#The GRAND PIANO. WAS. A STRUGGLE.

[pzyii]

RPG update, santana pov, and it’s immediately ansgty

[rxmye]

" 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — For so long, he found art in his surroundings, nature was his muse . . who would've thought that he'd be able to find another muse, within you.

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy themes / I guess the reader is his 'hater' / perfectionist yandere / kind of egotistic yandere / he has a praise kink frfr / maybe a bit self centered . . / kind of unedited / also might appeal to ppl with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: I feel like Lore takes up a good chunk of this fic, but enjoy . . also might be one of my longest fics . .

He was a calming presence, and a thoughtful friend to all he called his own. Elegance took a human form, in Xavier Wilson—A beautiful work of art indeed . . Born presenting a talent that could rival many others in the industry.

From a young age, Xavier presented himself as a man of the arts, often drawing out vivid tapestries of his dreams or memories. He would often lose himself in the pages of his notebook, scribbling away with intricate drawings and stories, his mind was his own magnum opus.

However—people was never his strong suit. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, surely if he was as magnificent as those around him expressed, he'd most certainly be able to recreate the portraits of those around him?—But no, none of his portraits could compare to his various other works.

As he got a bit older, his mother decided to enroll him in classes that could help expand his talents, which ranged from various music lessons, theater (didn't end well), art history—etc . . .

Xavier let out a breathy sigh, staring at the keys of the grand piano absentmindedly—his gloved fingers gently glide over the keys, tired would be the best way to describe him as of right now—his professor had left an hour ago, yet Xavier couldn't find it in himself to move.

Truth be told, Xavier wasn't a fan of music, he preferred quiet solitude—and though he had long since gotten used to the sound of the piano, violin, and any of the other ridiculous instruments his mother was so keen on getting him to play—he still preferred the silence over all.

Over the course of time, Xavier disinterest towards music dimmed—Alongside his distaste towards instruments . . He figured the reason he disliked it so much was due to his inability to play as perfectly as his professor . . Xavier was a perfectionist, and anything he couldn't perfect was simply 'wrong' in his eyes, and as he reached his teen years, he accepted that fact wholeheartedly.

Xavier stood still, as his mother fixed his tie for him—he could do it himself but he let her enjoy this moment, she always disliked watching her son 'grow up so fast'—"are you nervous?", she asked softly, gently holding his hands, smiling so brightly.

'Am I nervous?—' he thought, clearly not. He felt calm, neutral even. It was his first big show, yet internally he knew that things would end well for him, he could feel it. He's always been lucky, in fact his father's nickname for him as a child was quite literally 'Puer aureus' which translated to 'the golden boy' from Latin.

He clicked his tongue, a common habit of his—especially when he wasn't being exactly truthful—he paused for a moment as if to think, then he smiled at his mother, "Just a bit, but I'll be fine" he spoke calmly, gently squeezing her hand to reassure her. "Don't worry, I've prepared well for this . . Haven't I?"

Praise, he adored praise, and that day he received quite a lot of it—not just from his parents, or acquaintances . . .—but crowds of people. Honestly, it stroked his ego, quite a bit . .

By seventeen years of age, Xavier's talent was known worldwide, his rise to fame quite massive and fast . . He had to attend class, while also hosting live performances and art galleries. (such a struggle, really . . .)

University admissions were coming around, and most of his friends had chosen what schools they plan on applying to—what path they plan on going into—what school they hope to go to the most, the conversation was an eye opener and yet it all felt so bitter.

Xavier tapped his pen on the table, zoning out from the conversation his friends were having . . only to zone back in when Neva spoke, "—so Xavier, have you decided where you'll be applying too . . ? I'm sure you'll get in."

He clicked his tongue in response, closing his eyes absentmindedly as he spoke, "To be honest, not really . . probably something arts related?", Xavier was about to speak up again but stopped himself, starring down at the table, a sigh escaping his lips.

"That seems like a waste of money", he looked up, starring at Oliver with questioning eyes, and Oliver quickly explained himself, "Art school is great and all—But it won't really make much of a difference for you, in fact the rules could restrict your talent . . It could be better for you to just try something new? You're good in school a degree outside of your comfort zone may be something good for you!"

He hated that his friend was right, he hated being wrong. He prided himself for always knowing what was best for himself and his abilities, and in a spur of pettiness he found himself taking art anyway, trying to prove his friend wrong . . even though he was well aware his intentions were pure in all ways.

Xavier had done well in his courses so far, and with his fame, he was breezing through classes—and yet, when the topics of portraits came up . . he found all that floating out the window.

None of the models they had for class, felt right—none of the art he did, felt authentic . . felt like himself, when it came to art, Xavier took everyone to paradise, his art felt like peace . . his art was calm . . his music was soft, lulling almost . .

Yet now, as he stared at his canvas, covered in mixed harsh colours, a vibrant mess of paint, his brushes wrecked, paint dripping from the easel . . It felt like anything but calm.

And that's when he dropped out, a question to his perfection would wreck the fragile image of himself he had created in his mind, a man so perfect and lucky in his own right a humbling experience like that was to never see the light of day.

Xavier found himself turning to something different, just like Oliver suggested, his alternatives were selective, yet he kept many paths open, Photography, fashion, and business were his top picks and things he found himself surprisingly enjoying . . Surely if he could paint and create melodies of such wonders, then he can stitch some fabric together, solve a few equations, and take a few photo's here and there just fine . . right?

A few years had past, and Xavier was now running his very own Luxury fashion line, he still hosted art galleries here and there, and composed music on the side, but his business took up most of his time.

But on his free days he'd turn to photography, taking pictures of things he sought comfort in . . and people, he'd often take pictures of unsuspecting people, pretty ones . . people not so pretty as well, just to try and recreate the life they had on a canvas . . yet somehow always failing to do so.

The moment Xavier found himself close, he'd reach a dead end . . and that destroyed him, internally.

Over the years, he accepted the small flaws in his behavior, and tried his best to reform them, presenting himself as the perfect public figure. He did go to therapy in the past, but when things started rising up, he quit entirely.

Xavier laid back on his office chair, and scrolled through his recent posts comment section, and as expected almost all of it was praise . . some of envy, but that only fueled his ego more . . Until he found a comment that set him off, "His art is so melancholy, it feels a bit sad . . His previous works were brighter, like more happy but now it kind of feels sad . . Like the life in his work isn't there anymore."

Xavier stared at the comment dumbfounded, never had he received that kind of feedback . . portraits he drew were indeed lifeless, but his other art was always regarded as lively, and that was what he always strived for . . Curious, and in a fit of rage . . he clicked on the commenters profile, and saw you.

You, you . . You were what he was looking for, his muse. So, full of life . . He scrolled through your page, and couldn't help but feel the urge to draw you, and paint you . . and paint you he did. . Because soon his entire studio was filled with pieces inspired by you . . so full of 'life' . . .

Yet at some point, he had reached the end of your posts, and it just wasn't enough . . he needed you . . He wanted your feedback, he craved your praise . . like no other, he wanted input . . he wanted to know if his work was truly still lifeless . . he wanted you.

After all, a artist isn't complete without his muse.

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[xcaffeineandcuddlesx]

ominis, self-assured but wary of relationships no matter the extent of his admiration.

he’s internally battling himself on the daily, torn between his lover’s sweet nothings of reassurance and the detrimental ideals and feelings of inadequacy his family tried to instill in his youth.

he doesn’t care about blood status, in fact, he would prefer someone that isn’t a pureblood just to stick it to his family.

he wants nothing more than to be committed entirely to each other, wishing he only had a last name he was proud to give to you, a name he would be proud to prolong with a family of his own.

he holds so dearly your attention and endearment, but keeps distance for the first few months of your relationship, wanting it not to ruin him if you decided a gaunt wasn’t worth entertaining.

he’s getting better with learning how valued he is, but cannot help the nagging thoughts of insecurity. he understands how different it must be to adjust both a romantic and casual life to accommodate a lover with one less sense. you think him foolish to believe you ever cared.

ominis can’t say he struggles with blindness, only that he wishes for your sake he had sight.

to take you to your favorite museums and experience them to the fullest, to watch the sunset with you - he hears it’s beautiful but would say it almost certainly pales in comparison to you if anyone mentioned them, to see the love that fills your eyes when you look at him.

oh, the things he would give to see your smile instead of settling to hear it in your voice.

neither of you require grand gestures to feel appreciated, so your love is made apparent through actions, though not lacking in words.

his heart melts when you started replacing your typical paints with textured ones. he was infatuated, running his fingers over your detailed works and following the stoke patterns so often it began to wear.

he would commission matching jewelry, imprints of your fingerprints onto a pendant. he loves the tactile reminder that you’ve entrusted him with a piece of your identity, and his with you.

should you want a pomegranate, he would be ever eager to peel one, uncaring of how long the task would be. he would let his admiration show for you with the stains of garnet on the pads of his fingers and beneath his nails. he doesn’t know of it, of course, but you find comfort in the fact that he carries his passion for you on his own skin; such a form of intimacy.

not without practice, he learned several styles of braids so that he had a place in your daily routine, beaming when you tell him he would make a wonderful father to a little girl.

his clothing in need of mending? it began as a one time thing, he found you practicing fonts with your threads and asked you to embroider your name so he could feel it. now, every time you fix a piece for him, he soothes himself on his worst days, caressing his fingers along the inside of his button down’s cuff where your name resides.

he would memorize the notes of your favorite songs, practicing endlessly in private to be able to fill your shared space with piano instrumentals.

in a modern world, you would surprise him with a personally made audiobook of his favorite novel. he listens to it as though it contained the secrets of the universe.

you two would roam the isles of a craft store, searching for the best textures to make matching dual-sided, no-sew throw blankets from. he revels in the peace of mind knowing that when it’s not your arms around him, he can still sleep with your warm embrace.

never letting you run cold, even if he had to hide his reddened fingertips in his pockets, his coat would be more yours than his at this point.

he would always replenish your favorite perfume once you ran low, secretly buying a second vial to use on his pillows and bedding when you’re away.

he would let you stand on his toes while you danced if you didn’t know how, any excuse to keep you held close.

ominis is such a kind lover, endlessly devoted.

[hopefulceladon]

for i am my beloved's (and my beloved is mine) | sunday x reader

blurb: for with every new beginning, therein lies a little of the old, blossoming forth into what'll flourish with the new. summary: despite everything, sunday still has lingering doubts. pairing: sunday x reader word count: 3.2k notes: made in celebration of it being the first sunday since he was released + the fact he came home!!! ao3 link: here!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The light that spouted forth and flickered from the candle you cradled within your grasp had illuminated a deceptively beautiful sight.

To those unsuspecting of any impurities within whatever was bestowed upon them, it was a scene ripped straight from the likes of a fairytale—a poised and proper Halovian seated atop a grand piano’s affiliated bench, his breathtaking visage bedazzled by the starlight that had willingly cast itself upon his form like a tailored veil, and his halo gleaming from the lingering lights that had been led astray from the celestial covering.

But, emboldened by your loving care, you had insistently picked apart the threads of falsities that were shown to you until you finally revealed the truth; the ‘poised’ Halovian’s hands were trembling, his countenance was marred with indescribable sorrow, and his halo’s shine had decreased with every passing second.

A bitter pang constricted your chest.

Had your impressionable heart and unwary eyes conspired together against your logical senses, desperate to trick you into believing that throughout all these quiet nights your beloved had serenaded the Astral Express with the piano’s delicate notes, nothing had been out of sorts?

That detestable ache quickly grew into something far more oppressive, as your naivety tried to save face by falling victim to chastising guilt.

Cautiously, you placed your footsteps with consideration as you approached Sunday from behind; your stride was light, but your heart was ever so heavy.

Fearful of breaking the melody you've grown to adore over the past few nights—it was always a far slower, note-perfect rendition of one of Robin’s effortlessly beautiful songs—you were hesitant to speak.

