he’s related to Steve’s girlfriend then that means evil runs in his DNA. He can’t be trusted,”

“Robin what kind of backward’s ass logic is that?” I add. “And she’s not evil. Just…“

“Insane?” Vickie finishes, which surprises me because I’ve never heard her talk bad about anyone.

I cringe. “Yeah.”

“She hates you the most. Better watch your back before she suffocates you with a pillow at night,” Robin cautions casually, rubbing a ruby lipstick against her lips.

“Wow, thanks Rob.” I hiss, shutting the water off and reaching out of the shower.

“You’re welcome, Love.” she sings, leaning back to hand me a towel.

I almost feel bad that all the girls except for Jenny are in here getting ready. Almost. Robin makes a great point, from the moment I met Steve’s girlfriend this morning she’s been a stone-cold bitch, and I believe that’s letting her off easy. It makes me wonder how two people like Trevor and her can be raised the same and come out so wildly different. Unless, perhaps Trevor is hiding his true self very well.

I change into my costume and reach for my hair dryer, rummaging through all the crap under the sink before locating it. I plug it in just as Robin leans into my shoulder. “Y’know, your buddy might be the key to getting rid of Jenny. Then you’ll have Steve all to yourself.” She wiggles her eyebrows. Annoyed, I flick the button to turn on the hair dryer and point it at her face. The burst of hot air hits her face and she sputters, clambering away from me like a cat sprayed with water. I giggle, turning to the mirror to begin to treacherous process of drying my hair, and desperately thinking about anything other than Steve Harrington.

Chestnut hair and hazel eyes, drop-dead gorgeous Steve Harrington, with tan skin and a gigantic ego. In another universe I’m in Jenny’s place; it’s not even the sex I want—but I mean, who wouldn’t?—but the companionship. I want to be the one to wake up next to him, to go on dates and call him mine. God, Eddie and Trevor are right. I am down bad, and it is embarrassing. I decide that it’ll be my little secret. I’ll never act upon my gigantic crush on my roommate and I will pretend as though I don’t seethe with jealousy when he brings girls home. I’ll cut it off at the source completely, I tell myself. Fuck that guy, as Trevor said. Concluding that my predicament is completely my fault because I let Steve play with my emotions in the first place.

“There’s nothing going on between Steve and I.” I curl my hair, careful not to burn myself as Robin continuously bumps into me while dancing to her own rendition of Monster Mash. Vickie finally joins us to complete her makeup and Archie hops onto the counter to watch us curiously. At least I still have the three of them.

“You wish there was, though?” Robin presses, spraying a generous amount of hairspray in her dishwater blonde hair.

Honesty’s the best policy, right? And I trust the girl enough to know that my secret’s safe with them. “Of course I do,” I feel sick the second the words leave my mouth. My arms tremble and Vickie comes up behind me to take the curling iron from my shaky hands. She curls my hair slowly, wrapping the little ringlets around her finger. “I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s Steve, and, well, he’s…” I trail off.

“…an ass?” Robin finishes. Vickie elbows her and smiles. “I’ve known the guy for way too long, so I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she continues adjusting the collar of her blouse. “His dad’s a total piece of shit and his mom’s complacent. He’s never been shown love so he’s got this aversion to it, and the one time he did fall in love it went…not great.”

She leaves the details cryptic, my thankfulness outweighing my curiosity. If I’m going to hear about his ex I’d want it to be from him and not the grapevine. I believe everyone deserves that respect.

Vickie brushes my hair and carefully slips the flimsy halo onto my head. I try not to think about how it belonged to Jenny before me. I slip out into the hallway, eyeing Eddie and Trevor lounging on the couch. Ben’s texting nonchalantly on his cellphone, feet propped onto the coffee table draped in sparkly purple cloth.

“Eddie,” his name comes out more whiny than anything and I cringe. He turns quickly, the cape tied to him at the neck swishing around.

“Yes, Sweetheart?” He hisses in a poor Dracula impression through bulky face vampire teeth.

“I wanna get drunk,” I admit. Ben looks up from his phone with suspicion. Trevor is—bizarrely—stoic. If he’s got an opinion he keeps it to himself. Eddie leaps over the back of the couch, scampering over to his not-so-secret cupboard of liquor in the kitchen.

“Would you like whiskey? Vodka?” He lisps through the teeth.

“Would you take those out?” I giggle, pinching one of the fangs between my fingers and pulling. The plastic loosens and lifts easily. I remove them and set them slowly on the counter.

“My teeth!” He exasperates, not letting up on. the Dracula voice. He pours two shots of cheap vodka from a purple and blue bottle. I sniff it and gag.

“This smells like a hospital,”

“It’s great, right?” He grins.

I shake my head and hook my arm into his, slotting my elbow into the inner corner of his. We cross our arms and chant ‘bottoms up’ in unison, downing the shots with one big gulp.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

I’m so drunk, I almost don’t notice the way there is multicolored glitter on every square inch of the kitchen and living room. Almost. Who the fuck’s idea was it to make Halloween costumes sparkly anyway? All I can think about is the mess we’ll have to clean up tomorrow, and how I’ll be finding glitter in obscure places until the end of time. Fake spiderwebs cling to the chunky gems on my corset as I lean against the counter to pour another shot of Don Julio into the festive skull shot glass Robin bought for me. There’s rubber spiders set along the surface in between the snack trays and Jell-O shots. 8 legs. That’s about four too many in my book. I shudder, raising the shot glass to my lips. Peeking through my lashes, I make out Trevor talking up a petite girl in a Pennywise costume through the blur. Music pounds in my ears and I count us lucky our neighbors haven’t filed a noise complaint yet.

“How many of those have you had tonight?” The one voice I don’t want to hear asks from behind. I jump, spilling some of the shot over the edge of the glass.

“Jesus, fuck,” I complain, wiping the spilt alcohol onto my skirt. That’s $5, right there. “What’re you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He leans in, staring at the shot in my hand. He’s wearing sunglasses and a green bomber jacket over a white t-shirt.

My face burns hot. “Go away before you make me spill more of it,” I flick my white fingernails in the air in a ‘shoo’ motion.

“I’ve watched you down four of those. How many more did you take that I haven’t seen?” Seven total, not that I’d tell him that.

“Are you stalking me?” I knit my brows together.

“Tequila makes you violent,” he’s referring to the fight at the bar the night we met, I know it, but I ignore that.

“Think you know me so well, huh?” I roll my eyes.

“I think so, yes.”

I watch him a while, feeling awkward as he stares down at me intensely. “What the hell’re you supposed to be anyway?” I slur, blinking slowly.

Offended, he opens his arms. “I’m Tom Cruise in Top Gun!” He says it like it’s so obvious, removing the sunglasses. His face hardens as he clenches his jaw and his eyes thin. I roll my eyes at him and open my mouth the take the shot that’s rested in my hand for far too long. He lunges for it but misses, knocking it out of my hand to spill down my face and chest. The liquid is cold against my hot chest, making me gasp in surprise. Steves face falls, soft and puppy-dog like as he reaches out to me again, this time to comfort me but I shy away from his grasp. He settles on ripping the towel hanging off the stove handle, wiping the tequila from my chin. His touch lingers over my lips, tracing them with his eyes. That familiar buzz; the excitement and anxiety, overwhelms me.

No. No, you don’t get to keep doing this to me.

I snatch the cloth from his hand, blinking away tears as I storm down the hallway to my bedroom. Footsteps follow me but I ignore them. These two complete strangers making out on my bed and someone snorting a line of powder off my bathroom vanity. They must be some people Jenny invited because I don’t recognize them. Full of fury and feeling the effects of five shots, I scowl, “Get the fuck out of here!” As they scramble away, I can’t help but laugh at the absolute disrespect and audacity.

“Sunny, just chill out for a second,” Steve stammers, pushing past the three people trying to weasel their ways out the door at the same time.

Speaking of audacity.

“Oh, my God! What do you want!” I turn on my tiptoes so fast that I see double for a second. I wobble but don’t accept his outstretched arms. His eyes are big and doe-like, watching me with intent. “I’m serious, Steve. What do you want?”

He stiffens, scared to answer. “To make sure you’re okay,” he speaks softly.

“S’fine,” I murmur, feeling guilty. Blinking slowly, I turn away from him and head to the bathroom. I use the hand towel to carefully sweep the powdery substance and rolled up dollar bill left on the counter into a trash bin, throwing the towel away as well. I groan, begrudgingly admitting to myself that I’ll also have to deep clean my own bathroom and bedroom. Dirty degenerates, defiling my personal space. Make sure you wear gloves, I remind myself.

I need another drink.

“You definitely don’t,” he answers. Shit, did I say that aloud?

I lean over the sink for support, reaching for my makeup bag to reapply the foundation and lipstick Steve had smeared when trying to wipe my face. “I’m gonna do what I want and you’re gonna leave me alone and go hangout with your girlfriend,” I snap, brushing foundation onto my cheek.

I watch him subtly through the reflection in the mirror. He shakes his head. “She’s not my girlfriend,”

“Then what’s she still doing in our house, Steve?”

“Why does it matter?!”

“It doesn’t!” I shout, slapping the makeup brush on the counter. Why am I so angry? Why do I care?

It happens in the blink of an eye. His hand on my waist, spinning me around and pressing himself up against me. Suddenly I’m stone cold sober, adrenaline flushing through my veins and reinvigorating me in a way that makes my heart want to leap out of my throat. His large hand cups my face, fingers tangling into my hair. He’s clearly fed up with my theatrics, but his voice remains steady. “You’re such a brat when you’re drunk, y’know that?”

I can’t really blame him for thinking that way; I got in a fight at the bar the very first night he met me, I threatened him with violence against his laundry if he didn’t help me set Daizy and Ben up, and now we’re here. And I’m yelling at him for things I shouldn’t be, because I have no one to blame but myself for getting myself into this mess. Ben warned me and I didn’t listen time and time again. The common denominator here is the alcohol, the second it touches my tongue I become much braver. Or dumber. Both?

He’s been drinking, too. I can smell it on his breath, fanning my face as his lips hover mere inches away from me. It’s so strange, how I’ve craved being this close to him but now that I am I want nothing more than to run away. In the measly distance between us, those inches, are where bad decisions are made. To break the seal is to never return, the start of an apocalypse. The end of the world as we know it.

He leans in closer—holy shit, he’s getting closer—but flinches at the last second. Desperately clinging onto familiarity.

Familiarity. Early morning wakes before the sun, whispers over steaming coffee mugs. I’ll feed Archie just as Ben wakes up. He’ll make a comment about how Steve never seems to sleep just as Eddie comes to make himself his daily Irish coffee. The four of us will eat breakfast then go on about our lives, knowing we always had each other to come home to on the days when everything sucks. One big, happy, fucked up family. And we’re about to completely ruin that.