“Sunday?”

You dreaded the way your words had threatened to tremble, hopeful that your concern wouldn't dare to betray you, too.

As the sound of your voice shattered the first layers of his concentration, Sunday’s gloved hand had flinched, his fingers skipping over a white key here and a black key there, and he, solely in light of his foolish miscalculation, uttered something—far too gentle to be any sort of curse, but chiding enough to be something self-criticizing—underneath his breath.

A frown crossed your lips as he attempted to start the melody over again, his finger placements upon his restart unassured and apologetic.

“My love,” you attempted a softer approach at acquiring his attention this time, before dropping your palms atop of his hands to prevent him from playing further. “...it’s late.”

His focus shifted from his restricted hands to cast a weary glance upon the nearby clock.

“So it is.” Sunday finally spoke quietly in return.

As he kept his head lowered towards the piano, it wasn’t hard to infer that he hadn't intended for you to see his current state.

The frown that dared try to encroach itself upon your features was hard to suppress.

Your hands didn’t stray far from his, even as he attempted to splay his fingers from underneath your grip. Still, through the sheer will of his stubbornness, Sunday managed to replay the first few familiar notes before he inevitably stumbled over his timing, stopping himself with a sigh once he finally realized your grasp was as resolute as his obstinance.

In a desperate attempt to guide him away from his solemnity, you peered over the Halovian’s shoulder and met his eyes, a thin, playful smile struggling to stay on your lips.

“You must really miss her, huh, Sunny?”

And as it always ever was whenever you tried a ridiculous variation of his name, however rare the moments may be, his wings fluttered first in surprise, then briefly twitched in a stifled display of embarrassment.

You were thankful that quirk of his, no matter how imperfect it was nor how much he detested it, remained intact.

“I...” Sunday swallowed thickly, as if the words were lodged in his throat. “I believe I have routinely begged you to never call me by that nickname, haven’t I?”

A soft giggle escaped you before you removed yourself from behind him, opting to sit down next to him on the bench instead. “Well, I had to say something to drag you away from your troublesome thoughts”

“And so, you chose to combat them with mindlessness...” he muttered underneath his breath, powerless to conceal the stray traces of fondness within his tone. “Perhaps I should’ve expected as such.”

As one of Sunday’s hands fell down to meet his side, you instinctively sought it out with one of your own. Just as you were about to squeeze his fingers between yours as a sign of reassurance, however, he just as swiftly slipped his hand away.

Startled by the loss of contact, you looked up at him. “Is something the matter?”

“I... do not deserve this.”

Sunday had uttered his words so quickly, so honestly , leaving you little time at all to formulate a response more appropriate than a mere, pitiful “excuse me?”

You followed Sunday’s gaze towards the nearby Express window, the vast expanse of glass revealing a small, insignificant portion of the galaxy’s endless array of stars, and immediately, you realized what he meant.

At the very least, he had the grace to suppress his own hastiness to leave you enough time to brace yourself for his following words.

“I just still cannot understand why I was shown such merciful treatment, in light of all that I’ve done.”

It didn’t make them any less harrowing to hear, however.

“You’re allowed to be granted a second chance, my love,” you began. “Isn’t that what you preached to those who laid their sins by your feet while you were the Bronze Melodia?”

The hand that was still stubbornly splayed across the piano visibly tensed at the mention of one of his numerous former titles, and you briefly wished you could take it back.

“Perhaps so, but nonetheless, it still does not feel... right.”

Even in light of your attempts to steer him away from the thoughts that plagued him—the ones he ever rarely let you bear witness to, in honorable yet futile hopes of shielding you away from the turmoil that burrowed within his mind—his brow was still furrowed, and his frame was still taut with stress.

You longed to reach out, grasp, and pry his burdens away from his weary shoulders to rest them upon your own, but you couldn't and it distressed you dearly, for how could one bear to see a loved one suffer, yet remain helpless to intervene without feeling any semblance of inadequacy?

As keenly astute as he was, Sunday noted your troubled features and hesitantly clasped his hand around your own, weaving his fingers between the webbings of yours.

Like countless times before, the Halovian brought your knuckles up to briefly brush his lips against their bumps, all as a show of desperate amends for his prior dismissal, a loving plea for your forgiveness.

“As always, however, your wisdom knows no bounds,” he began with a fond whisper, perfectly sealed against your skin. “Perhaps I should apply it to more areas of my life and, at your suggestion, retire for the night.”

The brief flash of sincerity that brightened Sunday’s eyes had given you hope, but you knew the river of doubt that coursed within him could not be so quickly quenched. You knew this and so much more, privy to intimate knowledge most others wouldn't dare to even hear wind of at all, yet as his exhausted features continued to grow fond, you bought into the perfect picture he was desperate to sell.

Despite your better judgement, you didn't pry further.

“Then... please, let us do so.”

Out of the goodness of your heart, your silence favored his evident need for rest.

───────

What had sprung forth out of the foolishness of your heart, however, was yet another distressing sight.

As you emerged from the nearby private bathroom, your body now sheathed in soft nightclothes, you noted that sitting at the edge of the lavish bed you shared was Sunday, as eerily quiet and downcast as before.

The stubborn Halovian must've wielded what remained of his powers of Harmony against you, deceiving your senses and playing you like you were the fiddle to his orchestra of falsified reassurances, masterfully tuning your melody so that the illusions produced by his symphony wouldn't fall apart by the fretful force of your worries.

Perhaps you really should’ve persisted.

But even as miffed as you were by his blatant avoidance, you rushed to stand before Sunday, your hand quick to reach his. “Are you alright?”

“I am not worthy of this.”

You stiffened at his familiar words, and bristled at the reminder of your own inability to reassure him earlier.

“Of... traveling with the Express? Again, my love, I promise-”

“No,” Sunday replied quickly, perhaps tersely, before allowing his tone to ease. “...it is no longer that.”

In wake of your imploring silence, Sunday let out a quiet sigh and nudged your hand away. He briefly cast a reluctant glance upon it, but he didn’t dare reach for it again.

“There's still this persistent ache, this... nagging, sinking, dreadful feeling that suggests there’s more that life should've never graciously placed within my dirtied hands."

You despised the way he described himself, as if he were akin to a shameless, serial sinner.

“And...” you were hesitant to continue. “...what do you believe that is?”

“If it’s not regarding the bond I still share with my sister, nor this new path I shall soon forge, then...”

Sunday choked up. His tone was growing ever more defeated, he's unable to meet your gaze, and he choked up , as if he were afraid to speak his next words aloud.

A pit began to form in your stomach.

You could hardly recall the last time his voice had wavered so strongly, after all.

“...perhaps it is that I do not deserve you , my star.”

No matter how much you could've tried to prepare yourself, the concern you stifled moments prior returned with eager vengeance, worry straining the confines of your throat with a tight band of bitterness as you tried to force out anything to reassure him otherwise.

You forced yourself to keep your more tempestuous emotions at bay.

“I say this with all the love in the world, but that is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Sunday let out a nervous, humorless chuckle at your rebuttal. “But what else is left, if not this?” he paused to nervously flex out the hands that rested atop his knees. “To think oneself as deserving of every blissful thing they've been given is nothing more than utter foolishness.”

“But somehow, it’s still part of what you want for everyone else, though, isn't it?” you countered. “For them to get all that they hope for, within reason?”

“That is... quite different-”

“How ?”

Sunday’s lips pursed themselves together before he went quiet.

You could tell that, in the midst of his silence, he was mulling over your words, evident from both the way his eyebrows had knitted themselves near one another with the threads of immense focus, along with the crystalline shimmer that slowly began to settle itself within his eyes as he stared down at the floor...

Tears.

Sunday’s eyes had begun to fill with tears, and you found you truly couldn't bear the sight at all.

Instinctively, your hands fell back down to his, and they soon grasped them firmly.

“Do you not recall what I said moons prior?” you began helplessly, ignoring the quiver in your voice. “That wherever you roamed, I would roam too?”

It was all asked rhetorically, but still, you were allowed a brief glimpse at relief when Sunday nodded weakly nonetheless.

“I meant it then, and I still mean it now.” you paused to rest a palm against his cheek. “I want to help you reach your goals by your side , my love. Please , do not dare deny me of such a blessing by pushing me away.”

Sunday took the following moments of silence as his opportunity to press a kiss against your skin, willingly leaning into your touch before letting out a weary sigh, as if accepting your words in spite of his immense reservations.

“I’m still certain that I do not deserve you...” he trailed off, before looking up at you through long lashes. “But wherever would I be, were you not there to keep me from falling further?”

“I really don't wish to dwell upon it.” you whispered.

Carefully, you placed both of his cheeks against your palms, brushing away the tears that threatened to fall with considerate, slow swipes of your thumbs.

Sunday let a shaky sigh escape his lips.

Even if the brief press of your fingers against his skin had set his heart ablaze, it was hardly enough to sate Sunday’s unspoken, deeply concealed craving for your touch that was always, always present, yet never dare acted upon for propriety’s sake. With little warning, he pulled you in closer and rested his forehead against yours.

“I’d endure several years of grueling penance to feel even the slightest bit worthy of your hand.” Sunday murmured, his breath warming your skin.

“When will you ever realize that you already are worthy?”

The tenderness that shined within his golden irises in response to your words had effortlessly lowered your defenses, and you found yourself unwilling to resist the decreasing distance; so much so, that your hands had soon fallen down to his shoulders, grasping them gently for support as he pulled you in closer.

As his form sank further against the clutches of the soft mattress beneath him, it was with anxiously fluttering wings that he relinquished the control he clutched onto so dearly, solely for the sake of pushing it forth into your hands.

It was hardly a surprise to either of you when, shortly after, your lips had eclipsed the likes of his, allowing yourselves to indulge in the pleasure of a taste far sweeter than any wine.

Just as quickly, however, you had both pulled apart with quivering breaths.

Even in absence of such connection, your hands found themselves lovingly entangled within his feathery-soft hair, so close to his fluttering wings, and his own soon found purchase against your shoulders like they've always been their rightful dwelling place, until you both found steady, stable footing and resumed the moment.

You were both so unabashedly novice to the throes of which you both threw yourselves to, yet neither of you minded, for your hearts slowly learned to follow along in consideration of the other’s, deciphering all their faltered beats and composing a new melody in tandem.

Far beyond what was expected of such unbridled intimacy, it remained breathtakingly delicate despite the intensifying feelings it had brought forth, as you both handled one another as if one wrong move would cause the other to shatter into a thousand discarded fragments, like a pair of fragile porcelain artifacts destined for disaster.

Perhaps it would’ve.

And perhaps, that is exactly the reason why that, once you realized your touch had descended to the downy feathers near his temples and your free hand had wandered back down to the belts that decorated his thigh—a combined effort that had elicited a surprised hum from Sunday’s lips—did you hastily scramble yourself away.

“I am... so sorry, I...”

“Why did you stop?” Sunday interrupted your hasty apology quietly, his eyes alight with love, yet their corners crinkled with concern.

“We’re... getting terribly ahead of ourselves again,” you whispered, desperate to convince yourself of your own words. “...aren’t we?”

Sunday let out a shaky breath. “Darling, do you...” he stopped himself to swallow, squeezing your hands together as he fought down his uprising nerves. “Do you... recall the promise we had made to one another? To wait and persevere until I- no , until we found a place we could call our own?”

He stretched his index finger up towards one of yours, tracing the intricately designed, golden ring that adorned it for emphasis, before returning his gaze to your eyes.

Your breath hitched at the silent reminder, slowly realizing the weight of his words. “I do, but...”

“I must've... forgotten to inform you of any kind of update, then. A terrible error on my part,” Sunday mused with a chuckle made at his own expense. “...but, after reflecting upon some wise words, I, too, believe I’ve finally found my home.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have,” he repeated. “...and it is with you, my star.”

As Sunday remained beneath you, his lips upturned with utmost adoration as the honeyed gold of his irises shimmered while he glanced up at you, with both his pale skin and the soft, white linen he rested upon warmly lit aglow by the nearby candlelight, you couldn't help but feel all the wonderful prickling sensations from the affection he stirred up within you course throughout your veins like a pleasant, addictive rush.

In light of your silence, Sunday’s chest rose and fell unevenly as your hand wordlessly, tentatively fell back towards where it once was—your hand spread across the expanse of his pierced wing, your fingertips barely, if even at all, brushing against his soft feathers.

You paused for approval, unwilling to break his precious trust. “So, this is... alright?”

He nodded along with a weak smile.

A plethora of questions regarding his change of heart regarding his worthiness, as well as a  variety of murmured, meaningful words, had formed upon your tongue, but swiftly dried up upon the sight of his snow-white wing fluttering against your touch.

The soft, charming pink that had dusted itself across the apples of Sunday’s usually-pale cheeks had made your heart ache with a type of yearning you’ve never truly known so intimately up until this very moment.

“I love you.”

Even if they had been familiar words uttered a dozen times over, the way you said the words so honestly and so, so abruptly, had startled you both in equal measure.

“I... I love you too.”

You were simply relieved he didn’t seem to mind.

Sunday nervously parted his lips to wet them with his tongue, an action done in haste as he tried to maintain what little of his dignity remained, yet all his efforts crumbled once your warm touch embraced his wings whole, your fingers tracing small, adoring circles against the two golden stubs that had pierced through his delicate cartilage.

The small hitch of his breath left little to be concealed, after all.

“Please,” Sunday's voice trembled, broken and raw with emotions he’s long suppressed, as he gently directed your hand back to where it had rested before, before desperately repeating himself. “... please. Love me as you wish, and I promise I will make myself yours in whichever way you deem me worthy.”

As your palm grazed against the familiar, plush softness of his upper thigh, and your fingertips idly slipped underneath the lower dark blue belt for extra support, you let out a soft breath.

You press your forehead down to his, knowing that he was pleadingly seeking out the perfect promise, desperate to see it within your eyes.

“I always will.”

And that promise had been more than enough for both you and him.

[theonottsbxtch]

HEAR ME OUT 🙂 charles x pianist!reader where he’s like writing/composing a new ep and his producer is like “omg you should totally do a duet with (reader) 🥰” and uh yeah just anything related to that

i can already envision a scene where charles spends most of his time in the dark alone in the studio with his piano but reader is ofc there…

go for any trope you want 🙈

MY MUSE | CL16

an: im sorry this is so long istart writing and then i can't stop. btw i want everyone to know that i was listening to that's not me by skepta and jme while writing this. completely different vibes. SEND MORE REQUESTS IM BORED HOUSESITTING FOR THREE WEEKS

wc: 7.8k

dedicated to @iamred-iamyellow & @iimplicitt

The studio was thick with the scent of aged leather and dust, the faint glow of a single, dimmed lamp casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. Charles sat hunched over the grand piano, its black lacquer surface reflecting the soft light in fractured shards. His fingers hovered above the ivory keys, trembling with a kind of frustrated anticipation, but no sound came. The room seemed to echo with a deafening silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall—an incessant reminder of time slipping away.

He had been here for days, isolated from the outside world during the off season. The once-comforting walls, lined with shelves of dog-eared books and musical scores, now felt like the confines of a cage. His last piece had been a masterpiece—a soaring composition that had flowed from him like water, effortless and pure. It was the kind of music that haunted you long after it ended, the kind that etched itself into the soul of anyone who heard it. But now, the notes eluded him.

Charles ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and let out a low sigh. There was a pressure building in his chest, like a wound slowly tightening, pulling him apart. For the past week, he had been locked in this room, trying to capture the essence of something even greater than the last, but all he had managed to conjure was noise—fragments of half-formed melodies that crumbled before they could take shape.

He  stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the papers on top of his piano to rustle, brittle with neglect. The room was stifling; the air was thick with the remnants of burnt-out candles and sleepless nights. He paced to the window, pulling the curtains aside to reveal the darkened Maranello streets below, slick with the remnants of a recent rain. The city outside moved on, indifferent to his struggle, its distant hum a reminder that time had no patience for his creative paralysis.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging it up in shallow bursts. What was missing? What had he lost in the months since his last piece? It felt like chasing shadows, reaching for something just out of grasp. Every melody he tried to shape slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, and the harder he tried to hold onto it, the faster it dissolved.

The clock struck three in the morning, the chime echoing through the stillness of the room. Another night wasted. Another night consumed by the weight of his own expectations. He turned back to the piano, his eyes heavy with fatigue but burning with a quiet, desperate need. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without something to show for the hours he’d lost.

With a sigh that felt like surrender, Charles sat back down at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys once more. He could feel the cold beneath his skin, the way the silence seemed to press in around him. His hands shook, not with nervousness, but with exhaustion.

And then, in the quiet, a single note broke the silence.

It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t the haunting, ethereal sound he had been searching for. But it was something.

His gaze fell to the pile of sheet music he had scribbled on throughout the night. Inked lines of failed ideas, crossed out again and again. With a final resigned sigh, he stood up, the bench scraping the floor, the sound too loud in the empty space. He began to gather his things, shoving crumpled papers into his bag alongside notebooks, headphones, and his laptop. The familiar weight of them didn’t bring comfort; instead, they felt like reminders of the failure he was starting to carry with him. This was meant to be a hobby but it was haunting his every move.

As he turned to leave, keys jangling in his hand, a soft sound reached his ears—a distant, faint melody. He paused, his hand hovering over the light switch, ears straining to catch it. It was coming from down the hallway, barely perceptible at first, but unmistakable—a piano, its notes drifting through the quiet night like a whisper.

Charles hesitated for a moment, then slipped into the hallway, drawn toward the sound. He moved slowly, the dark corridor seeming endless, the music growing clearer with every step. It was beautiful—achingly so. Each note was delicate yet certain, as though whoever was playing knew exactly what they wanted to say. The melody swirled and climbed, creating something ethereal, something that made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

He stopped outside one of the smaller practice rooms, the door slightly ajar, a soft glow of light spilling from within. The music filled the narrow hallway, surrounding him, pulling him in. He stood there for a long moment, his heart beating a little faster, a strange mix of awe and envy twisting inside him. This was what he had been trying to create—the same kind of raw emotion, the beauty that lingered long after the sound faded.

But it wasn’t his.

Charles leaned against the wall, just out of sight, listening as the music flowed through the cracks in the door. The player inside didn’t falter, didn’t stop to wrestle with the notes. It was effortless, pure. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare interrupt, afraid the spell would be broken if the other person realised they had an audience.

The melody soared, and for a brief moment, Charles closed his eyes, letting himself be swept up in it. It reminded him of why he had started this in the first place—of the nights when music had been his refuge, when it had felt like an escape, not a burden. He could feel the heaviness in his chest easing, just slightly, as the music wound its way through the silence.

But as beautiful as it was, it also stung. Whoever was playing had found what he had been searching for all this time—something he had lost.

The music came to a soft, gentle end, the final notes lingering in the air like a breath held too long. Charles stood there for a moment longer, still leaning against the doorframe, waiting for something—he didn’t know what.

When the quiet finally settled again, he stepped away from the door, not daring to break the fragile stillness with the creak of the floorboards. He glanced back one last time, his fingers curling tight around the strap of his bag. For a moment, he considered knocking, stepping inside to see the person who had played with such grace. But something held him back.

Instead, he turned and walked down the hallway, the echo of that haunting melody still playing in his head long after the door to the studio clicked shut behind him.

His following morning came in fragments—a bleary haze of sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds, the distant hum of traffic muffled by the walls of his apartment. Charles stirred, his body sluggish and heavy with the weight of too little sleep. He lay there for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream he couldn’t quite remember. But it wasn’t a dream that lingered in his mind.

It was the melody.

That same haunting, angelic piano from last night, curling through his thoughts like a whisper. He could still hear it—those delicate notes weaving together, the way the melody had seemed so effortless, so perfect. It had been circling his mind from the moment he left the studio. Now, it played softly in the background of his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

Charles groaned, rolling out of bed and dragging himself into the shower. The hot water did little to shake the fatigue that clung to him, nor did it drown out the persistent tune echoing in his head. His mind kept returning to the small, dimly lit room where the mystery pianist had been, to the way her fingers had danced across the keys as though they had always belonged there.

He towel-dried his hair, staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, a face hollowed by days of restless nights and creative frustration. He had some sort of media training today—something important. A meeting he couldn’t afford to drift through half-awake. But even as he dressed, pulling on his usual team shirt and straightening the collar, his thoughts were elsewhere.

The city outside was awake, the streets buzzing with life as he made his way through the crisp morning air to the Ferrari HQ. His coffee sat untouched in his hand, the steam rising in lazy spirals, but he barely noticed. The melody from last night played on an endless loop in his head, the memory of it clinging to him like a ghost he couldn’t shake.

The office was a blur of familiar faces, bright smiles, and too much energy for this early in the day. Charles moved through it all, barely fully acknowledging Carlos, the world around him dull and muffled. The media manager was already waiting when he arrived, tapping impatiently on the table as Charles sat down for their first meeting.

But even as they discussed plans, upcoming shoots, and expectations for both his and Carlos’ media presence, Charles wasn’t fully there. He nodded in the right places, offered half-hearted responses, but his mind kept wandering back to that melody. The notes haunted him, pulling his focus away from everything else, as though they held the answer to something he was desperate to grasp.

“Charles, are you listening?” Carlos’ voice snapped him back to the present.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, though his eyes betrayed him. He scribbled something on the notepad in front of him, though the lines didn’t form words—just scattered shapes, like the music notes he couldn’t get out of his head.

The meetings dragged on. Through every discussion, every pitch and presentation, Charles felt the same distraction pulling him away. He couldn’t let it go. The melody. It had stirred something in him—a frustration, yes, but also a strange kind of inspiration. There was something there, something unfinished, and it gnawed at him.

By the time the last meeting ended, Charles felt hollowed out. He hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to the discussions, not really. His mind had been elsewhere the entire day, replaying those fleeting notes over and over again. It was maddening.

He needed to know. Needed to find out who had played it, and why that music—the music he hadn’t written—felt so much like it belonged to him.

Without thinking, Charles pulled out his phone and dialled his producer’s number, pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the conference room as it rang. It was late afternoon now, the sky outside tinged with fading light. He knew he should be focusing on his own work, or on getting back to the studio, but the compulsion to solve this mystery was stronger than his exhaustion.

The line clicked, and his producer’s voice crackled on the other end. “Charles, hey. What’s up?”

Charles leaned against the window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. “I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice low, edged with impatience. “Last night, around 3 a.m., there was someone in one of the smaller studios, playing piano. Do you know who it was?”

There was a pause on the other end, the faint sound of papers shuffling. “3 a.m.? You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Charles replied, closing his eyes. The melody drifted back into his mind, as clear as if he were still sitting outside the door, listening. “It was… incredible. I couldn’t stop listening. I need to know who it was.”

Another pause, then a small chuckle from his producer. “Ah, that must’ve been the student. Yeah, she’s been coming in late at night to practise. Studies music at the university downtown. Doesn’t perform much, though—mostly keeps to herself.”

Charles’s heart skipped a beat. The name felt unfamiliar, but it already held a weight to it, like it was connected to something he hadn’t yet fully understood.

“She doesn’t perform?” he asked, brow furrowing. It seemed impossible—someone with that much talent, hiding in the shadows.

“Nah,” his producer continued, “she’s a bit under the radar. Not really into publishing or performing her work, but, man, she’s got something special. I didn’t realise you’d heard her.”

Charles was silent for a moment, processing the information. The melody. He could see it now—something just out of reach, like the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realised he was trying to solve.