“What the fuck?!” It’s for the better that Jenny’s scream rips through the room and spooks me so bad I shrivel up.

“This is totally not what it looks like,” I gasp out, shoving Steve away from me.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re making out with my boyfriend!” It’s a serious situation dulled by the ridiculousness of her fairy costume. Don’t you dare laugh, this is a horrible time. Ben, alerted by the shouting, arrives first. Trevor and Robin follow after him.“You filthy liar,” she starts up again, pointing an acrylic nail at Steve. “You promised me there was nothing going on between you two!”

“There isn’t!” Once he lies the first time, it’s like he can’t stop. “She drank too much and got sick. Was just helping her fix her makeup,” oh sure, make me look bad when you’re the one that spilt tequila all over me. Jenny’s not buying it, so he adds, “she’s got a boyfriend!”

“I do?” I murmur under my breath.

“You what?!” Ben snaps from beside Jenny, who folds her arms.

“If not my brother,” She looks back at Trevor. “Then who?”

Everyone watches me expectantly. I can feel Steve’s eyes boring a hole into my skull, begging for his life. I’m going to murder you, Steve Harrington. “I’m uh…” I start. Think, think! Late as always, Eddie barrels into the room, tripping and smacking into Ben’s back. Trevor catches him, helping him stand upright. Suddenly, I remember earlier. ‘Are you guys like, a thing or something?’ Trevor’s voice echoes in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull. “I’m dating Eddie, obviously!” I lie in desperation.

Eddie seems very surprised that we’re dating. Can’t blame him. He points at himself drunkenly with questions in his eyes, but as everyone stares at him and he looks between Steve and I—our pleading glances—he scoffs. “Oh, shit. Yeah. Totally forgot to tell you guys that,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side.

“Oh really? Then how come I walked in on him fucking some girl when I was looking for the bathroom earlier? Sure as hell didn’t look like you,” Jenny snaps.

“…you walked in? Didn’t even hear you…” Eddie slurs, vampire teeth long gone, cape barely hanging on. Oh God, he’s to far gone to do this right now.

Shit. Well, you’re in too deep now. Might as well keep lying. “You son of a bitch!” I shout at Eddie, crossing the room. “You’re cheating on me?” I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the commitment to the bit, but I land one slap on his cheek. He looks down at me, leaning back and his chest puffed out like an angry bird. I want to laugh so bad but I restrain myself, grabbing his wrist. “Come here. I’m gonna… throw you off the balcony… or something!” I pretend to be fuming until I’ve dragged him all the way down the hall into the now empty living room. Seems as though the yelling made everyone scatter like roaches. Desperate to get away from everything, I open one of the windows and shove him out onto the fire escape, following right after. He’s laid on the ground like an idiot, so I fall into him when I jump down.

He giggles, spreading out like a starfish and his breath crystallizing in the air. “Did you—did you fucking hit me?” He says through belly laughs.

I plop down next to him on the cold metal. “Ugh, yeah. Sorry,”

“S’okay. I didn’t feel it,” he sits up, scooting backwards until his back hits the brick wall. I do the same and he wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into him. I rest my head on the junction between his collarbone and shoulder. “You’ve really done it now, Sweetheart,” he tells me, suddenly sounding sober. I’m pretty stone cold myself. The cold air does that to people, I suppose.

“Tell me about it,” I groan. I remember the cigarette Eddie gave me and I dig into my bra, where I’d stashed it for a situation like this one. I don’t smoke, but this seems like a perfect time to start.

He laughs. “So, you get lucky with Harrington or what?” He asks, digging through his back pocket to retrieve a metal Zippo with a skull on it.

“No,” I breathe, shivering as the sweat on my body cools to near freezing temperatures. Eddie feels it and pulls me closer, careful to not accidentally touch one of my many exposed parts in this skimpy costume. “You’re the only one who got lucky tonight. I can’t believe you scored a girl in one night,” I laugh, lighting the cigarette and handing the lighter back to him.

He slips a cig into his own mouth and lights it, the metal clink of the Zippo fading into the Chicago noise below us. “Yeah, well, she was actually a he. So not only is Jennifer a bitch but she’s also not very observant,” he discloses, casually puffing his cigarette. I didn’t know he swung that way until now, though I can’t say I’m surprised. “Something tells me she won’t be around much longer anyways,” he adds, shoving the lighter into his front right pocket.

“Why’s that?” I huff.

Eddie cackles, pushing smoke out his nose. “I stole her coke from her purse and planted it in Steve’s room for him to find,”

I snort. A surprised yet joyful sound. “Jesus, Eddie.”

Comfortable silence settles between us as we smoke our cigarettes. A buzz tingles through my body and my head feels light. It’s a wonderful feeling, but definitely not worth the taste of dirt and cancer. “Hey, Ed?” I finally say.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?”

“Thank you for playing along earlier,”

“Of course. I’ll be your fake boyfriend anytime,” he coos through a plume of smoke.

I wave the cigarette around. ‘This thing’s fucking gross. I’m never smoking again,” I smile, waving the cigarette between my fingers.

He laughs so loudly I’m scared he’ll wake up the neighbors. “That’s alright, you can stick to drinking,” he tells me. “How much have you had to drink? Must’ve even a lot to try to jump our roommate’s bones,”

“Six, seven including the one I had with you. And you know I hate when you say it like that,” I complain.

“Jesus H. Christ, how are you still alive?” He coughs.

“Spite.” I answer simple, snuffing my cigarette out on the wall to my left. I lull my head back onto his shoulder, exhausted and sick from the unholy concoction of nicotine and alcohol. What a night.

“That’s my girl.” He beams, mirroring my actions before leaning down to kiss my forehead. I smile to myself, allowing the drama of the night to seep out of me and sink into the earth to be forgotten about. That is, until the window opens again. Steve’s head pops out, solemn and puppy-like.

He looks at Eddie. “Hey uh…Can I talk to her for a minute?”

Eddie looks to me for approval. I nod and he stands, lending me a hand to help me up. I take it and he unties his cloak, draping it over my bare shoulders. On his way back inside he pats Steve’s shoulder twice. They exchange what I can only describe as guy telepathy, as I for the life of me can’t figure out why they’ve both got that look on their face. Eddie disappears into the apartment, the lack of his warmth palpable so I pull the cloak tighter to my figure. I look down at the city below us, zooming cars honking at drunk college kids in costumes scurrying across the streets.

“Hey,” Steve says quietly.

I peer up at him, thankful that the dark hides my pink cheeks. “Hi,” I squeak. Cringing, I stand up straight and tall. Appear confident. Do not seem weak.

“Jenny is uh—she’s gone. For good,” he shoves his hands in his blazer pockets, rocking on his feet.

“Oh. You found the drugs, huh?”

“The what?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it…” I make a mental note to force Eddie to remove the paraphernalia from Steve’s bedroom before it’s discovered. “Sorry you guys broke up,”

He surprises me when he laughs, dry and bitter. He shakes his head. “We were never really together in the first place. Honestly, she just scared the shit out of me. Thought if I called it off she might murder me,”

“You live with Ben and Eddie. How can you be afraid of anything after that?”I laugh. He mirrors it, warm and genuine, unlike the previous one.

There’s something hanging in the air, heavy like dumbbells suspended by flimsy string. About to drop on our heads and crush us both. What were we about to do? A lump in my throat forms as I choke down all the agonizing questions. Would you kiss me? Would you like it? Would you regret it? It seems there is no appropriate time to ask such loaded questions. But God, do I want to know. It’s driving me insane.

“About earlier—“ we both start in unison. Shared breathy laugher. I gesture for him to go first.

He steps closer, cautious and weary, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Before I say anything. Are you still drunk?”

I suppress my giant smile and shake my head. “Honestly, Jenny scares me too. I’m pretty stone-cold sober after that,” we are inches apart now, chests brushing. I look up at him in a surge of bravery. “Are you? Drunk, I mean,”

He smiles, white teeth and flawless skin. Silence. He reaches out, stroking my face with his thumb. “No. I stayed sober to keep an eye on you,”

“My hero,” I joke.

He chortles. “You drive me nuts, you know that?”

There’s a scuffle from inside the apartment. I peer through the window and catch Robin, Eddie, Vickie, and Trevor, thinking they’re ever so sneaky as they watch us. They catch my glare and scatter, a mess of limbs and someone must fall because I hear a loud bang. Ben shouts something that’s muffled through the wall.

Suddenly aware of watching eyes, I tilt my head back to Steve. You gotta stay away from him, Ben’s voice echoes in my head. We can’t do this here. Not now. “Keep up, Harrington.” I tell him, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek before releasing myself from his hold. He stands there, dumbfounded in thought, until I open the window and call back to him, “Hey Superman. You comin’ inside? Or do you wanna sleep out here again?”

He laughs and runs a hand through the gel in his hair before chasing after me.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

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prvt-tucker · 6 months ago

Text

Coffee and Cigarettes: A Viktor x f!Reader Rehab AU

TWs: mentions of drug use (future, not this chapter) mentions of anorexia and bulimia, smoking, mental health issues

Summary: You didn’t exactly sign up to spend part of your time as a scholarship student at the elite Piltover Academy on medical leave at a co-Ed rehab for those who struggle with addiction, but you want to keep your academic standing, so here you are.

You also didn’t sign up for the cute theoretical physics major turned fellow patient with the golden eyes and irresistible accent, either

A/N: hi all I’m backkkkk it’s about damn time!!! I’m currently going through a very transient period in my life and all that, and I haven’t watched act 2 yet due to that but I do know Jinx and Vik meet, and ik he calls her Powder. I figure that he would call her Jinx here if she wanted it though. I may have made reader a cello player because my sweet golden retriever of a boyfriend plays the cello lmao

I’ll have 15 months clean + sober at the end of November, gd willing 🙏💜

—-

The ward smelt of antiseptic. Wait—no. This isn’t a ward. You’re bleary eyed and tired from the meds they’ve given you to detox; being shuffled from a more intensive unit to this co-Ed rehab just feels like a blurry stop on a long road.

Your belongings are in a plastic “patient belongings” bag and a single wheelie bag; you hadn’t planned on this. On any of this.

On the Disaster. On having to take a leave from the elite Piltover Academy, the university where you had gotten a scholarship as a music student. The Dean said your scholarship wasn’t in danger; that the department just wanted you well again.

You didn’t know what you wanted anymore.

The intake isn’t much of a change as before. Name. Vitals. A new hospital bracelet to replace the other. Answering the same questions over and over, as though they aren’t in your file. You want to crawl into bed and stay there forever.

The charge nurse, a no-nonsense woman whose name tag reads “Sevika” seems done with you before you even open your mouth.

As you sit there, in the hard plastic chair, drawing your knees up to your chin, a short, blue haired girl approaches the nurses’ station.