“You know,” his producer said, his tone shifting slightly, “you’ve been stuck for a while, Charles. Maybe you should try working with her. See what happens. It might help you find what you’re looking for.”

Charles swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The thought of it—composing with someone else, with her—made something stir inside him. Could it be the answer to breaking through this creative silence he’d been drowning in?

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, though the decision was already forming in his mind.

As he hung up the phone, the melody returned, softer this time, but still persistent. And now, it wasn’t just haunting him—it was pulling him forward.

_________________

The studio felt different tonight, as though it had shifted in his absence. The air was cooler, the lights dimmer, casting long, quiet shadows over the floorboards. Charles stood in the hallway again, just as he had the night before, but this time his heart beat with something more than exhaustion or frustration. There was an anticipation simmering in his chest, a tension just beneath the surface.

He hadn’t come to compose tonight. Not really. He had come for the music. Her music.

The name felt strange on his lips, unfamiliar, yet full of significance. He didn’t know her, had never spoken to her, but her music had already gotten under his skin. It haunted him still, drifting through his mind in fragments even after the long day of meetings, pulling him back here.

He moved quietly down the hallway, the same path he had taken last night, his shoes barely making a sound against the worn floor. As he neared the smaller practice room, the faint sound of the piano floated toward him, delicate and clear, weaving through the quiet.

There it was again—the same effortless, angelic melody that had captivated him before. But now, listening to it a second time, Charles felt something deeper stirring. The way she played was different tonight, more intimate somehow, as if the music had softened, becoming something even more personal. He stopped outside the door, just as he had before, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.

For a long moment, he simply listened. The notes seemed to dance in the air, spinning and intertwining, building toward something both beautiful and fragile. It was mesmerising.

But then, the music stopped. Abruptly.

Charles’s eyes snapped open, his pulse quickening in the sudden silence. Before he could move, a voice broke through the quiet, soft but teasing.

“Mama always said it’s not nice to lurk.”

His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he didn’t move, caught off guard. The door was still ajar, the light spilling into the hallway, and from inside, he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting at the piano, her back turned to him. She hadn’t looked up, but she knew. She had known he was there the whole time.

Heat crept up his neck, but before he could stammer out an apology, she spoke again.

“You coming in, or are you planning to stay out there all night?”

Her tone was light, amused even, but it was an invitation all the same. Charles hesitated for a heartbeat longer, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward, pushing the door open a little wider.

The room was small and softly lit, just as he remembered, the grand piano dominating the space. She sat at it, her posture relaxed, fingers still resting lightly on the keys. She turned her head slightly as he entered, giving him the faintest glimpse of a smile.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, feeling a bit ridiculous for standing outside like that. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” She shifted on the bench, making space beside her. “Come on, sit.”

Charles’s throat tightened, but he nodded and moved toward the piano, his steps feeling oddly tentative. He hesitated for a second when he reached her, unsure if he should really be sitting so close. The bench was narrow, and he could already feel the warmth of her presence.

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “I don’t bite.”

With a small chuckle, he slid onto the stool beside her, the space between them barely a few inches. It was strange, this closeness—to sit here with someone he didn’t know, yet felt connected to through the music that had haunted him for days. Their shoulders brushed lightly as he settled in, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavy, loaded with expectation.

She glanced at him, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, without a word, she placed her hands back on the piano, her fingers moving over the keys with an effortless grace. The melody returned, soft and slow, and Charles felt his breath catch in his chest again. It was different this time—gentler, more deliberate, as though she was playing just for him.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the quiet intimacy of the music. He watched her hands move, the way her fingers danced across the keys with the kind of fluidity that only came from years of dedication. The melody wound its way through the air, filling the small space between them, and Charles found himself leaning in, just slightly, drawn to the sound and to her.

“You play like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She smiled, a soft, almost secretive smile. “It’s never easy,” she said, her voice low, her eyes still on the piano. “It just looks that way.”

She played a few more notes, then paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “What about you? You’ve been in the studio night after night. What’s haunting you?”

Charles let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. “I’ve been stuck,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “It feels like everything I try to create falls apart. Nothing compares to what I’ve done before.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she played another soft chord, the sound hanging in the air between them.

“Music’s strange like that,” she said after a moment, her tone thoughtful. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s easy, other times… it slips through your fingers.”

Charles nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He had been trying so hard to force the music out, to create something that could match his last piece, but all it had done was elude him.

The girl beside him shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing his. “Here,” she said, moving her hands off the keys. “Play something.”

“What?”

“Anything,” she replied, her eyes meeting his for the first time fully. There was a challenge in them, but also an understanding. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Charles swallowed, feeling a sudden surge of nerves. But her gaze was steady, encouraging, and without thinking too much about it, he let his hands find their way to the keys. The notes that came out weren’t perfect—they were hesitant, half-formed. But they were honest. He played softly, the melody faltering at times, but it was real.

She listened, her head slightly tilted as she watched his fingers move. Then, without warning, she joined him, her hands moving gracefully beside his, adding harmonies to the melody he had started. The sound shifted, growing fuller, more complete. The music filled the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles didn’t feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him.

Together, they played, their hands moving across the keys in tandem, creating something new. Something neither of them could have done alone.

When the last note finally faded into the quiet, Charles sat back, his heart pounding. She turned to him, her eyes soft and knowing.

“See?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s easier when you’re not alone.”

For a moment, they sat in the quiet, the echo of their shared melody lingering in the air like the last breath of a long-forgotten song. Charles stared at the keys, feeling the warmth of the music still buzzing in his fingertips. He hadn’t felt like this in weeks—maybe longer. There was something about the way she played, the way her music had melded so effortlessly with his, that made the creative block he’d been wrestling with seem almost insignificant.

He turned to look at her, realising for the first time how close they were, their shoulders still brushing lightly. Her eyes were fixed on the piano, her fingers resting gently on the keys, as though she was waiting for the next melody to arrive. Her presence, though quiet and composed, carried an intensity that matched the music she played—an unspoken understanding of the way music could consume you, take you apart, and put you back together.

“That was…” Charles began, but the words caught in his throat.

“Different?” she offered, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah.” He let out another breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “It felt… easier. Like it wasn’t something I had to force.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Music isn’t something you’re supposed to wrestle with. It’s like water—it flows when you stop trying to hold onto it so tightly.” She shifted her hands off the keys and folded them in her lap, her eyes now fully on him. “You’ve been pushing too hard. I could hear it.”

Her words were soft, but they carried something that made Charles pause. He had been pushing—straining against the silence, desperate to capture a piece of the magic he’d once had. Every night in the studio had been a battle, and he hadn’t realised until now that the real fight was with himself.

“You’re right,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying so hard to top what I did last time that I forgot why I was doing it in the first place.”

She leaned back slightly, still watching him, her expression unreadable. “What was your last piece?” she asked, her voice curious but not probing.

Charles hesitated. The memory of his last composition—an orchestral piece that had been his most successful work to date—felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else. It had been raw, emotional, inspired by something deeply personal, but the success that followed had overshadowed the joy he’d felt when he created it. Ever since then, he’d been chasing that same feeling, trying to recreate the magic, only to fall short.

“It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Something personal. It came easily back then. But now it feels like I’m trying to catch lightning in a bottle, and I’m just… stuck.”

She nodded, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the piano’s surface. “I get that. Sometimes the more you want something, the harder it is to find. That’s why I don’t perform much.” She smiled faintly, almost to herself. “There’s less pressure when no one’s watching.”

Charles studied her for a moment, sensing the layers beneath her calm demeanour. She spoke with such ease about the creative process, but there was an edge of vulnerability there too, a reluctance to expose too much of herself to the world.

“Why don’t you perform?” he asked, curious now. “I mean, with the way you play, you could easily—”

“Because I don’t need to,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “The music is for me. It’s not about the audience. It’s about…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s about connecting with something deeper, something that doesn’t care about applause or recognition.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and Charles found himself nodding slowly, understanding exactly what she meant. In a way, she had found a kind of freedom he had lost along the way.

“That’s why you play at night,” he said, more a statement than a question. “When no one’s around. It’s like…” He trailed off, trying to find the right analogy, “…the world doesn’t exist.”

She smiled at that, a real one this time, her eyes brightening just a little. “Exactly. It’s easier to lose yourself when there’s no one expecting anything from you.”

Charles sat back, processing her words. For so long, he had been weighed down by expectations—his own, his producer’s, the fans—and it had drained him. Maybe that was the problem. He had been writing for others, forgetting that the music had always been something he did for himself first. Something he loved.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, breaking his thoughts. “You know,” she said, a playful lilt in her voice, “you could try playing like no one’s watching. Even if they are.”

He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, leaning in just a bit, “you’re too worried about what people think of your music. But here”—she motioned to the piano in front of them—“there’s no audience. Just us. So why not stop thinking so much and just… play?”

Charles blinked, the simplicity of her suggestion hitting him harder than it should have. She made it sound so easy, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was supposed to be easy.

Before he could respond, she slid her fingers back onto the keys, playing a few soft chords that hummed through the air like the beginning of something new. Then she glanced sideways at him, a small, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Come on. Share the bench again. Let’s make something together.”

A spark of excitement flared in his chest. Without another word, Charles moved closer, their knees brushing as they both settled into position, fingers poised over the keys. This time, he wasn’t overthinking it. He wasn’t wrestling with the music. He was just… there.

She started first, her melody soft and fluid, and Charles followed, instinctively matching her rhythm, letting their sounds merge and flow together. The music wasn’t perfect—it stuttered at times, shifted unexpectedly—but it was alive. It had a pulse. It breathed with them.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles wasn’t haunted by the silence. He wasn’t weighed down by the pressure of creating something great. He was just… playing. Creating. Feeling the music as it moved through him, through them both.

As their hands danced over the keys, weaving together something raw and beautiful, he realised something that felt both terrifying and thrilling: maybe this was what he had been missing. Not perfection. Not even recognition. Just the simple, undeniable joy of creating with someone who understood. Someone who could make the music feel real again.

When the last note faded into the quiet, Charles turned to her, his heart still racing.

“I think,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I need to stop chasing what I’ve already done and start finding something new.”

She nodded, her eyes bright and knowing. “And maybe,” she said, her voice equally quiet, “we can find it together.”

The last note lingered in the air between them, and Charles felt something warm and alive settle in his chest. The music they had made together had been unlike anything he’d played in so long—imperfect, yes, but honest. Real. The creative block that had suffocated him for weeks was finally gone, or at least, it felt that way in this fleeting moment of clarity.

She glanced at him, her smile soft but distant. She seemed different now, as though the music had taken something from her as well. Before Charles could say anything, she pushed herself up from the piano bench, her fingers lingering on the edge of the keys for just a second longer than necessary.

"I've got to go."

Her words were quiet, almost an afterthought, and they hit him with an unexpected force. She didn’t give him time to respond, to ask anything, to even say goodbye. She simply gathered her bag and moved toward the door, her steps quick and purposeful.

“Wait—” Charles started, rising halfway from the bench, but it was too late.

She turned to him for a brief moment, a smile that was part mystery, part something he couldn’t quite read crossing her lips. “Don’t stop playing, tesoro (treasure)” she said softly. “You’re closer than you think.”

And then, before he could find his voice, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with an eerie finality.

Charles stood frozen for a few long moments, staring at the door. His mind raced. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t know where she lived, where she studied, or how to reach her. She had slipped away like a melody in the night, as effortlessly as she’d come into his life.

With a sigh, he sank back onto the piano bench, running his hands through his hair. The room felt strangely empty without her, the space they had shared now echoing with the silence she left behind. But something inside him had shifted. The music they’d created still hummed in his veins, and the weight of doubt that had plagued him for so long felt lighter. Almost like it was dissolving, piece by piece.

He placed his hands on the keys, the cool touch of ivory grounding him, and began to play.