She’s thin. Too thin, her collar bones sticking out and her cheeks hollow. You know that look, the look of malnourishment, and envy burns worse than the stomach acid.

“Sevika—“ the girl starts, and Sevika holds up her hand in a “stop” motion.

“I’m busy. Intake.”

“You can’t just—“

“Jinx. Unless your arm is about to fall off or something, it can wait twenty minutes. Go talk to Lest.”

“Fuck you too.”

Sevika rolls her eyes, and turns her attention back to you. “Well, now I can say you’ve met your roommate.”

“My roommate?”

“You’ll be in Room 2 with Jinx. We’re gonna keep your luggage locked up here until after dinner when the night staff can search your belongings for contraband with you.”

You want to say that if you possibly had contraband it would have been taken at the detox; that Sevika surely would know that given your paperwork. But she doesn’t seem like the type you want to get into a pissing contest with, especially on your first day.

Finally, she lets you go with a gruff, “you can go into the community room now,” flagging down a lackey to lead you, still shell-shocked, down a hallway and through a pair of double doors.

The community room is a little rough around the edges, but you can forgive that, given you’re more than a little rough around the edges yourself.

There’s a few couches scattered here and there, a plain wooden table in the back with some chairs drilled into the floor. A series of cubbies along one wall, with personalized name tags clearly designed by one of the patients’ in blue and pink paints.

A bookshelf with a small lending library of books; if your mind wasn’t so fuzzy you would gravitate towards here immediately. If you weren’t busy with your cello, your head is always buried in some book or another. It didn’t exactly make you the most popular growing up.

Maybe that was why—

No. That was stupid.

You stand on the precipice, the stupid binder they’ve given you on entry held close to your chest, taking in the scene around you, of the other fuck ups in the cage, so to speak. There’s the blue-haired girl, the skinny one, that’s supposed to be your roommate. She’s sitting all wrong on one of the tall-backed armchairs, the kind that you used to see in the Academy library. In the matching armchair next to her is possibly the most attractive boy you’ve ever seen.

All lanky limbs and sharp angles, with bright golden eyes and thick brown hair you immediately want to run your hands through. His crutch is next to the chair, and he has an Academy pin on the lapel of his vest—his shirt underneath is rolled to the elbows and you keep thinking about his forearms for some reason.

Oh god, this is bad.

Your mouth goes dry, and it gets worse when you notice he has the most perfect mole by his mouth, begging to be caught by an errant kiss. Your heart is hammering in your chest and your realize that not only is this quite possibly the worst “first day of school” vibe ever, but you haven’t said anything for the past thirty seconds like some sort of startled creature afraid of her own shadow.

The blue-haired girl throws a wad of paper at the Beautiful Boy’s head. “Hey, Vitya!”

“I told you to stop throwing things at my head.”

Oh, his accent is enough to bring you to your knees, too.

“Fine. But look! We got a new one! And Sevika said she’s rooming with me!”

Vitya—if that’s his name—turns his attention to you, and you don’t know what to say or do.

Thankfully, you don’t have to. An effortlessly cool young woman takes control, sticking her hand out for you to shake, blocking your view of the boy.

“I’m so sorry they just left you like this. Lest. One of the floor counselors.”

“The only cool one,” Blue Hair drawls from the corner.

“Jinx—“ Lest doesn’t even pretend to be mad.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You shrug your shoulders, mutter your name. That’s enough, apparently, and you are about to go hide in a corner, but no such luck.

“Hey! New roomie!” Jinx waves you over.

“Hm?”

Jinx hangs off the chair. “I scared off the last roommate.”

“Jinx, you snuck contraband up your—“ Vitya points out in a matter of fact tone.

Jinx cuts him off with the wave of a hand. “Details, Viktor. Does it really matter?”

“Well, yes.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. Viktor has a wry sense of humor; you can see the twinkle in his eyes when he speaks, and it’s precisely the same type you enjoy. The sound seems to catch him off guard, and he looks at you up and down for a long moment; you find yourself wondering if you’re being studied, and it takes a lot of effort to keep your gaze level.

A click of a doorknob and heavy footsteps.

“Jinx, meds.” Sevika.

“Do I have to?”

“What do you think?”

“Ugh, fine.” Jinx gets up, blue braids trailing behind her, leaving just you and Vitya-Viktor. You’re still standing awkwardly, not sure if you’re bold enough to take her spot.

“She has a thing about the chair,” he says, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“I mean, I get it. If I had been here a while I would probably have a favorite too.”

You settle for the floor, drawing one knee up to your chest and circling it with your arm.

“It has been a while.”

Shit. If this is what Jinx looked like after a while in treatment, you probably didn’t want to see what the “before” was. You decide to change the subject.

“Vitya or Viktor?”

“An abrupt topic change.”

“I noticed you were called both. I was wondering what your name is.”

At this, you are gifted a rare smile from him, something you know you’ll be playing over and over again in your mind.

“It’s Viktor.”

——

#viktor arcane #arcane viktor #my fic writing #my fic #viktorxreader #viktor x reader fic #viktor x f!reader #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor x reader #viktor nation #jinx arcane

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ikuramachi · 7 days ago

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╰┈➤ A Pact of Blood; the Angel and Demon of Hell.

⟢ Two Blades and a Single Promise.

• Contents: One Piece x original character. A scenario between Roronoa Zoro and his crewmate, Umi, where they promise each other to live and die by each other’s hands; a drabble.

The sun had just begun to dip below the edge of the sea, casting the deck of the Merry in soft amber hues. A warm breeze blew over the ship as the crew gathered for a rare moment of calm. Dinner was done, the waves were gentle, and the energy on board had mellowed into the kind of stillness only found in true camaraderie.

Robin leaned lazily against the railing, a book in her hand but forgotten in her lap, whilst Nami was sunbathing as usual, with some fresh, cold orange juice in her grasp. Usopp and Chopper sat cross-legged on the deck, munching on snacks. Luffy lay sprawled across a barrel, hat covering his face, though his ears were clearly tuned in. Sanji was cleaning his knives nearby, but his eyes often wandered, losing focus too often for his own comfort, but not that it was unwarranted.

Zoro sat cross-armed on the edge of the deck, swords lined beside him, back resting against the rails as he stared out at the sea.

Across from him, Umi sat in her usual style—legs folded underneath her, pipe resting delicately between her fingers, a small wisp of smoke curling from its tip. She had her katana laid across her knees, the sheath gleaming dully under the light. A IV pole stood tall beside her, with a couple bags full of blood attached and connected to her hand, an unusual sight that's become all too familiar for the Straw Hats by now. Her blindfold, as always, masked her eyes, but her expression was relaxed.

A rare silence hung between them. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just charged—like flint waiting to spark.

“Oi,” Zoro muttered finally, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. From the way his eyes looked at her, Umi clearly senses that there must've been thousands of unanswered questions running wild in his hollow mind. “That sword of yours... why keep it sheathed all the time?”

The rest of the crew subtly perked up. Even Luffy tilted his hat just enough to see.

Umi smiled faintly, pipe still balanced between her fingers. “Because it hurts when I draw it.”

Zoro grunted. “Tch. That’s a lame excuse if I've ever heard one.”

Her smile curled wider. “And here I thought you’d be one to understand. What a shame." She exhaled smoke. Suddenly, the pipe was thrown to the ground as Umi straightened up, holding up her bandaged hand to her chest. Her voice roared dramatically, like her very soul was on fire. “It’s not pain I’m afraid of. It’s what the pain brings out!”

Zoro’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment. “...That sword. It’s just steel, isn't t?”

She tilted her head. “No. It’s a part of me. My blood. My fire. When I draw it, it’s like unsheathing my very soul. And souls, Zoro, aren’t always clean.”

There was a silence, broken only by the soft creak of the ship and the ocean’s lull.

Usopp leaned toward Chopper, whispering, “Woah. That’s like... some deep samurai metaphor stuff.”

“Shhh!” Nami hissed, slapping a hand over Usopp's mouth.

Zoro’s arms unfolded. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “And yet... you keep training. Keep swinging it. Even if it puts you down.”

“Of course,” Umi said, as if it were obvious. Her previous whimsical, dramatic demeanor replaced with one much more serious. A gaze that, although he couldn't see, Zoro felt the intensity of which. “Because one day, you’ll have to cut me down.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. The tension was palpable, thick enough it could be cut with a knife. Or a sword... in a situation like this.

Sanji stopped polishing his blade. Robin looked up from her book. Luffy's eyes were almost sparkling, although he wasn't entirely understanding what was going on.

Zoro didn’t react, nor say anything. But his jaw tightened.

“I don’t fight for glory,” Umi continued. “I don’t fight to be the strongest. My dream is... different.” Her tone softened, yet it held the edge of conviction. “I want to make sure the people I love achieve their dreams. Luffy’s. Yours. Sanji’s. All of you. That’s enough for me.”

She turned her face toward Zoro. “And your dream... is to be the strongest swordsman in the world. To surpass even the man who taught me everything I know.”

Zoro’s knuckles twitched.

“So,” she said, tapping the hilt of her sheathed katana. “You’ll have to get through me to get to him.”

Zoro's scoffed, smirking to hide the nervousness that hid beneath the facade. Not because he was scared that he'd lose, but because he feared the weight of new, upcoming promise that he felt. “You planning to stop me?”

“No,” she said, lips curling slightly. “I’m planning to push you.”

He stared at her. Not with defiance. Not with hostility. But with something more potent. Respect.

Umi exhaled smoke and looked toward the never-ending blue horizons. “One day, you and I will fight. No interruptions. No distractions. Just blades and conviction.”

Zoro’s mouth quirked upward into something resembling a smirk. “And when I win?”

“Then you become the world’s strongest,” she said, tone calm and proud. “And I get to say I helped you get there.”

“...And if you win?”

“Then you’ll have to try harder,” Umi said with a shrug.

Luffy let out a low whistle. “That’s cool...”

Nami crossed her arms with a thoughtful look. “So their dreams actually... overlap.”

Robin closed her book slowly. “No. They intertwine. Like parallel blades crossing the same path.”

Chopper and Usopp were in a state that could be only described as being on the verge of tears out of sheer admiration.

Zoro stood up and walked slowly toward her. Umi rose in turn, unslinging her katana from her knees and letting it rest against her shoulder.

"So, we're rivals now." Umi smiled.

“We're allies before anything else.” Zoro replied as he stopped just a feet away from her, his cocky smirk replaced with a softer look now. He let out a sigh, like he was annoyed, but Umi knew that was far from the case. "So... I'd have to achieve my dream to fulfill yours, and to do that, I have to defeat you? Well, I’d be damned. What an odd, twist of fate." He chuckled.