At first, the melody was slow, almost tentative. It mirrored the notes they’d played together, but now it began to morph into something new, something entirely his own. As his fingers moved, the music unfolded naturally, effortlessly. It was as though every piece of frustration, every sleepless night, every failed attempt to capture the right sound was now fueling something greater. Something real.

The notes swelled and cascaded, filling the room with a rich, haunting melody that seemed to flow directly from his soul. It was raw, brimming with emotion—a reflection of everything he had felt, everything he had fought against. But now, there was no more fighting. The music came freely, weaving together in ways that felt effortless and inevitable.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Charles wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t chasing perfection or wrestling with expectations. He was simply… playing. The music poured out of him like a long-held breath, each note sharper, more vivid than the last. The emotions he had buried—frustration, longing, even joy—flooded into the sound, and it consumed him.

His hands moved faster now, the melody becoming more urgent, more intense. He didn’t know where it was going, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about this—this pure, unfiltered moment of creation.

And then, without warning, a tear slipped down his cheek.

Charles barely noticed it at first, too wrapped up in the music, but soon another tear followed. And another. He wasn’t sobbing—there was no sadness in it. Instead, it was an overwhelming sense of release, of joy, of finally breaking through. The music swelled, the room vibrating with sound, and Charles felt it wash over him. A catharsis he hadn’t known he needed.

When he hit the final chord, it echoed through the room, ringing out long after his fingers had stilled. The silence that followed was profound, heavy with the weight of everything he had just poured into the keys.

Charles sat there, hands trembling slightly, staring at the piano in disbelief. A shaky laugh escaped his throat, followed by a deep, breathless exhale. He had done it. He had finally played something worth keeping.

No—it was more than that. He had played one of the best pieces of his life.

For a long while, he just sat there, his hands resting in his lap, feeling the weight of what he had just created. Tears still clung to his lashes, but his chest felt light—lighter than it had in months. Maybe years.

He wasn’t just crying because of the music. He was crying because, for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy. 

Charles leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the piano, letting the last remnants of tension drain from him. His breath was steady now, calm. The room was bathed in a kind of quiet peace he hadn’t known in so long. He had no idea where the girl had gone, or if he’d ever see her again. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

The music was enough.

What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that she hadn’t really left. Not entirely.

Outside the door, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, she stood, her back pressed against the wall. She had stopped as soon as she’d heard the first notes drift through the air, her hand hovering over the door handle but never turning it.

She had listened. Every note, every chord, every emotion Charles had poured into the piano, she had felt it too. Her heart had raced with his, her breath had caught in her throat when she’d heard the moment he broke through the wall he had been fighting against.

She smiled softly to herself, her hand finally dropping to her side as the last note of Charles’s masterpiece echoed through the studio. She had heard something in his playing tonight that she hadn’t expected. Something raw and powerful.

She turned to leave, her steps soft on the floor, leaving the sound of his triumph behind. Maybe she would come back one day, maybe not. But she knew this much—he didn’t need her anymore.

He had found his music again. And that, in itself, was enough.

As she disappeared into the night, Charles remained at the piano, still catching his breath, unaware of the quiet presence that had stayed with him until the very end.

The following days felt surreal, like a dream Charles was reluctant to wake from. After that night in the studio with the girl, his life had been interrupted by a trip to Silverstone to try out the tyres for the new season. The track buzzed with its usual energy, but no matter where he wandered, Charles’s thoughts always drifted back to her and the music they’d played together.

He had left the studio that night haunted by the memory of her delicate touch on the keys, the way their melodies had intertwined as though they’d been waiting for each other all along. He carried it with him over to England, through busy track meets and silent hotel rooms. Late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he would close his eyes and hear her music, as if it had lodged itself permanently in his mind.

It wasn’t just the music, though. It was her—the quiet way she had smiled at him, the lightness in her voice when she teased him, the sense of understanding that had passed between them without needing to be spoken.

Now, as Charles stepped back into the familiar silence of the studio late at night right off the plane, he felt a quiet anticipation coiled tightly in his chest. The lights were dim, the air cool and still, and for a moment, it felt like time had paused. The room was empty, and there was no trace of her—no soft melody floating through the air, no sound of delicate fingers dancing across the keys.

Disappointment stirred, settling somewhere deep. He’d been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that she’d be here. That they could pick up where they’d left off. He made his way to the piano, where the polished surface glinted in the low light, as inviting as ever.

And then he saw it—a small note left on the piano bench. His pulse quickened as he unfolded it, her handwriting instantly recognizable, though scrawled in that same casual, hurried way:

"Play with your heart, tesoro."

A soft smile tugged at his lips. The simplicity of the message was so very her. It was a whisper, a reminder of what mattered. A push, gentle but certain.

Charles set the note aside and sat down on the bench, the studio eerily quiet around him. For a moment, he just sat there, the weight of the piano keys beneath his fingers, the faint memory of their music hovering in the air. Then, without thinking too much, he began to play.

The melody started slow, almost hesitant, each note like a thought he hadn’t quite formed yet. But as he played, the music unfolded into something deeper, something more intimate. It wasn’t complicated or grand—it didn’t need to be. It was soft, heartfelt, like a quiet conversation spoken in a language only they understood.

He let go of the pressure, the constant need to craft something perfect, and instead just let the music be what it was—a reflection of what he felt, of what had been buried deep inside him since he’d met her. The music filled the room, curling into the corners like a secret. And for the first time in what felt like months, he felt at peace.

As the last notes lingered in the air, a soft sound broke the quiet. Applause—light, slow, and warm.

Charles turned, startled, and there she was, standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. She was watching him, her hands clasped softly in front of her, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with something tender, something familiar. She’d been listening, perhaps the whole time.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Charles murmured, his voice softer than the room itself.

She took a few quiet steps toward him, her gaze never leaving his. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” she said gently, her smile deepening. “It was beautiful.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt suspended in a kind of stillness, the last remnants of his melody hanging between them, but no words were needed to fill the quiet. She came closer, and Charles shifted slightly on the bench, instinctively making space for her. She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing softly in the small space, the warmth of her presence settling something inside him.

“Play it again,” she whispered, her voice low, like a secret shared just between them.

He hesitated for a second, but then his fingers found their way back to the keys, this time slower, more deliberate. The music that spilled out was softer now, more intimate, as if shaped by the quiet weight of her sitting beside him. She watched as his hands moved, her gaze gentle, and as he played, the world outside seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them and the music between them.

After a few moments, her fingers joined his, their hands moving together over the keys with a quiet ease. Her touch was so light, so effortless, and the sound they created was simple yet achingly beautiful—a melody that spoke of longing and connection, of words unspoken but deeply felt. There was no rush, no urgency in the way they played, only a slow unfolding of something real and fragile.

Charles stole a glance at her, his heart tightening. There was something unspoken in the air, something that went beyond the music they shared. He could feel it in the way she leaned in ever so slightly, the way her breath seemed to sync with his, the soft, steady rhythm of their playing.

When the last note faded into the stillness, neither of them moved. They sat there, shoulders barely touching, the silence around them thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her eyes soft, her smile quiet but full of meaning.

“You played with your heart,” she whispered, her words echoing the note she had left for him.

Charles’s throat tightened, the room suddenly feeling too small, too full of everything he hadn’t yet said. He turned toward her, his voice catching in his chest as he whispered back, “You make it easier.”

Her smile deepened, and for a moment, there was only the soft rise and fall of their breathing, the music they had created still lingering in the air around them. It felt like something had shifted between them, like a door had been opened that couldn’t easily be closed again.

And as they sat there, side by side on the piano bench, Charles realised that the silence no longer felt heavy. It felt full—of possibility, of something quiet and beautiful, waiting patiently to be discovered.

Together.

Charles’s heart raced, the air between them thick with anticipation. They sat in a charged stillness, so close their breaths seemed to mingle. The soft light of the studio flickered gently against her face, casting shadows that made her seem almost otherworldly. Her lips parted, just slightly, as if waiting for something—an unspoken invitation.

Before he could think too much about it, before doubt could creep in, Charles leaned in.

At first, it was tentative—a brush of lips so light it felt like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He kissed her softly, testing the moment, unsure if he was crossing some unseen line. But then she responded, her lips pressing back against his with the same quiet hunger he hadn’t realised was burning between them all along.

The kiss deepened, their soft breaths mingling in the quiet. A slow, intoxicating warmth spread through Charles’s chest, pulling him further in. He cupped her face gently with his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek as their lips moved together, tentative but growing bolder with each passing second. Her hand found his, her fingers slipping between his, and she pulled him closer, as though the space between them had become unbearable.

Suddenly, the kiss wasn’t soft anymore—it became something more urgent, more passionate, the weight of everything they hadn’t said spilling over into the kiss. Charles felt his pulse quicken, his mind lost in the warmth and closeness of her. He slid his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her in deeper, their lips moving together in a rhythm that felt as natural as the music they had created moments ago.

She shifted slightly on the bench, her body pressing closer to his, and the heat between them grew. The world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in the dim, quiet studio, the echoes of their kiss the only sound. The softness of her touch, the taste of her lips—it was all intoxicating, a crescendo building within him.

Charles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he didn’t want it to stop. He could have stayed in that moment forever, lost in the intensity of her kiss, in the way her hands tangled in his hair, in the way she fit so perfectly against him.

But then, as though sensing they were both on the edge of something overwhelming, Charles pulled back just slightly, his lips still lingering close to hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness. They were both breathing harder, and for a moment, neither spoke.

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking with his, wide and full of something unspoken. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and Charles had to fight the urge to pull her back into another kiss.

“Tesoro” she whispered, her voice soft and a little breathless, as though she couldn’t quite find the words.

He smiled gently, his thumb brushing over her lips before he let his hand fall away, resting on the piano between them. His heart still raced, but there was something peaceful now, something right. He hadn’t felt this in so long—this connection, this ease.

“I need to thank you, angioletto ” Charles murmured, his voice low and full of emotion.

“For what?” she asked, her eyes searching his, a quiet vulnerability in her gaze.

“For inspiring this,” he said, his words soft but heavy with meaning. “For inspiring me.” He gestured toward the piano, where the notes of their shared music still seemed to hover in the air between them. “That song we played together… I never would have found it without you.”

Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper, something that mirrored what Charles was feeling.

“You’ve helped me more than you know,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Before you, I was stuck. I couldn’t write, couldn’t feel the music anymore. But playing with you—it’s like something clicked. You brought it back.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her smile growing, but there was a quiet tenderness in her expression, as if she understood all the things he wasn’t saying. Slowly, she leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his, and they stayed like that, breathing each other in, the world softening around them.

“I’m glad I could help,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress against his skin.

Charles closed his eyes, letting the moment settle between them, the weight of her words sinking in. He had been searching for something—chasing it endlessly, driving himself to exhaustion in its pursuit. But sitting here, with her, with the music they had created still vibrating in the air, he realised he had already found it.

It wasn’t just the music. It was her. She had become his muse in more ways than one.

He pulled back slightly to meet her gaze once more, his eyes searching hers for a long moment. And then, without another word, he kissed her again—slowly, tenderly this time. It was a kiss filled not with urgency, but with gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.

And in that kiss, Charles knew he wasn’t just thanking her for the music. He was thanking her for being the spark that had reignited something inside him, for being the light in a place that had felt dark for so long.

When their lips finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers once more, the two of them still breathing each other in, their hearts in sync. The studio was quiet now, but it wasn’t empty. The music they had shared—the connection they had formed—lingered in the air like a promise.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Charles felt whole.

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[monster-disaster]

[demon] Cillian

demon!Cillian x human!Reader Warnings: oral, not a full smut just a tease

Summary: Your pianist husband needs his muse.

A/N: It's a silly idea but I hope you will enjoy it!