Then, Zoro held out his fist.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Umi grinned, soft and content. She raised her fist, too. Their fists collided with a satisfying crack, the sound echoing like a drawn blade in the quiet dusk.

And somehow, the ship felt still. Not just calm, but aligned. Like something in the universe had clicked into place.

A promise was made.

Usopp blinked. “Okay but like—are they gonna fight now or make a blood pact or...?”

Chopper wiped a tear. “That was... that was beautiful...”

Before, Sanji was scowling. Now, he was staring at the sight ahead of him like the whole world just came crashing down on him. His face was scrunched and squeezed like his soul was sucked out of him, steam coming out from him. ”Wh... WHAT?!"

Luffy grinned, wide and bright. “Zoro’s gonna fight Umi someday. That’s gonna be so cool!”

Nami sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. Not that she was annoyed, per-say, just that her crewmates never ceased to surprise her. Not that she was complaining, really. “So, are they flirting, or what?”

Sanji practically hollered in objection at Nami’s words, still fuming, so much that he could’ve caught on fire. “IT’S CALLED UNNECESSARY CONTACT!”

Umi grinned, a low chuckle emitting from her. "Until then, let's get stronger. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

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sashaasreads · 5 months ago

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Shattered Reflections

A/n: A little angsty story about Bucky Barnes. This is not an x reader.

Part 2 part 3

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

The mirror stared back at him, cracked down the center.

Bucky Barnes sat on the floor of his bathroom, knees drawn up, his breathing shallow. His vibranium hand hung loosely at his side, the faint hum of its mechanics the only sound in the silent room. The apartment was dark; the only light came from the flickering bulb above the mirror.

He hadn’t meant to break it. It had been a moment of weakness, of anger, of frustration—a punch thrown at his own reflection.

The crack split his face in two, dividing the man he wanted to be from the shadow he had been.

“You’re not real,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The image didn’t answer, but it mocked him all the same. Half of his face was James Buchanan Barnes—the boy from Brooklyn who dreamed of something better. The other half was the Winter Soldier—the assassin who left nothing but blood and ash in his wake.

He stared at the distorted version of himself, memories clawing their way to the surface. Hydra’s commands, sharp and unrelenting. His hands, covered in blood. The screams.

“You’re not real,” he repeated, louder this time, as if the words could banish the ghosts.

But he knew better. The Winter Soldier was real. And no amount of words could erase what he had done.

Bucky’s left hand twitched—a phantom sensation from a limb that was long gone. He remembered losing it, the explosion tearing through his body as he fell from the train. He remembered waking up to agony and confusion, Zola’s cold voice instructing Hydra’s scientists to “prepare the asset.”

Asset. That was all he had been to them. A weapon. A tool. A machine.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The cold tiles pressed against his back, grounding him. But the memories still came, unbidden and relentless. He saw himself walking through smoke-filled corridors, Hydra agents scrambling to make way for him. He felt the weight of the rifle in his hands, the mechanical precision of his movements as he carried out their orders.

It was always the same: faces blurred by time but emotions sharp as ever. Fear. Anguish. And his own detachment, a passenger in his body while the Winter Soldier pulled the trigger.

Sometimes he wondered if they had truly erased his soul, or if they had just buried it so deep it could never find its way back to the surface.

His vibranium arm glinted in the faint light, a cruel replacement for what was stolen from him. It was better than the crude monstrosity Hydra had given him, but it didn’t feel like his. Nothing about his body felt like his.

The present was no less cruel. The world didn’t know what to do with him—half the people treated him as a war hero, the other half a war criminal. He didn’t belong anywhere.

Steve was gone. The one person who had truly believed in him, who had fought to bring him back, had left. Bucky understood why, but the ache of being alone again was a weight he couldn’t shake.

Shuri had tried to help him, too. She had given him peace, even hope, in Wakanda. But Wakanda wasn’t his home. He didn’t think he had a home anymore. Brooklyn was just a memory, a place that existed in the 1940s, frozen like a photograph in his mind.

And now he was here, in a rundown apartment, staring at his fractured reflection and wondering if he even deserved to keep breathing.

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists, flesh and metal trembling. He thought about punching the mirror again, shattering it completely. Maybe it would feel good, a brief catharsis in the destruction.

Instead, he unclenched his hands and pressed his metal palm against the cracked glass. The vibrations hummed faintly as he traced the jagged line splitting his face.

“You’ll never be whole,” he muttered to himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the empty bathroom.

He thought about Sam. Sam had been trying, hadn’t he? Trying to help him, trying to reach him. But every conversation with Sam felt like an interrogation, like being forced to confront truths he wasn’t ready for.

“You’ve got to start letting go,” Sam had told him once. “Forgive yourself.”

But how could he?

He looked back at the mirror. “You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said aloud, his voice breaking.

The tears came then, unbidden and hot, sliding down his cheeks as he stared at the stranger in the mirror.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. The tears eventually stopped, leaving him feeling drained and raw.

The world outside was quiet, the city muffled by the late hour. Slowly, Bucky pushed himself up from the floor, gripping the edge of the sink for support. He wiped his face with a trembling hand, avoiding his reflection this time.

He thought about Shuri’s words, about Sam’s stubborn faith in him. About Steve’s unwavering belief that he was more than what Hydra had made him.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe he would never be more than the broken pieces of James Barnes and the Winter Soldier.

But maybe—just maybe—he could try to be something else.

He didn’t know what that looked like yet. He didn’t know if he had the strength to rebuild himself. But the flicker of hope, faint and fragile, was there.

As he left the bathroom...

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

Part 2 is coming very soon.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #the winter soldier #the white wolf #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #angst #sashaasreads

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porcelainseashore · 7 months ago

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The Other Son - WoD HalloZine "Haunting"

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: It’s been such a joy to take part in @vampemoqueen’s WoD HalloZine—my very first zine! Thank you so much for this experience and putting it all together. Here’s a short story of Kai, my beloved Ventrue, and the shadows of the past that haunt them.

Content Warnings: Brief references to drugs, self harm, maybe suicide (if you squint?), nihilism, and murder of a child.

“Jesus!” they cursed as their feet plunged into the silty drainage and mud squelched underfoot.

It had only been a little over half an hour since Kai entered this godforsaken place, burrowing their way underground like vermin. Beyond the manhole covers overhead, cars zoomed by and train tracks rumbled. They were still close to the surface, close enough to hear the city breathe.

However, down here, filth and grime carved out names for themselves on the grooved walls. At first, they gagged at the stench, finding it unbearable, but as their senses adjusted, one smell blended into another, like a sickness they could no longer distinguish.

Under normal circumstances, they would never be caught dead wandering around the sewers downtown. But since when were things normal? Like all fledglings turned neonates, they had been obeying tall and elusive orders every night since their Embrace. Except, they weren’t like the others—they were groomed to succeed and never to fail.

There was another splash as the ground sucked them in, causing them to sink knee-deep.

“For Christ’s sake!” they yelled again in frustration.

All at once, they heard the scolding voice of Liezel, their mother, resounding in their head just like it was yesterday, “Kai! How many times must I tell you? Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”

They mouthed the words as it came. Liezel’s arms were akimbo, her brows furrowed as spittle flew across the room. She had rapped their knuckles harshly with the wooden handle of a feather duster for good measure.

Kai could feel the sting of pain upon their hand, as clear as day, but sharper still was the humiliation, the hurt pride. Their younger stepbrother, Alfie, had giggled to himself in the corner. They clenched their fists. People said they took after their mother’s temper, and more often than not, they found themself agreeing.

At this point, their tailored pants and leather shoes were soaked through and ruined. Even dry cleaning wouldn’t be able to salvage them in their miserable state. Grimacing, they brushed beads of waste water off their waistcoat—it was Sisyphean, almost—as new drops replaced old, blooming in piss-drunk patches across silk weaves.

Why had their sire, Elena, sent them here again? Oh yes, “The sewer rats,” she said. “They’re hiding something from us. Find out what it is.”

They flipped their damp bangs away from their face in annoyance. Nearly two decades as a Kindred and they were still an errand runner—to Elena, to Lady Josephine, and in turn, to Baron Judge, the overarching Camarilla… Stringing them along with faint promises of power, like seductive wisps of smoke unfurling from their tongues, slithering into their ear and making a home in the hollow cavity of their skull.

Well, there were no sewer rats here. Through the dimmed shadows of light, all they could hear was the sound of sewage flushing through the system, pipes hissing and shaking, and molded moisture leaking from the arched ceilings. As they took a right, a group of vagrants huddling over a naked fire in an oil drum eyed them suspiciously. One crawled out from his tattered cardboard bed and shambled over to them.

“You got any er—”

Fentanyl. Meth. Heroin. He probably thought he could score some. The mole people—the homeless, the addicts, the outcast. They lived underground, in the flood tunnels, because there was nowhere else to go. Sometimes the water would reach so high that a bunch of them would drown. Not being quick enough made them easy pickings for the Nosferatu, but still bad blood all around.

Kai scrunched their face in disgust before relaxing their expression. Maybe they would have some use for this pitiful thing in front of them. With a practiced smile, they simpered, “I do… but first, tell me, how well do you know this place?”

The man coughed and shivered, grinning with swollen gums and putrid teeth. “Like the back of my hand.”

A guide. The gatekeeper of the sewer entrance had talked at length about its subterranean depths. Perhaps this man would know more. Raising an eyebrow, Kai focused their gaze, making sure their eyes met. A thin ring around their irises glowed—subtle, enticing, yet demanding. “Take me to its belly.”

He blinked slowly, once, twice, and then nodded. “This way,” he beckoned, turning around and trudging off through the labyrinth like a good soldier.

And so, Kai carried on, past winding corridors and forgotten lairs, crushing soiled glass and used needles beneath their heels. At the sides, strange altars decorated with melted wax candles and rotting pomegranates honored secret gods. The tunnels got darker and colder, so much so that they had to rely on their phone light to brighten up the path, but the guide didn’t seem bothered. In fact, he became livelier the deeper they went, as if he were drawing energy from some unknown source.

“Albert and Persephone would have a field day with this,” Kai grumbled under their breath, mocking the two absent members of their coterie behind their backs. Sarcasm dripped from their lips, cloying and condescending.

They recognized that same unease they felt whenever Albert conducted one of his ceremonies, or the time they witnessed Persephone casting eerily-shaped shadows from her bare hands. The taint of Oblivion clutched at their unbeating heart and made their skin crawl.

Distant screams and moans from an alley interrupted their thoughts and a gnarly hand tugged at their arm. “Not there,” the guide warned before taking off again along another passageway.

The metallic stairs they descended afterward screeched on its hinges, clanking against the wall. Kai wondered how far down they went. It felt like they had been walking for miles. At some point, their phone light flickered and went out, and they stood in total darkness on the suspended staircase swaying in the chilled air.

It was so silent you could hear a pin drop, which was weird, precisely because they heard nothing. No creaking, no footsteps, not even the sound of one’s breathing.

Where had their guide disappeared to? Was this some kind of twisted prank they had fallen for? But it couldn’t be, that mortal should’ve succumbed easily; they saw him submit, enslaved by their will, he couldn’t—

“Kai! Help me, please!” a shrill cry pierced their left ear, shocking them to the core as they stumbled blindly forward, tumbling down the flight of stairs.

When they finally hit the rock-hard ground, something wet and sticky trickled down the side of their face as a dull, throbbing ache blossomed from the crown of their head. “Shit,” they muttered, tasting tangy iron on their lips, like licking a battery.

Dazed, they tried to pick themself up, only to slip on the waxy surface, falling into the muck on all fours. Shame and embarrassment rushed in twofold, rising like waves of heat towards their chest. That prickly feeling at the back of their throat returned, threatening to come apart. This couldn’t be happening—not to them, they didn’t deserve this.

“What do you think you deserve?” the same voice whispered in their ear. Cold, unnatural, and unfeeling, but uncomfortably familiar.

“I deserve a lot more than you!” Kai had screamed, back when they were kids playing on the cliffs along the coast. Resentment reared its ugly head as they glared down at their stepbrother. His chubby hands grasped the cliff’s ledge while he dangled in mid-air, squirming beneath Kai’s feet.

“I deserve all of this!”

They could crush him right now, that stupid weakling who’d never worked a day in his life, who’d everything handed to him on a silver platter, just because he was the favorite.

No one would know.

Crush him.

Do it.

The whispers grew louder as they buried their head in their hands and growled.

“Kai! Help me, please!”

They took one more look at their stepbrother’s soft brown eyes and the ocean of tears that had welled up in them, before setting their foot down on his tiny fingers, treading on them like ants. Alfie lost his grip and Kai had watched quietly as his body was reduced to a simple ragdoll in the tempestuous wind. His limbs tossed about wildly as the howling gust drowned out the boy’s cries. Jagged bedrock by the cliffside framed its subject like a moving watercolor painting. If they squinted, they could pretend it was a bird diving to catch its prey.

They waited, patiently and then some more, until the red sea foam turned pale, and all that was left was a memory of what once was. One less mouth to feed, one less child to fawn over, one less rival to tussle with. Time didn’t bring any remorse. Perhaps they had been a monster even before they were reborn.

From afar, an unearthly roar and mechanical whir shredded through the stillness, jolting them back into the present. Was this what the Nosferatu were hiding? Kai had heard stories of otherworldly entities that existed on this plane, undecipherable, unseen to the naked eye. There were more than just Kindred around, and they were beginning to realize that they weren’t on the top of the food chain.

Bolting forward, they couldn’t care less if they looked more animal than human as the sludge clung to their feet. It felt like a mass of hands creeping up their legs, dragging them down into the dirt where they belonged. They should’ve been put down for what they did. But they felt nothing. Years and months of nothing. At the funeral, they pressed a shard of glass into their palm, squeezing it within the pocket of their trousers, so that they would cry. Liezel couldn’t look at them for weeks.

Maybe this was the day of reckoning, their last chance to repent, but was there really something to feel guilty for? They had merely taken what was rightfully theirs from the beginning—before their mother remarried another man they were forced to call father, before they were told to sacrifice whatever they had for the sake of the other son.

They had reached the end, knowing this to be so as loose stone and rubble gave way, crumbling into the void pit below. It was pitch black, a long drop into a vortex of emptiness. For every second they stopped to pause, the darkness enshrouded them further, heavy and suffocating as it seeped in through their orifices.

And they were back on the cliff, at the scene of the accident. Although, instead of Alfie, it was Kai who was standing at its edge, waiting to be pushed.

“How does it feel to be in my shoes? How does it feel not to exist?” The tone was derisive, contemptuous.

Did Alfie expect them to accept their fate? To beg for forgiveness and mercy? They convulsed with laughter, the sound ricocheting off the walls. Their body was hollowed out, empty, a vacuum where nothing could be replaced.

There was only one thing left to do. Fear and weakness had no place in the Clan of Kings.

“Don’t you know?” they remarked, eyes black as coal. “I always win.”

And then, they jumped.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

#wodhallozine #vtm oc #oc: kai #ventrue #vtm #vampire the masquerade #world of darkness #my vtm writing #kai writing #porcelainscribbles

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 1 year ago

Text

Recover: Cole Cassidy x Reader

Everything was in ruins. Everything was destroyed, up in flames and smoke. The once proud, Overwatch banner fluttering in the Swiss wind is now ash. You were one of the lucky ones returning from fighting, even luckier to miss watching the explosion happen.

Countless dead, many more lying in rows of rooms in the now overcrowded hospital in the next city over.

In the chaos and panic, it was only another stab at Ceaser’s back to know both Strike Commander Morrison and Blackwatch Commander Reyes were both missing, Moira O'Deorain as well. Even in these tragic times, the leaders were missing, gone from the wreckage.

You felt numb, only watching on as the death toll rose overnight in the hospital. No time to grieve, as soon as you all started to weep for one, three more followed soon.

But even in these tragic times, it was warming to see those recover quickly. Genji Shimada of the Blackwatch division was one of them, only needing replacement parts welded back onto him before he too roamed the rooms with you.

But you both found yourselves hanging around one room in particular.

Cole’s room.

It was puppy love, really, but you couldn’t help but feel like a teenager again with how he complimented you. Those tips of his hats to you, all of the little gestures, the growling southern drawl, the winking… Even throughout the chaos of what was Overwatch and Blackwatch, you both found time to… get to know each other better.

He made you feel all fuzzy inside, warm and happy in the cruel world of war you all were forced into. But now, as you look over his body lying lifelessly in the hospital bed, you felt hollow.

His left forearm had been completely blown off, the elbow missing completely. Shattered ribcage and gashes that had him stitched up worse than old children’s toys. His right knee already prepped to have metal implanted later today as his kneecap was missing.

His once hearty tan now pale under the unforgiving hospital lights. Dark circles under his eyes made him look like the undead. All of the bruising and scratches only hurt you the more you looked at them.

You refused to leave his side when you could stay, only really leaving to help out or when he was wheeled back in for more time under the knife. Genji, Ana, Angela and Reinhardt would always walk in on you, clutching Cole’s right hand as you furiously tried to stay awake, wanting to be there when he woke up.

That’s where you were right now, sat in the uncomfortable chair, hunched over onto the hospital bed, elbows digging into the thin mattress as you kept your head up with one hand as the other was linked with Cole’s. It was hard to keep your aching eyes open, the monotone beeping of the machines had started to lull you to sleep once, earning you a mark on the forehead from when your elbows gave out and your head smacked the railing on the bed.

Genji had dropped by earlier, sat with you for a bit in silence before being called away by Angela needing to tune up his cybernetics.

You only perked up as the door opened once more.

Ana had walked in, looking at you gently before looking back at Cole.

“They have his arm’s blueprints ready. Torbjorn is making it now,” she offered, smiling softly at you. You only nodded your head slightly, covering your mouth as you yawned. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

“I don’t know,” you stated. “I wanna be here when he wakes up.”

“What good will that do? You’ve already hit your head once from not sleeping, it could be something worse soon.”

“Ana, I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse sleep-deprived.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can’t stay up with coffee and force. You need rest.

Please.” She stayed silent for just a moment. “Cole would want you to.”

Just the mention of his name brought tears to your eyes. You sniffed and sat back in the chair, never unlinking your fingers from his hand.

“I’ll nap in a bit.”

“(Y/N),” she warned.

Damn her motherly tone.

“One more hour. And then I’ll rest.”

Ana sighed, knowing full and well that in one hour, you would be defying your promise and staying up, waiting patiently for Cole to wake up. Without saying another word, she left the room, leaving you to near silence.

You had no idea how much time had passed, most likely another two hours before the door opened again. It was Ana again, Reinhardt behind her, no doubt the muscle if you refused and latched yourself onto the bed as to not go.

“You’re still up,” she noted.

You felt awful, you were exhausted but you didn’t want to sleep without knowing Cole will be alright. So many things could go wrong in your sleep. You couldn’t bear to know that you weren’t there as he died.

“Come on, (Y/n),” Reinhardt stepped out of the way of the door, “it is time to rest.”

Knowing the German soldier would not leave this room without you in tow, you gave up. Defeated, you finally let go of Cole’s hand and stood on quaking feet. They both smiled, knowing you would finally sleep and take care of yourself.

They both stepped outside into the hallway, allowing you to look over Cole once more from his scruffy hair and sunken face to his pale, clammy body that was mostly hidden beneath the hospital sheets.

As you stepped after the two, you stopped and coiled up at the softest groan, fearing that it was just a hallucination. But as you looked to Ana and Reinhardt, their wide eyes were confirmation that you weren’t hearing things.

You practically flung yourself back into your seat, grasping at Cole’s hand, crying as you saw his eyelids flutter and split open just a bit. You heaved and sobbed, suddenly breaking apart as he gently squeezed your trembling hands, gazing at you out of the corner of his eye.

#overwatch fanfiction #cole cassidy #cole cassidy x reader #cassidy x reader #jesse mccree #mccree x reader

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castawaycat · 8 days ago

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A Soul for a Soul- Chapter 5: The Price of the Soul

Summary: Tony brings everyone back and Wanda returns only to find out that she was too late and her daughter paid the ultimate price in saving the world.

Author's Note: Some parts are not accurate to the movie and I wrote a bit differently to fit my story line. Thank you for reading.

“And I am Iron Man”

The faint hum of energy pulses through the air as Tony snaps his fingers wearing the gauntlet. Outside, the world holds its breath.

And then—

WHOOSH!

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

In an instant, Wanda Maximoff feels the rush of life crash back into her body. Her knees buckle, and she gasps for air as the blinding sunlight replaces the cold, endless darkness she was trapped in just moments ago.

Her heart pounds in her chest. Her mind reels.

She’s back.

But before she can gather her bearings, the pain in her chest flares again—sharper, heavier.

“Y/N…” she whispers, a dreadful sense of wrongness flooding her.

Her feet are moving before she knows it, sprinting through the destroyed halls of the Compound. The place is in ruins, smoke rising from the battlefield outside. Her breath catches as she turns a corner and nearly collapses again when she sees—

“Natasha!”

Natasha is sitting alone by the shattered remnants of a staircase, her face hidden in her hands, shoulders trembling.

“Nat!” Wanda rushes to her, falling to her knees in front of her wife.

At the sound of Wanda’s voice, Natasha lifts her head. Her face is pale and streaked with dried tears. Her lips part, but no words come.

Wanda cups Natasha’s face, her own tears falling freely now.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here,” Wanda chokes out between sobs, pulling Natasha into her arms. “I’m okay. I’m here. Where’s Y/N? Where’s our girl?”