The room is bathed in the amber light of the setting sun, casting long, warm streaks across the polished dark wood floor. Each ray glimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows, sliding across the sleek, glossy surface of the piano's black lid. The grand instrument stands still against the view of Meriad in the background. Beyond the glass, the city stretches out with its towering buildings and the fiery hues of the evening light.

"What are you doing?" you ask when you finally break the stillness of the room. Your gaze is fixed on your husband standing a few steps away from the leather bench of the piano.

Cillian takes his time to respond, his focus lingering on the instrument for a heartbeat longer before his eyes flicker over to you. His arms remain crossed over his broad chest. The crisp white shirt he wears hangs loose at his neck, revealing a hint of his strawberry-red skin.

"Cancel the concert," he says at last, causing you to frown as his words sink in. His arms flex subtly under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. The motion draws your eyes for a fleeting moment as he adjusts his stance, turning slightly to face you more.

"I can't do that."

Well, you could, but there is no way you will when the concert is just a few days away.

"And why would I, anyway?"

Cillian holds your gaze. A flicker of something passes through his eyes but disappears before you can read it. "I'm not ready," he states. His words hang in the air while your mind races for an answer.

He shakes his head slowly, the movement making the tips of his screw horns catch the golden light streaming in through the windows behind him. "I need more time."

"You’ve had months," you remind him. Your voice is more harsh than you originally intended. "Just sit down and... play."

The demon’s frown deepens, his dark brows drawing together as if the suggestion itself is offensive. "It doesn’t work like that."

You wave at the piano, helpless. "Well, whatever your problem is, you have to get through it," you tell him. "I’m not canceling the concert, Cillian. It would ruin your career."

He exhales sharply. The sound is somewhere between a huff and a growl. He knows you are right. "I can’t."

Your heels click sharply on the hardwood floor as you close the space between you, pointing at the bench. "Sit."

The demon glares at you for a moment. His jaw is set so tightly that you can see the subtle shift of his features. The sharp lines of his cheekbones grow even more pronounced. His skin seems to stretch over the bone structure like a mask, and his eyes sink deeper into their sockets. The darkened hollows glint with something ancient and primal beneath his composed exterior. For just a second, you get a glimpse of his true face; the demon he is beneath the polished surface. Then, with another sharp exhale, he turns away from you as he lowers himself onto the leather bench, and when he looks at you, he is human again. Well, more human.

"Now, play," you say, resting your hand gently on the sleek surface of the piano. "Play something. Anything."

Cillian’s glare shifts from you to the instrument in front of him. His dark eyes run over the keys while his long, elegant fingers hover above them, twitching and fidgeting, but never quite making contact. There is a palpable tension in the air as he stares, lost in his own internal battle.

"Play one of my favorites," you tell him more softly now as you watch your love struggle.

You don’t need to elaborate further. Between being his wife and his manager, you’ve spent countless hours listening to him play, learning what pieces move you and resonate in you deeply.

For a long moment, he remains motionless as if weighing the request against his inner turmoil. Then, slowly, his fingers press against the keys, tentative at first as though testing the waters. The sound is soft and familiar, but as the rhythm begins to take shape and swell, a sharp, jarring tone slices through the melody, causing Cillian’s entire body to stiffen. A low curse escapes him, frustration radiating off him like heat, and with one fluid motion, he slams the keylid down. The sudden sound of wood against wood rings through the room.

He runs a hand through his dark hair, clearly irritable. "Damn it," he mutters under his breath. His eyes flare to that sharp, almost predatory intensity before fading into a simmering frustration.

"Let's try again tomorrow," you break the silence after a long, tense second. Your voice is soft and careful.

"It won't change anything," the demon replies. "Cancel the concert."

You sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of his request presses down on you. "I can’t, Cillian," you tell him. "It would ruin everything you’ve built."

The silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"You’ll figure it out," you say, reaching out to gently push his hair back from his eyes. "Come. Let’s have dinner and watch something stupid on the TV."

Your offer doesn't solve his problem, but it draws the smallest of smiles across his lips as his fingers link with yours, and without another world, he lets you lead him toward the kitchen.

_

"I have an idea." The soft, low murmur of your husband's voice cuts through the sleepy fog of your mind, delicate and distant. At first, it doesn’t even register. His fingers, light as feathers, trace along the line of your jaw, his thumb grazing gently over your lips. The warmth of his touch seeps through the haze of sleep, but your mind is slow to catch up.

"What?" you croak, squinting into the dark of the bedroom. His silhouette is little more than a shadow against the darkness.

"I have an idea," Cillian repeats. "But I need you for it."

You shift onto your back, the sheets rustling beneath you as you force your eyelids to stay open and yourself to stay awake. "You mean now?"

"Yeah," he says with a hint of eagerness threading through his simple answer.

Any other time, you would have grunted at him in annoyance and sunk back into the softness of your pillows, not ready to give up the warmth of sleep for anything, but you watched him struggle with his music for weeks, and you can’t bring yourself to dismiss the quiet hope in his words tonight.

"What’s your idea?"

You let him pull you from the bed without a word, your body still heavy with sleep. His fingers, warm and soft, guide you out to the living room. The grand piano stands still by the large window, its polished surface reflecting the faint light spilling in from the city beyond. Flashes of neon advertisements cast a colorful glow across the towering buildings and the streets below constantly in motion with the never-ending flow of traffic.

You stand there for a moment, the sound of your breathing mingling with the distant hum of the city while your husband leaves your sides only to close the lid of the piano before turning his attention back to you.

"Take off your clothes," he says, gaze drifting over the delicate fabric of your nightgown.

Your body reacts before your mind does; your skin tingles where his eyes linger. "What?" You can't help but let the word slip, caught off guard by his sudden request.

"I want you naked," he states as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Cillian," you murmur his name, suspicion threading through your tone, but there's no resisting the strange curiosity that blooms in your chest. "What's your plan?" But your fingers already move to the hem of your nightgown, tugging it off with a quick motion.

"We’ve been so caught up in my concert, in everything else, that we didn’t even have time for each other. Weeks without this…" He trails off, eyes never leaving your bare body. "I need my muse back." His eyes are darker now as he pats the sleek, black lid with a soft thud. "Come. Sit here."

A pulse of excitement tingles down your spine at his invitation and without a second thought, you step closer. "Are you sure about it?" you ask, casting a wary glance at the piano. You don't want to ruin it.

"Yep," he replies, popping the p between his lips while his hands find your hips, and before you can protest further, he hauls you effortlessly onto the instrument.

The sleek, lacquered surface presses against your skin, heightening your awareness of your exposed self.

"There," he murmurs, rich with approval as his hands linger on your thighs, steadying you. "Perfect."

The air around you feels thick and charged with an intoxicating heat that clings to your skin. The hard, unyielding surface of the piano isn’t exactly comfortable with your legs dangling awkwardly over the edge, brushing against the cool keys, but none of that matters; not the sharp corners digging into you or the faint creak of the instrument beneath your weight. Your mind is far too hazy with the thrill of this moment to care about anything else while you watch your husband lower himself onto the bench.

Seated there, he has a perfect view of the heat pooling between your thighs, laid bare for him and him alone. You can feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny, but the vulnerability doesn’t make you shy away. Instead, it feeds the fire burning inside you, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Now," he hums softly under his breath. "Stay still, my love."

The first sound he coaxes from the piano is soft and delicate like a whisper meant only for you. It is slightly muffled, the closed lid and your body atop it tempering the instrument’s full voice, but the music loses none of its beauty. Each note wraps around you, seeping into your skin, and settling deep in your chest. Your husband plays with the same precision and passion that drew you to him in the first place, his hands gliding over the keys as if the piano is an extension of himself. For a long while, the world beyond the room ceases to exist, and even when only the final note lingers in the otherwise quiet air, you are still unable to remind yourself of your exposed, vulnerable position.

"You will be amazing," you murmur, breaking the silence after a long, long second. Your chest is full of wonder and pride as you watch his eyes lift from the keys to meet yours, locking onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

"And I'm not done yet, my wife." The grin that curls his lips is nothing short of wicked. It’s the kind of smile that warns of trouble and promises pleasure in equal measure.

You gulp, throat dry as his heated gaze pins you in place. "Should I get off?" you manage to whisper.

"No."

Before you can process his answer, he moves. The lid closes over the keys with a sharp click, and his long, skilled fingers find the plush softness of your thighs, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. A startled squeak escapes your lips as he pulls you forward, the motion causing the piano to emit a dull thud beneath your weight.

"Cillian!" you shriek, your heart racing. "What-?"

"Stay still, my love." His lips find your skin, brushing feather-light kisses over the sensitive flesh of your thighs. The heat of his breath fanning over your core makes you shiver.

Your head falls back with a throaty moan as his tongue eagerly swipes over your slit. The sharp jolt of pleasure shooting through your body makes your toes curl while Cillian's fingers dig into your soft flesh as he hauls you closer. The possessiveness and determination in his movement leave no room for escape, not that you'd dream of it.

"I’ve missed this," Cillian murmurs against your pussy. "My muse, my inspiration." His lips curl into a smile before his tongue delves between your folds again, exploring you with a hunger that steals your breath away. "How could I ever create without tasting you first?" His words are a mixture of devotion and wickedness, stoking the fire already burning inside you. His tongue glides through your wetness, collecting every drop with wet, obscene sounds that seem to echo in the quiet room. His mouth slurps and sucks on your arousal before his lips find your clit. The first flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through your body, and you arch into him instinctively, begging, demanding. He tongues you with maddening skill, alternating between gentle laps and intense suction that has your legs trembling.

"For weeks," he breathes against your sensitive flesh, pausing just long enough to tease you with his words, "I’ve been surrounded by noise; praises, and expectations, but none of it compares to this." His tongue traces circles over your clit, coaxing a sharp gasp from your lips. "You, my love, are the only symphony I need. My muse. My salvation." He feasts on you with an intensity that borders on worship. He plunges his tongue deeper, his pace relentless, as though determined to draw every ounce of pleasure from you.

His dark eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. There’s something primal in his gaze, a depth that seems to pull you under as if his very soul is reaching out to claim you. His eyes are sunken in their sockets, and you can see the simmering energy beneath his skin. His demon form presses at his human facade, begging to be unleashed.

His lips curl into a feral grin, sharp and wicked, as his tongue flicks over your clit again, drawing a gasp from your lips. "Breathe, my love," he teases. "I need you to last long enough to inspire me properly."

[thediaryofaurora]

General HCs

Bloody Painter/Helen Otis

This bad boy is LONNGG, I included a lot of his backstory in this. Writers block is beating my ass. 💔

- Twenty one!

- 6’1. When I say this dudes lanky, I mean LANKY. Slim and naturally toned, his main exercise comes from chasing or climbing stairs.

- Both of his parents are Korean, but he was raised in Pennsylvania.

- His parents struggled with getting pregnant, most ending is miscarriages. His mom was completely batshit, so when the pregnancy stuck she swore she had some divine intuition that made her believed he’d be a girl. She didn’t even bother having an ultrasound, so when he was born and she saw that he was a boy she thought him being a girl was some sort of prophecy she needed to fulfill.

- His whole life she had always told him he was meant to be a girl and he would be going against ‘God’s will’ if he didn’t follow through. He was always dressed in feminine clothing and had an extremely girly room. His mother didn’t put him in school until he was about thirteen, since she thought the kids would taint his mind and make him think he’s a boy.

- When he was put in school he got bullied RELENTLESSLY. His name, the way he dressed, everything. After meeting Tom he slowly started to realize that all the shit he grew up with wasn’t normal and his mom was psycho, so he started borrowing his clothes and changing in the school bathrooms so he could feel less weird. Once Tom admitted to planting Judy’s watch in Helen’s bag, they argued on the roof while getting slightly physical. Tom had slipped off the edge, but Helen managed to grab him. Of course, a middle schooler isn’t necessarily strong enough to hold another off a building without going down with them, so Tom let go to save Helen. Rumors spread that Helen had pushed him, but no one cared enough to investigate.