At those words, Natasha goes rigid in Wanda’s arms.

Wanda feels it immediately—the hollow stillness, the absence of hope.

“Nat?” Wanda pulls back, her heart pounding so loudly she can barely hear her own voice. “Where’s Y/N?”

Natasha’s lips tremble. Her hands reach for Wanda’s, clutching them tightly as if trying to hold her together by sheer force.

“Wanda…” Natasha swallows, her voice breaking apart. “I—I’m so sorry…”

A sob breaks free from Wanda’s throat before she even hears the words.

“No… no, don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it, Natasha.”

Natasha crumples against her, her voice raw and full of agony.

“She’s gone… Wanda, she’s gone.”

Wanda shakes her head violently. “No. No, she’s not. You’re wrong! She—she’s just hiding, right? She’s hiding like we taught her. I’ll find her, Nat. I’ll find her!”

Natasha grabs her wrists, forcing her to stay still.

“She followed us… to Vormir.” Natasha’s voice trembles with each word. “We didn’t know—she stowed away. And when it came time to… to make the sacrifice… she didn’t hesitate. She jumped, Wanda. She jumped before we could stop her.”

Wanda’s scream echoes across the Compound, a raw, heart-shattering wail of grief and denial. Her magic explodes outward in a violent surge, red energy cracking through the air and shattering what little glass remained in the broken windows.

“No! NO! You were supposed to protect her! You promised me!” Wanda beats against Natasha’s chest with her fists, her sobs choking her words.

“I know, I know—God, Wanda, I tried! I tried to save her! I tried to trade my life for hers, but she wouldn’t let me!” Natasha cries out, holding Wanda through the storm of her pain.

Wanda collapses fully against her wife, the weight of the universe pressing down on her chest.

“Our baby… our baby is gone…” she whispers through ragged sobs, her fingers clutching at Natasha’s suit like a child lost in a nightmare.

Natasha rocks her gently, her own tears falling into Wanda’s hair.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”

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

LATER THAT NIGHT – THE QUIET AFTER THE STORM

The Compound is eerily quiet now, the aftermath of the final battle leaving everyone hollow and raw.

Wanda sits alone in what used to be Y/N’s room. Her trembling fingers trace the spine of one of your favorite storybooks, the little doodles you’d drawn in the margins bringing fresh tears to her already swollen eyes.

She picks up your favorite stuffed animal from the bed and presses it to her chest, breathing in the faintest trace of your scent.

Natasha stands in the doorway, her eyes red and exhausted.

“She was so brave,” Nat whispers. “She knew exactly what she was doing. And she did it… to save us. To save you.”

Wanda turns her head slightly, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

“I don’t want to be saved if it means losing her.”

Natasha steps into the room, kneeling beside her wife.

“We’ll find a way to live through this,” she murmurs, her voice cracking under the weight of her own doubt. “We have to. For her.”

Wanda leans into her, their broken hearts beating together in the deafening silence of grief.

Outside the shattered Compound, the sun begins to rise—a new day dawning over a world forever changed.

But for Natasha and Wanda, it’s a sunrise without their daughter.

#wandanat imagine #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #female reader daughter #avengers endgame #hurt/comfort #dealing with grief

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helluva-insomniac · 1 year ago

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“Poison” Deep Analysis

(Aka I had too much free time in study hall)

***Some of the questions are unanswered!!!***

Starting with the skulls:

This is one of the questions I have to leave unanswered! I can’t figure out if the skulls are just an omen of death and evil and stuff or if they have a deeper meaning in their design. One thing though I am sure of is any time in this video is when red skulls are used, it’s Valentino. Most red in the video is Valentino overall. (I’m also really liking the bisexual lighting lmao)

Right after the red skulls are used, there are skulls with an “Angel Dust” color palette. I have yet to figure out if these skulls truly represent Angel, but they are definitely used after the red ones to show that Valentino has authority over Angel Dust, which is why the red skulls are shown first.

Next, use of chains:

The chains are red, which agains means Valentino and the chains represent his control over Angel.

Glasses:

I can’t believe it took me so long to notice these!! Obviously Valentino being a dickhead.

Dancers:

The dancers here look exactly like the ones in the gifs released this year, so they are probably related.

(Sorry I couldn’t find a higher quality image)

And the ones in Poison:

I think this means the gif scene and this song are together, unless the dancers are shown in multiple scenes. (Return of the bisexual lighting!!)

The smoke:

The red streaks throughout are Valentino’s smoke, and are even further reinforcing the fact that Valentino has power over Angel.

How “Poison” is depicted:

Possibly one of my favorite points. The letters have another Angel Dust pallet to them, but the second “o” IS THE RED SKULL. This initially made me start this analysis. More of the “Val has power over Angel” motif.

“Every night I’m livin’ like there’s no tomorrow”

This lyric is really powerful along with the ones before it. Not only is Angel trapped, he feels it. This lyric is also very important because it changes later, to “Every night I’m wasted like there’s no tomorrow”, and that’s the first in this song (apart from the smoke) that says that Valentino is drugging Angel.

Angel streaks (??):

A lyric ends with pink streaks over the word that mimics Val’s smoke, but their pink color leaves me to believe that it represents Angel’s free will.

ALSO:

Going along with this, RIGHT after on the next word, Angel’s pink streaks are replaced with Val’s red smoke.

“Drownin’ in poison”:

At this point, Val’s smoke takes on a watery look. Once again showing the authority of Val over Angel and I’ve said that so many times and blah blah blah. But I think the style of it is really cool

“I’m fillin’ up my glass, but it’s always hollow”:

I really like the word choice here. But WHY DID THEY CHOOSE IT?? If it’s meant to be a “glass half full/half empty” thing, I’m assuming it’s Angel saying that his life is hollow and empty. In between this lyric and “full of poison”, the background turns from pink and on “full of poison” changes to red.

“I’m sick of the poison”:

During “I’m sick”, the screen is pink. On “of the poison” it turns red. Also Angel is expressing how he no longer wants to work for Valentino, but

“What’s the worst part of this hell? I can only blame myself”

I don’t think this lyric from earlier in the song is Angel expressing self-pity, but he may feel like he deserves the treatment he gets. That, or he was drugged or truly believed it was a good decision when he signed his contract with Valentino.

Last frame:

I had to remove one of the images I was going to use above so I could get the point across here because holy shit. As much as I want to be positive and say that Angel will get out of his contract nice n’ easy, I really don’t think that’s going to happen. I think that there will be at least a really bad fight between Angel and Valentino, if in season one Angel is released from the contract at all. Another scenario could be that Angel only gets out if Val gets exterminated or a being with high power (someone with power like Charlie or Lucifer or even a very high-ranking Overlord) forces the contract to be broken and Angel to be free.

Also: notice how “tomorrow” is in white while the rest of the lyric is in black. It’s either Angel’s final shred of hope or he has truly given up all hope. The skull reinforces my point above of this not going well for Angel.

————————————————————————

Please comment/send asks if you have your own ideas!!

I think Blake Roman’s voice for Angel is amazing!! I especially like that it is a bit more masculine idk why :) but like holy fuck!! I love this song so much it’s right up there next to Addict

(End- the rest of this is just notes)

Also: there are so many points that if I missed a few I’m sorry lol! It’s so easy to do an analysis on this and I might do one again on other songs when the show comes out.

Also also: I know some of the lyrics and some of my points have other darker/more sexual meanings, but I don’t have the time or mental capacity to unpack that lmao

#hazbin hotel poison #hazbin hotel #angel dust #this took me forever #I love it so much tho #hazbin valentino #hazbin charlie #hazbin lucifer #hellaverse

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swordfishswritingnook · 3 months ago

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Static Angel (Angel x reader)

Slow burn, 6/7 Chapter, Tags: Horror Elements, Stalker, Drug Use, Religious Imagery

Also on AO3!

The line snakes around the old church, its Gothic spires clawing at a sky smeared with light pollution. You’re euphoric, swaying on unsteady heels, his hand engulfing yours. At 6’10”, he towers over the crowd, a monolith in head-to-toe white. The building is a corpse repurposed—stained glass replaced with neon Jesus Saves signs, the bell tower strung with strobe lights. A bouncer in badly made El Chapo costume stamps wrists under the watchful gaze of a defaced stone angel, its eyes gouged out.

You duck into an alley to change, peeling off your thrift-store sweater and shimmying into a mini skirt so short it bites your thighs. The fabric smells like mothballs and Febreze. You smear mascara into a smoky eye using your phone’s cracked screen as a mirror, then slick on lip gloss that tastes like artificial cherries. Perfect .

He watches, leaning against the brick, blonde hair lit by the flicker of a Coca-Cola sign across the canal. His beauty is still unbearable—too symmetrical, too glossy , like a magazine ad for something lethal.

“Ready?” he asks, voice a velvet hum. You nod, though your knees feel like water.

The line creeps forward. The club’s baptismal font brims with neon vomit, a sacrilege that would’ve made your Catholic grandmother weep. You don’t care. You’re too busy drowning in him.

You dig through your bag—$22 crumpled from laundromat dryers, a half-smoked blunt, a white Bic lighter with Jenny’s 21st!!! scrawled in Sharpie. You light the blunt, inhaling deep, the smoke mingling with the canal’s stench of rust and algae. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he watches your lips, pupils swallowing the neon.

A guy in a Fred Durst cap stumbles into him, beer sloshing. “Sick costume, bro,” he slurs, eyeing the angel’s flawless porcelain skin, the way light bends around him, not on him. A few seconds later he staggers back, nose bleeding, muttering about migraines.

Your knuckles brush the feather-edged cuff of his sleeve, the touch sending a ripple of golden static through the air. He’s not for them , you think, breathless, as the crowd parts like worshippers before a saint.

Inside, the church throbs. The altar is a DJ booth blasting Yeah! vs. Get Low , the bass shaking dust from the rafters in glittering clouds. Congregational pews are shoved against walls, sticky with spilled vodka Red Bulls. You drag him to a shadowed alcove, where a cracked fresco of the Last Supper peels beneath UV lights, his wings folded into a feathered cape that glows like bioluminescent silk. People stare, whisper, snap photos with their flip phones. A girl in fishnets crosses herself.

His hands find your hips, cool but not cold, static buzzing like a hive of docile bees. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, tilting his head, sunlight-blonde hair catching the strobe lights. His voice is honey and vinyl crackle. “Are you… happy ?”

“Make me stop,” you challenge, grinning.

He kisses you like it’s a prayer—kneeling, desperate, a supplicant at the rail. His mouth is spearmint and starlight, his tongue a spark that dances but never burns. You arch into him, back hitting the wall, the fresco’s flaking paint crumbling like ancient scripture. The Virgin Mary’s face peels away, her eyes rolling back as if in ecstasy or agony—you can’t tell which. His hands slip under your shirt, static blooming where he touches—your ribs, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat—each spark a firefly’s kiss that leaves your skin tingling like you’ve been anointed.

You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from spiderwebs and moonlight. Around you, the club pulses—strobe lights slicing through the haze of sweat and smoke, bodies writhing like supplicants in the throes of revelation, a sea of fishnet halos and rosary chokers.. A girl in a sequined halter top stumbles past, vomiting neon-green Jell-O shots into a baptismal font repurposed as a punch bowl. The liquid glows under the blacklight, a sacrilegious elixir that drips down the sides like absolution. No one glances at the couple in the corner, the one that shimmers, their edges blurring as if they’re halfway to another plane.

He pulls back, thumb swiping your smeared gloss. His eyes aren’t voids anymore. They’re mirrors, reflecting your face—flushed, ruined, alive .

You light the blunt with a white Bic lighter, its flame trembling. He plucks it from your fingers, takes a drag he doesn’t need, and exhales your name in static smoke. The letters linger, glowing faintly before dissolving.

You pull him onto the dance floor, where bodies writhe like penitents seeking absolution. He follows without resistance, his hand engulfing yours, his grip firm but teasing, as if daring you to let go. The flashing lights bend around him, as if reluctant to touch something so perfectly made. He is luminous against the filth, a seraphim drowned in strobe-lit sin.

You press against him, back arching, moving in time with the pulsing beat. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with cheap perfume and the incense-thick fog rolling from machines above. He towers over you, his hands finding your hips, guiding you in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch. The crowd swallows you. Feathers molt, disintegrating into ash that swirls in the strobe lights like inverted snowfall. Around you, the club pulses—neon-green lasers cut through haze-machine incense, a boy in a cassock dances with a rattlesnake around his neck. The holy water fizzes, acidic.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you in time to the beat, which feels less like music and more like a pulse—something primal, something alive. The air smells of spilled vodka and myrrh, and the sweat on your skin glistens under the neon like holy oil.

A guy in a devil mask bumps into you, his horns catching the light as he raises a shot glass in mock toast. “Bless me, Father,” he slurs, laughing before disappearing into the crowd.

You spin to face him, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. Fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from a martyr’s shroud. “You taste like blasphemy,” he murmurs.

Flashing lights turn everything feverish. The neon green glow makes the bodies around you look sick, like saints starved for something they can’t name. Somewhere, a cross still hangs above the altar-turned-DJ booth, its golden surface reflecting the sinful, sweating mass below. You wonder if God is watching, if He turned His face away long ago.

His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer. Static crackles where he touches, sending shivers up your spine. He moves with effortless grace, with a precision that should be impossible in a place like this. Your ex never danced—not like this, not like him, not like something both worshiped and feared. You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and his lips ghost over your skin. A whisper of contact, cool like the edge of a blade.

“I could make you pure,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through you. “If you let me.”

His fingers dig into your waist, just enough to leave ghosts of pressure, not enough to hurt. His thumb skims the hem of your skirt, tracing patterns between your upper thigh and benediction. His breath is cool against your ear when he leans in. “Bathroom?,” he says.

You follow, heels sticking to the beer-slick floor, the stickiness pulling at your soles like the grip of some unseen hand. The hallway walls pulse with UV graffiti—pentagrams, crucifixes, and phrases like “Repent or Perish” scrawled beside a smiley face with X’s for eyes. You ignore it, though the air feels heavier here, as if the walls are breathing, in and out, in and out, like the ribs of some great beast. A faint hum of organ music seeps through the cracks in the plaster, though no one is playing it.

The UV graffiti on the hallway walls glows faintly, a neon halo around the smiley face with X’s for eyes—a crude mockery of divinity, a saint of the damned. You ignore it, but it feels like it’s watching you, its hollow gaze following your every step.

Inside the stall, the air is heavier, denser, as if the room itself is holding its breath. His wings, vast and iridescent, fold tightly against his back, their edges shimmering with a digital static that crackles like a broken hymn. The mirror above the sink is already fractured, a spiderweb of lines that catch the light and refract it into a kaleidoscope of colors. When he pins you against the sink, the glass groans, splintering further. Your reflection shatters into a dozen fractured selves, each one a different version of you—some wide-eyed and innocent, others hollow-cheeked and haunted. You don’t know which one is real.

Inside the stall, he folds his wings tight, their edges glitching against the low ceiling like a corrupted halo. The mirror above the sink cracks as he pins you against it, your reflection splintering into a dozen fractured selves—each one a different version of you, each one staring back with wide, unblinking eyes. His thumb smears your lip gloss, the cherry-red streak glowing under the flickering bulb like a smear of sacramental wine. The scent of myrrh and ozone clings to him, sharp and electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, and the words feel like a benediction and a curse all at once. “Little moth, chasing my flame.”

You are high—too high. The room tilts, the walls bending inward as if the stall is folding in on itself, collapsing into some sacred geometry you can’t comprehend. His grip steadies you, his fingers cool against your feverish skin. His wings flare, casting fractal shadows that crawl across the walls like spiders, their spindly legs tracing the outlines of ancient symbols you don’t recognize. A feather drifts loose, grazing your arm. It burns, branding your skin with a snowflake-shaped scar before dissolving into ash. You gasp, the pain laced with euphoria, like the sting of holy water on an open wound.

“Look,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe as his wings begin to shed feathers that dissolve into constellations, tiny points of light that hang in the air like stars. One lands on your wrist, searing into your pulse point with a glowing sigil that pulses in time with your heartbeat. “You’re holy now,” he says, and the words feel like a sacrament, like a curse, like a promise.

The door bangs open, the sound sharp and jarring, a profanity in this sacred space. “Hurry up!” someone yells, their voice rough and impatient, a reminder of the world outside this stall, this moment. He laughs, the sound a dial-up screech that grates against your ears and sends shivers down your spine. His wings envelop you both, their iridescent glow casting the stall in an otherworldly light. The mirror cracks again as your head hits it, his reflection flawless and radiant, while yours blurs and pixelates at the edges, as if you’re being erased, rewritten.

“You’re ruining me,” you choke, the words half-delirious, half-desperate. His breath is static against your ear, his voice a low hum that vibrates through your skull. “Ruin is a kind of grace,” he says, and the words feel like a revelation, like a sin.

You kiss his jaw, and he melts into you, his wings trembling as they fold tighter around you, shielding you from the world outside.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, kissing his jaw. He melts, nuzzling into your neck.

When you stumble out, your $22 is gone. So is your lip gloss.

But he’s still there.

#monster x reader #monster x female #monster imagine #monster x human #terat0philliac #teratophillia #angel x reader

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knoepfl · 5 months ago

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Whispers in the Haze #2

Here is the second Part of my Christmas Present and the second Part of this Series too! Again Merry Christmas!

2/24

Characters:

1. Klaus Hargreeves: Sarcastic, chaotic, and able to see ghosts, masking his pain with humor.

2. Diego Hargreeves: Hot-headed and protective, Diego channels grief through action.

3. Ben Hargreeves: Klaus’s ghostly guide, offering moral support despite their differences.

4. The Ghost: A silent, mysterious figure, always present but never speaking, tied to Klaus for reasons unknown.

5. Luther, Allison, Five, and Vanya: The dysfunctional Hargreeves siblings, each dealing with their own personal struggles.

Trigger Warnings:

Addiction and Recovery: Substance abuse and sobriety struggles.

Grief and Death: Processing loss and trauma.

Emotional Abuse: Impact of Reginald’s harsh parenting.

Mental Health: Themes of depression, isolation, and emotional wounds.

Violence: Mentions of physical conflict and weaponry.

Supernatural Horror: Ghosts, hauntings, and eerie presences.

Family Dysfunction: Tense and emotionally charged sibling dynamics.

Masterlist

Part 1

Words: 2846

---

The dull hum of the old mansion settled over Klaus like a familiar weight, the echoes of the past seeping from the walls of the Hargreeves house. He lounged on the worn couch in the parlor, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. The high from the motel had long since faded, replaced by the aching sobriety he hated so much.

Reginald Hargreeves was dead. That thought should have stirred something in him—grief, maybe, or anger—but Klaus just felt…empty.

The others were scattered across the house, mourning in their own dysfunctional ways. Luther was barking orders in the kitchen, trying to pull some semblance of control over the chaos. Diego sharpened knives upstairs, probably imagining ways to channel his grief into violence. Allison sat quietly in the study, lost in thought, while Five muttered about paradoxes and futures no one understood. Vanya, quiet as always, lingered near the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys but never pressing down.

Ben, of course, was there too, leaning against a bookshelf, watching Klaus like he always did.

“I can’t believe you came back here,” Ben muttered, his arms crossed. “You swore you’d never set foot in this place again.”

Klaus tipped his head back, staring at the ornate ceiling. “Yeah, well, it turns out death has a way of dragging you back to places you’d rather forget.” His voice was light, but the hollowness in his tone betrayed him.

Ben scoffed. “Sure, blame Dad’s death. It’s not like you were running out of motels to haunt anyway.”

Klaus snorted softly, a half-hearted laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. He brought the unlit cigarette to his lips, pretending for a moment that it was lit, that he could taste the smoke curling in his lungs. His gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where she stood.

She was here again, like she always was. Her presence was faint but constant, a quiet specter watching from the edges of the world. In the bright light of the Hargreeves house, she seemed softer, more subdued, her outline barely visible. Klaus could feel her watching him, her gaze warm but unyielding, just like it had been in the motel.

Ben followed his brother’s eyes, his expression darkening. “She’s still here, isn’t she?”

“Of course she is,” Klaus said breezily, leaning back against the couch. “She can’t get enough of me.”

Ben sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You need to stop doing this to yourself, Klaus. You can’t keep pretending she’s different.”

Klaus’s smile faltered, and for a moment, the mask slipped. He turned his head to look at Ben, his eyes tired, raw. “She is different, Benny.”

“Right,” Ben said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Just like all the others, right? The ones who show up, latch onto you, and then disappear when they’ve had their fill?”

Klaus flinched, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his gaze back to her, his hand absently brushing the arm of the couch as though reaching for her presence. She didn’t move, didn’t react, but Klaus felt her warmth all the same.

The silence between the brothers stretched, heavy and unspoken, until it was broken by the sound of the front door slamming open.

“Everyone in the living room,” Luther barked, his voice echoing through the house. “We need to talk about the funeral.”

Klaus groaned, dragging himself off the couch. “Because nothing says family bonding like planning a funeral for the man who emotionally scarred us all.”

“Don’t start,” Ben warned, though his tone was more resigned than angry.

The others filtered in slowly, each carrying their own weight of grief and resentment. Klaus settled into a chair, slouching dramatically as Luther began his speech about honor and duty and all the other things Reginald had drilled into them.