- After that school year was over he started to dress more androgynous/ masculine and ignored his mom’s pressure, which lead to her abusing him both physically and mentally. Eventually, with his ignored mental issues and the abuse he completely snapped, killing his mom and several of his bullies right before a Halloween party. He was sent to a psychiatric hospital that Slender ended up taking him from.

- VERY polite and proper. He’s pretty soft spoken and his grammar is like never flawed, big word user. 1000% the type of guy to kiss your hand as a greeting. The most he’ll do if he doesn’t like you is give you the silent treatment or a dirty look.

- Weird little detail, but his fingers and SLIM and LONG. His nails are neatly kept. He likes to pamper himself.

- He does botany in his free time! Any flower arrangements in the mansion and the gardens outside are his doing. There’s a few residents that he brings bouquets to every other week so they can have something nice. EJ, Sally, and Jane are his usual market. Also does flower pressing.

- Used to do ballet when he was about 4-7.

- Definitely the safest driver, but that makes him a pain as a get away driver. Always goes the exact speed limit and follows every possible law.

- Mainly listens to classical music. However, he does like Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, even a little bit of Queen.

- His room is SO nice and very big. Long sheer curtains, velvet & silk bedding, a grand piano, flowers, tall bookshelves, chairs, a large bed with a canopy, big windows, and lots of sculptures and framed paintings done by him. He’s really into elegant things and floral patterns. Has a mural on his ceiling!

- Hangs out with EJ, Liu, Puppeteer, and Jane. Rarely does he talk to any of the proxies or any creeps he’s not close with. Awfully reserved.

- Loves the fine arts. Painting, writing, music, sculpting, all that jazz. Occasionally does poetry! Him and Liu both like to write, so sometimes they’ll get together and talk about it. He mostly reads old classic books & poetry.

- Jane has taught him how to sew, although he doesn’t find much use for it.

- He has a white persian cat named Juliette in his room no one knows about other than his close friends. She never leaves the room, but she’s content; it has enough room to have lots of things just for her. He has a MASSIVE painting of her renaissance style by her bed. (He got her one of those fancy cat beds that look like a tiny rich person couch.) Pampers her to death.

- I know in his canon design he has that denim kinda jacket on with the pin, but in my HC he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that. Usually wears jeans and baggy button ups while he’s painting, but his day to day outfits are well put together. Rich person style in clothes — turtle necks, slacks, dress shoes, almost kind of dark academia.

- Super high standards in general, but especially when it comes to food. Fine dining for sure. Usually buys only enough ingredients for a serving just for him so he doesn’t have to leave them in the fridge. He doesn’t trust the other residents at ALL.

- This guy is ROLLING in it. He has so much loose cash from victims he can do whatever the hell he wants, big reason why his cat is living like royalty.

- Drinks at least one glass of wine a day. He has an entire rack in his room of old, fine wines. A lot of them are from Europe.

- For whatever reason, he’s an amazing masseuse.

- All of his candles and soaps are very high quality and expensive. He won’t settle for anything less.

- Can play the piano and the violin! He would kill to have a harpsichord, he might.

- He’s not big on history, but he could talk for hours about the titanic. He’s done paintings of it and has watched every possible documentary on it. Thinks the movie is a work of art.

I hope you all liked this! I love this fine man.

❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎

[copperdailey]

copperdailey presents

Fender Rhodes Student Piano KBS 7024

ngl, i was kinda bummed by the lack of fun-shaped piano cc and only have seen grand pianos being recoloured or the portable keyboard swatch add-ons. so i decided i want some fun piano!

inspired by the colours of the '70s & '80s, i'm bringing this Jetsons-style piano to the sims! i tried matching the colours to the cozy kitsch so hopefully my swatches did it some justice!

for this piano to show up/function, you need the Growing Together EP. also please be warned that this item has almost 15k polycount with 2k texture, meaning low-end specs will struggle and it'll take 500 years for your game to load.

DOWNLOAD on Patreon (Exclusive Tiers ONLY)

thank you to my patrons for supporting me and letting me experiment with this!

[hellfirenacht]

Wing Man 13

Fic Summary: Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington is your best friend, and is constantly striking out. Sick of this, you two make a deal; you’ll wing man for each other. Hooking Steve up with dates is easy, but he finds himself struggling to find you a date. At least, until Dustin starts talking about his new cool friend Eddie.

Chapter Summary: You remember.

6.5 Words

(1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12)

March, 1977

You hated the sweater that your grandma had picked out for you to wear on the night of the Hawkins Middle School Talent Show. It was slightly too small for you and you couldn’t comfortably raise your arms without your midriff accidentally showing, the material was itchy and the tag was poking at the back of your neck which made you scratch the skin there which only made the problem worse, and you know that when you stepped out onto the stage the lights would make you feel unbearably hot. 

What you hated slightly less was the poem that you were supposed to recite. You didn’t really have anything against The Owl and the Pussy Cat, but it wasn’t exactly your first choice for the show. Actually, you had about 8 more ideas for your forced performance that had all been shot down by your teachers or parents. 

Being forced to be in the talent show wasn’t the worst thing in the world. You really did normally like being on stage if it was by your own choice and you got to choose what to do. Now, here you were in 8th grade, getting ready to be on stage because of some stupid rule that said that all students must participate in the talent show once in their 3 years. 

You didn’t have a talent in 6th grade, and in 7th you ended up getting the flu which had kept you in bed for a week. Now for 8th grade you had been cornered and forced to recite a poem that put you to sleep and was sure to give every bored parent an excuse to take a bathroom break. 

There were way more interesting performances than you, and you’d rather trade with almost anyone. The girls from the cheer squad always did an original routine despite using the same three cheers at every sports game, there were the Tyson brothers who did their traditional “Who’s On First?” stand-up that killed every year, a few kids playing piano or singing some random song, and one girl doing what you assumed to be some sort of martial art demonstration. The talent here was only marginally better than the ones you had sat through in elementary school. 

Okay, there was one performance that you were looking forward to seeing. Dougie, the guy who sat next to you in English, had been going on for weeks how he was in a band now and that they were making their debut at the talent show that year. He excitedly rambled to you about how they were going to play a Judas Priest song and it was gonna be awesome. 

You had never talked to Dougie before then, but you had made eye contact with him once when he was talking about the talent show and that meant that you were now going to listen to him every time he wanted to talk about his band. Having a full live band at this show sounded a lot more interesting than most public school acts, and the idea that they were going to get away with playing a song that was not school board approved sounded awesome. 

The irony of it all was that about three minutes before the show started he admitted that they had all practiced together a grand total of twice beforehand. 

Dougie was currently jumping up and down in an awkward rhythm from foot to foot, clinging to his bass like it was his last lifeline. When you tried to talk to him, he only responded with a line from the song they were going to sing, having forgotten the rest of the English language in an attempt to make sure he remembered the words to the song. It made you feel a little better, because you could at least recite your poem in your sleep. 

You leaned against a wall and looked up towards the catwalk above the stage. There were two kids up there, and you were pretty sure that they really weren’t supposed to be. One was a girl in a ponytail, wearing a sparkly outfit that matched the group of cheerleaders in the hall, and one was a boy with a buzzcut wearing ripped jeans and a dark t-shirt. Quite the opposite pair. 

You watched them for a moment, unable to hear a word they were saying but they both kept looking out at the crowd. When the five minute warning came, they each scrambled back down to the floor and Buzzcut Kid made his way to Dougie and the girl went out to join the rest of her squad. 

Maybe this would be more enjoyable if you also had friends to do this with. The few friends that you did have had either done their stint in the years before or had decided to do something completely different than you. 

Your only saving grace was that you were up second, right after some 7th grader sang along to the latest pop song that hit the charts about a month ago. This meant that you at least got it over with, and could spend the rest of the show alone and unbothered to watch everyone else. 

That was the plan at least. Unfortunately for you, you had completely overlooked one crucial thing about your fellow peers. 

They were fucking mean.

You really hadn’t thought much about the poem you were going to recite, it was just supposed to be a very quick poem that no one would remember. You had actually learned the poem a very long time ago when you were a kid, so you never made the connection that part of the poem could be taken... incorrectly. 

When your name was called, you stepped onto the center stage, shoulders back and head up straight. You were going to say your poem from the diaphragm, make your parents and grandma happy, and then get off stage. It would take less than two minutes and then you were home free. 

The second you started talking about how the Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea in their pea green boat was when you started to hear the giggles from backstage. And when the Owl started to sing on their guitar, that’s when you realized your fatal mistake. 

"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

         You are,

         You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Oh. 

Oh no. 

The giggles from backstage grew louder and you felt your face heating up from more than just the horrible sweater. You could barely focus on the last two verses, where the Owl buys a ring off a Pigs’ nose to marry the Pussy Cat, you could only finish the poem in a deadpan voice before walking off stage as quickly as possible without even waiting for the first applause to start. 

Backstage, everyone was giggling every time they looked at you. Whispers of ‘O pussy, my love!’ and ‘O lovely pussy!’ and (less creatively) ‘pussy lover’ followed you as you made your way out into the hall, trying not to cry. 

They would all call you “pussy poem girl” until you skipped town and left Indiana forever, you just knew it.

You slipped into the bathroom, had yourself a small bout of embarrassed frustration tears, and then stomped your way to the art room. Ms. Teedee, the art teacher, was infamous for forgetting to lock her door which meant that it was easy to sneak in and make your way over to the large box of construction paper and get to work. 

It started out as just a way to calm down after the horrible embarrassment you just faced, but then it became a plan to hopefully soften the blow. 

It took you about a half hour to make, roughly, a million paper flowers from the various sheets of construction paper, which you then shoved into a discarded cardboard box next to Ms. Teedee’s desk. With a final deep breath you made your way back to the gymnasium where the cheerleaders were now doing their dance. 

When they all filed off stage, you stood there with your box of fake flowers and handed each of them one with a “Congratulations!” and “You guys were amazing out there!”.

Maybe if you were nice enough now, they’d drop the Pussy Fiasco and leave you alone. 

While the next act went on, you retroactively passed out paper flowers to the students who had already been on. Everyone stage right was waiting to go on while stage left was for those who already went. The plan seemed to work well enough, and you found the sooner you shoved a flower in someone’s face, the less likely they were to make a crack about your poem. 

At least until Monday when the snickers would follow you for the rest of the school year, and partially into high school by a few asshats who had nothing better to do. 

When you finally had a moment to catch your breath and take a moment to watch the talent show, there was a cacophony of noise coming from the stage. Drums, guitar, base, cracked vocals, were blasting from the speakers, making most of the parents in the audience wince. 

You skirted around to the side of the stage, just out of sight from the audience to see what was going on. Dougie’s act was up and they were... loud. Loud was definitely the right word to use. You couldn’t see Dougie well, he was on the far side of the stage away from you, and a girl with a drum set was behind him. She was banging away on the drums in a way that reminded you of Animal from The Muppets with how much energy she was putting into it. You were expecting her to hit the drum so hard that the stick would go flying. 

Speaking of flying...

The guitarist was the one who captured your attention the most. Under the spotlights you could forget that he was just an awkward 8th grader like you, he looked like... almost like he was flying. That didn’t make much sense because he was standing in place, but it was the only metaphor you could think of that made sense at the time. His vocals were rough, but the passion in his voice was clear. Most students were half-assing their performances out of obligation because they were forced to but not him. Buzzcut Kid played like he needed to, as if his life depended on it. 

The sting of the guitar and the thrumming of the drums drowned out any snickering from the students that had been following you for the past forty minutes. For the next three, you were absolutely enthralled by the kids on stage. So much so that when they all filed off you completely blanked on handing out flowers, your ears still ringing from the act. 

“That was great!” you had managed to spit out to Dougie, who gave you a quick thanks before turning back to the rest of the band, the three talking excitedly about their very first performance. 