But Klaus wasn’t listening. His attention drifted back to her, still lingering near the corner, her gaze steady as she watched him. For a moment, he let himself wonder why she was here, why she’d chosen him of all people. Maybe she felt sorry for him. Maybe she saw something in him no one else did.

Or maybe, he thought bitterly, she was just another ghost drawn to his chaos, destined to fade like all the others.

And yet…she didn’t fade. Not at the motel, not here, not even when the weight of his family’s dysfunction threatened to suffocate him. She stayed, her presence a quiet reassurance, a tether keeping him from drifting too far.

As Luther’s voice droned on, Klaus closed his eyes, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“Haunting me again, huh?” he whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.

This time, there was no answer—not even a flicker of acknowledgment. But when he opened his eyes, she was still there, watching, waiting.

And for now, that was enough.

---

Klaus sat through Luther’s painfully predictable monologue, his eyes occasionally flicking toward her in the corner. She remained where she was, her presence an unspoken constant. But now, her gaze wasn’t on him.

She was looking at his siblings.

Her head tilted slightly as her eyes lingered on each of them in turn, as if studying them, trying to understand them in the way she seemed to already understand Klaus. Her gaze softened as it settled on Vanya, who sat quietly at the edge of the room, her posture tense and her expression withdrawn. It was as though she could see the weight Vanya carried, the invisible scars etched into her soul.

Klaus followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. “What, now you’re interested in them?” he muttered under his breath.

Ben shot him a sharp look. “What are you mumbling about now?”

Klaus ignored him, his attention fixed on her. She didn’t respond, didn’t look at him, her focus unwavering as she shifted her gaze to Allison.

Allison was sitting near the fireplace, her arms crossed, her face a careful mask of composure. The ghost seemed to linger on her for a moment, her expression unreadable. There was a subtle intensity in her gaze, as though she could see through the polished exterior to the fractures beneath.

Then she looked at Five.

The boy—man?—sat perched on the arm of a chair, his posture rigid and his face set in that permanent scowl of his. But even Five wasn’t immune to her scrutiny. She studied him with the same quiet attention, her head tilting slightly as though she were trying to untangle the threads of his impossibly complicated existence.

Diego, sharpening a knife at the table, was next. Her gaze softened again, but there was something almost amused in the way she looked at him, as if she could see past his bravado to the wounded boy still fighting for recognition.

Finally, her eyes landed on Luther, who was still speaking, oblivious to the ghostly presence in their midst. Her expression didn’t change, but Klaus thought he saw a flicker of something—a sadness, maybe, or pity.

Klaus’s lips curled into a smirk. “Don’t waste your time on him,” he said softly. “Trust me, Spaceboy’s not as deep as he looks.”

She didn’t react, but her gaze drifted back to Klaus, her focus narrowing in on him again.

Ben leaned closer, his voice low and tense. “What is she doing, Klaus?”

“I don’t know,” Klaus murmured, shrugging one shoulder. “Probably judging all of you.” He paused, his smirk widening. “Can’t blame her, really. Have you seen this lot? A bigger mess of dysfunction you’ll never find.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Across the room, Luther finally seemed to notice Klaus’s lack of attention. “Are you even listening, Klaus?”

Klaus sat up, throwing his arms out dramatically. “Oh, I’m listening, brother dearest. Funeral plans, legacy, blah, blah, blah. Very compelling stuff.”

Diego snorted, and even Allison suppressed a small smile. Luther glared at him but didn’t press further.

As the conversation continued, Klaus leaned back in his chair, his eyes returning to her. She wasn’t looking at the others anymore. Her gaze was on him, steady and unyielding, as though she were waiting for something.

He raised an eyebrow. “What? You want me to care? About them? About any of this?”

Again, she didn’t answer, but her silence spoke volumes.

Ben sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Klaus grinned. “Why, thank you, Benny. It’s one of my many charms.”

But beneath the bravado, Klaus felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. She’d looked at his siblings like she knew them, like she understood them in a way even he didn’t. It unsettled him, made him feel exposed, like she could see through all the layers he’d spent years building up.

As the family meeting dragged on, Klaus’s attention drifted again. The ghost stayed where she was, her presence a quiet weight in the room. For the first time in a long time, Klaus felt something unfamiliar: a strange, tentative sense of connection, not just to her, but to the fractured family around him.

And though he’d never admit it, it terrified him.

---

The funeral was over, the sky above the Hargreeves estate as gray and heavy as Klaus’s mood. The ceremony had been cold, impersonal—just like Reginald would’ve wanted. No tears, no heartfelt speeches, just ashes in an urn and Luther’s grim sense of duty holding the whole thing together.

Klaus stood by the front steps, shivering in the late afternoon chill, his thin jacket doing little to ward off the biting wind. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as the first hit of nicotine steadied his frayed nerves.

“Let’s go,” Diego called, stepping down from the porch. He jingled a set of car keys in his hand. “You’re coming with me.”

Klaus exhaled a plume of smoke, arching a brow at his brother. “Oh, are we having a sibling bonding moment? How adorable.”

“Just get in the damn car,” Diego snapped, rolling his eyes.

Klaus sighed dramatically, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. “Fine, but if this is some intervention, I’m not above jumping out at a red light.”

Ben walked alongside him as they headed to Diego’s beat-up car, his arms crossed and his expression skeptical. “Do you ever stop being an ass for five seconds?”

“Nope,” Klaus said brightly, opening the passenger door and sliding in. “It’s part of my charm.”

Diego climbed in on the driver’s side, slamming the door shut. “Seatbelt.”

Klaus smirked, making a show of pulling it across his chest. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Diego muttered, starting the engine.

As the car rumbled to life, Klaus glanced in the rearview mirror. She was there, sitting in the backseat like she belonged, her gaze fixed out the window. The ghost hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, but she was a constant presence, her quiet weight pressing against Klaus’s awareness.

“Great,” Klaus muttered under his breath. “Road trip with the family and a ghost. Could this day get any better?”

Diego shot him a sharp look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Klaus waved him off. “Nothing. Just musing about life’s little surprises.”

They drove in silence for a while, the city streets flashing by in a blur of gray and muted neon. Diego gripped the wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as if he were holding back words.

Finally, he broke the silence. “You okay?”

Klaus blinked, caught off guard. “Am I what?”

Diego kept his eyes on the road, his voice low. “I said, are you okay? You’ve been…off. Even for you.”

Klaus laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. “Oh, sweet Diego, always so concerned. I’m fine. Peachy, in fact. Nothing like burying your emotionally unavailable father to brighten your day.”

Diego’s grip on the wheel tightened, but he didn’t respond.

From the backseat, she shifted slightly, her gaze turning to Klaus. He felt her eyes on him, a silent pressure that made his skin prickle.

“You’re lying,” Diego said after a long pause, his voice quiet but firm.

Klaus turned to him with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I’m lying, Diego. It’s what I do.”

“Maybe you should stop.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Klaus turned away, his gaze drifting to the window as they passed through the city. His reflection stared back at him, pale and tired, with shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep could fix.

In the mirror, he saw her watching him. She didn’t judge, didn’t ask questions, but her presence was a reminder of everything he couldn’t outrun.

Diego glanced at him, his voice softening. “Look, I know this whole thing sucks. For all of us. But…you’re not alone, okay?”

Klaus barked a laugh. “Oh, Diego, if only that were true.”

Ben sighed from where he sat, his ghostly form leaning against the dashboard. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Klaus ignored him, his gaze flicking back to her in the rearview mirror. She was still there, her expression unreadable, her presence steady.

---

Finally, Klaus broke the silence. “She’s always there, you know.”

Diego frowned, sparing him a quick glance. “Who?”

“The ghost,” Klaus said breezily, gesturing vaguely toward the backseat. “My new little shadow. She’s been following me for months now.”

Diego sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Klaus, come on—”

“I’m serious!” Klaus interrupted, turning in his seat to look at her. “She’s right there. Sitting in the back like she’s part of the family road trip.”

Diego tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his jaw flexing in frustration. “You’ve been seeing ghosts your whole life, Klaus. This isn’t new. Why is this one such a big deal?”

Klaus turned to him, his expression caught somewhere between a smirk and something more vulnerable. “Because, Diego, she’s different. It’s not like the usual parade of moaning spirits begging me to fix their unfinished business. She doesn’t say a damn word. Doesn’t want anything. She’s just…there.”

Diego flicked a glance at him, his brow furrowed. “And you’re sure she’s real?”

Klaus’s laughter was sharp, bitter. “Oh, please. I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was a kid, remember? Our dear old dad made sure of that with his delightful experiments. I know the difference between what’s in my head and what’s real. Mostly.”

Diego winced at the mention of their father, the old wounds still raw. “Yeah, well, I also remember you using that as an excuse to mess with people. Half the time, I couldn’t tell if you were actually seeing something or just trying to freak us out.”

Klaus waved his hand dismissively. “That was just good fun. This, though? This is something else. She’s not like Ben or the others. She doesn’t look to me for answers, doesn’t blame me for anything. She’s just…watching. Like she’s waiting for something.”

Diego glanced at the rearview mirror, where the backseat was empty except for Klaus’s invisible companion. He frowned. “Waiting for what?”

“I don’t know,” Klaus admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He leaned his head against the window, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the glass. “That’s what’s so weird about her. She doesn’t give me any clues. Just…shows up, sticks around, and watches me make a mess of everything.”

Diego sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You ever think she’s here for a reason? That maybe she’s got something to tell you, even if she’s not saying it?”

Klaus considered this, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror. Her face was serene, her eyes soft but unyielding as they met his. He felt that familiar tug in his chest, that strange mix of comfort and unease she always brought with her.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But it’s not like I can ask her, is it? She’s not exactly chatty.”

Diego scoffed. “When has that ever stopped you from talking to ghosts?”

Klaus smiled faintly, his fingers drumming on his knee. “True. But this feels…different. Like she’s here for me, not the other way around.”

Diego shot him a skeptical look. “You’re sure you’re not just projecting? Making her into something she’s not because you’re too scared to deal with your own crap?”

Klaus flinched, but his grin stayed firmly in place. “Oh, Diego. Always so quick to psychoanalyze me. It’s adorable, really.” He leaned back in his seat, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. “But I promise, this one’s not just in my head. She’s real. And she’s not going anywhere.”

Diego shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Of course she’s not. Why would anything in your life be simple?”

Klaus laughed, the sound light and genuine for once. “Exactly, brother. Chaos is my brand.”

Despite his words, his gaze lingered on her reflection in the mirror. She met his eyes, her expression calm and unwavering, and for a moment, Klaus felt a strange sense of peace.

Whatever her reason for being there, he wasn’t alone. Not really. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

---

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