Dougie’s band was the second to last performance, followed by a grand finale of a kid playing a medley of old tv show themes on piano. You remembered to give that kid a flower at least. Afterwards, you were all ushered on stage for a bow, your hands felt clammy as you gripped the hand of one of the Tyson brothers, not wanting to look at the audience at all. 

With the show over, everyone filed out into the main area of the school. Kids reunited with their parents and siblings to talk about the show and give congratulations. You saw a few of your flowers already being dumped in the nearby trash can, which stung a little. You sighed and clung to the remaining flowers in your small cardboard box and realized that you never did hand them over to Dougie and his friends. 

Ignoring the fact that your parents were looking for you, you pushed through the sea of people and found Dougie, handing him a flower quickly before moving on before he could say anything else to you. The girl drummer was easy to find next, as she was at the edge of the crowd with an old woman who you assumed was her grandma. You handed her a flower too, with a stuttered “You were so good!” before disappearing again into the crowd. 

There was only one flower left to give out, and you were shaking slightly at the idea of approaching the guitarist. You didn’t know why; shy was never a word that your friends and teachers would use to describe you. But this guy was just so cool and he played guitar in a band! Okay, so Dougie was also in the band but that was different! This guy had played in a way that put air into your lungs and made you forget the disaster of your own performance. You wished that your family had brought their clunky camcorder to tape the show so that you’d never forget it. 

You spotted Buzzcut Kid standing with an older man as they headed out the door of the school, and you panicked for a second. You shifted from one foot to the other quickly as you tried to make a decision. If you didn’t give him a flower then- then- then he wouldn’t have a flower! Then he’d be the only one without a flower and then what? What if he made fun of you for your poem? What if you gave him a flower and he decided to ignore your horrible social blunder? What if he did that anyway when you approached him? What if no one else was going to tell him that he had the coolest act in the show?!

It was that last thought that had you barreling through the crowd towards the door, clinging to your box tightly. You definitely shoulder checked some people on accident as you pushed your way out of the school and started walking quickly to the kid. 

“W-wait up!” you said, nearly stumbling over your feet as you caught up to the kid and the old man he was with. The kid stopped and looked at you, as if confused as to why you were speaking to him. 

Under the lamps hanging outside of the school, you were met with the prettiest brown eyes you had ever seen and your heart thrummed in your chest. 

“Hi...?” the kid said, his brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at you. His voice snapped you out of it. 

“I really liked your act it was really cool and it’s cool that you got away with playing that song without someone pulling the plug or canceling the show!” You blabbed, not stopping for breath or punctuation. 

The kid froze for a second, and then looked a little bashful giving you a crooked smile. You noticed a slight chip on one of his front teeth. 

“We got yelled at pretty bad backstage for it.” the kid said, looking almost proud of himself for it. 

The man who was with Buzzcut Kid placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the truck.” he said, walking off and leaving the two of you alone. 

“It was still really good!” you insisted. “It was my favorite part of the show!” 

Had it not been past sunset you might have noticed the way his ears burned from the compliment. 

“Thanks.” he said, shifting slightly. “Uh, which act was yours again...?”

“Nothing interesting!” you said, a bit louder and higher pitched than you meant to, secretly relieved that he hadn’t heard your embarrassing poem. “Oh uh, this is for you!”

You reached your hand into your box of flowers and pulled out the nicest looking one left, a dark blue one that matched his t-shirt. He took it, his hand barely brushing against yours as he did, and he stared at it for a moment. The way he was looking so intently made your stomach turn and you suddenly felt very stupid for rushing after this guy who had no idea who you were just to give him a paper flower that was just going to end up in the trash can later. 

“I gave one to everyone” you started blabbing again. “‘Cause you know not everyone gets flowers after a show but everyone did a really good job so I thought I could let everyone know that they did so that’s why I made them also what song was that that you guys played?” 

It was a lie. Why were you lying? Were you so desperate to not look like a total loser in front of this guy that you’d just lie about the real reason why you made the flowers?

Well, you were in middle school. So, yeah, you were. 

“The song was ‘Prowler’ by Judas Priest.” the kid said, “It was the easiest one we could learn at the last second.” 

You knew that. Right, you did know that, Dougie only mentioned it every single day for the past two weeks. You felt so stupid asking that question, but at least Buzzcut Kid didn’t know that you knew. 

“You guys were really good.” you repeated, not sure what else to say. You were rambling now, and Buzzcut Kid probably thought you were a total dweeb. “I hope you guys keep playing and you’re really good at guitar and I’ve never heard anyone play electric guitar live except for one time when I went to the Indiana State Fair in fourth grade.”

You needed to shut up, you were really running your mouth for no reason and just talking at this poor guy who was just trying to go home. 

“I’ve been playing since I was a kid.” Buzzcut Kid said, and he was still giving you a look. His eyes were so round. “My dad taught me what he knew and I just picked up the rest from there.” He was holding the fake flower carefully, running his finger along the edge of one of the petals. You hoped he didn’t get a paper cut from doing that. 

“That’s so cool.” you said, your voice a little bit slower now as you tried desperately to hold your tongue. 

“Thanks.” he said again, and you immediately ran out of things to say. Of course, later you realized you could have probably kept the conversation going by asking for his name, or offering yours, but there are many downsides to being in middle school and piss-poor social skills is one of them. 

“Okay well you were good and I gotta go, bye!” you said and quickly booked it back to the school, your heart pounding and your cheeks flushed from more than just the horrible sweater. You didn’t even look back at the kid that you had just left standing there with your paper flower. 

You didn’t talk to him again after that. For a small school it was really easy to miss people. Your schedules never lined up, you never saw him in the hallways except for maybe one or two glances before or after school. Dougie never talked to you again, and by the next semester you’d been moved to a different schedule anyway. By the time Spring came around, you barely remembered the kid who you’d gushed to, and when high school came around he was just a distant memory of a night that you really tried not to think about. 

The only evidence of that night lay now in your lap. The Hawkins Middle School yearbook from when you both were in eighth grade had a full color spread of the talent show. The Tyson brothers and the cheerleaders got solo pictures of their acts as well as a small collage of every kid that played the piano. 

But there, in the bottom of the second page, was a larger group photo of every kid that had been in the show that night, the picture taken thirty minutes before the curtain. You were stationed on the second row, on the far right and there on the top row was Buzzcut Kid, the girl drummer (who Eddie had explained was his friend Ronnie), and Dougie. 

No wonder you didn’t recognize Eddie or his band before. Besides Eddie, the whole line up of the band had completely changed since their middle school debut. There was no way you would have placed the tall and lanky kid with the buzzcut as the guy who you’d been seeing for the past few weeks. 

When you had been looking at Eddie’s pictures in your own copies of the yearbook, you had been only looking at high school. It hadn’t occurred to you to try and dig further than that. 

“So this is what you’ve been so cryptic about.” you said finally, looking between the flower and the yearbook. 

“I didn’t think it was a big deal you didn’t remember me.” He shrugged, falling onto his back on the bed next to you. “I wouldn’t remember me either.” 

“Eddie, I was obsessed with you for like, a month after this.” you admitted, staring at him hard. “You were the only good part of that night. I stopped thinking about that night when I didn’t see you again. ”

“You were obsessed with me?” He lifted his head and looked at you with a shit-eating grin. “Stalker.”

You grabbed a flimsy pillow from beside you and smacked him in the face. “Says the guy keeping count of how many times we met!”

“The second time was when you got in trouble with Higgins for skipping class- hey!” Eddie lifted his arms as you whacked him with the pillow over and over. 

“Why-” Smack! “didn’t-” Smack! “you-” Smack! “tell-” Smack! “me-” Smack! “this-” Smack! “earlier?!” 

Eddie grabbed the pillow out of your hands and smacked you back. “Didn’t think it was important.”

“Not important?!” you gaped at him. “Edward Munson, I’m going to use that pillow to suffocate you. I’m so embarrassed now. I remember you as this super cool guy who made me feel better and I was just some random kid who was always crying- oof!”

Eddie smacked you with the pillow a bit harder than intended, but it didn’t matter with how much you two were laughing. 

“You think I’m super cool? Aww, I’m flattered. Maybe I will give you a few autographs to sell, seeing as how you’re my biggest fan.” He teased. 

“I take it back, I take it all back! You suck, and are super lame and not cool at all.” you grabbed the second pillow, slightly less flimsy than the one he was holding and smacked him again. 

“Sweetheart, you’re hurting my heart here.” He held his hand on his chest and gripped his shirt dramatically. “You were the first girl to ever come up to me and tell me you liked my playing, and now you’re taking it all back? I’m wounded.”

“I was?” There was no way that was right.

“Okay, you were the second. Ronnie might count as the first, but all she did was say ‘Fine, I guess we’re good enough we could try and start a band.’”

“And now you’re good enough to possibly get a record deal.” you said, smiling at him. 

“I’ll be sure to thank you when I get my first Grammy.” 

You leaned against the wall that his bed was cornered into and sighed. “I can’t believe you were Buzzcut Kid and that nice guy who stopped me from having a meltdown in the Principal’s office.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t recognize you until halfway through the night at the arcade.” Eddie offered. “I just saw Harrington with a pretty girl and assumed you were more like him.” 

“Steve and I are more of an ‘opposites attract’ pair. I didn’t think I’d end up friends with him, but he’s surprisingly fun to hang out with.” you picked up the flower again, noting how worn it looked. Wait, was that your phone number scribbled on it? “What tipped you off?”

“Air hockey.” Eddie said. “It was when you decided that we should pit freshmen against each other that I remembered Chris telling me once about a girl wanting to join Hellfire. He had made you out to be some sort of stuck-up who wasn’t actually interested and was just asking to fuck with us.”

“Fuck Chris Morrison.” you said, bitterly. 

“Fuck Chris Morrison.” Eddie agreed. “So when we were in the middle of making Wheeler and Henderson fight for our own entertainment, that’s when I recognized you. At the Hideout that’s when I was sure.”

“How did you figure?”

Eddie leaned in close with that same shit-eating grin from earlier. “Because you looked at me the exact same way you did the night at the talent show when we played.” 

“Oh, shit.” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh of embarrassment. “I’ve never had a good poker face. Do I even want to know how I looked at you?”

“Only like I’m the coolest guy you’ve ever seen in your life.” He said with a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes still had that glint that made you want to smack him with a pillow again. 

“I’m mad, but only because I know you’re right. You, Eddie, are actually the coolest person in Hawkins and also the biggest nerd I’ve ever met.” You crossed your arms and nudged him with your knee. 

“I find that hard to believe, since you’ve met Henderson.” Eddie nudged you back with his knee and you didn’t miss the way he shifted closer to you. “Kid’s probably the smartest person I know. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

“I’m telling him.” you said instantly, giving your own shit-eating grin. “I am forever in Dustin’s debt. He can rent any movie that’s not porn from Family Video as long as I’m on shift and he gets first dibs on any almost expired candy. There’s no way I’m not gonna tell him when someone says something nice about him.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, or at least you assumed he did because his bangs moved slightly as he looked at you. “And what, pray tell, did the little shrimp do to garner such favor with you?” He shifted a little closer under the guise of getting comfortable, and now his leg was oh-so-casually touching yours. The movement was as subtle as your poker face.  

You might not have had Steve’s long track record of dating and sex, but you weren’t completely oblivious. There was no way you were going to keep any sort of neutral expression with what would inevitably happen here soon, so you decided to just lean into it. It’s not like anyone was here to interrupt this time. 

You moved yourself closer to him now, adjusting yourself so that your shoulders were now touching. It wasn’t exactly an ideal position, but it was at least your sign to him that you were not against body contact. 

It occurred to you that you were also sitting on his bed, alone. Okay, that thought had occurred to you earlier, but that had been a hypothetical. A fleeting dirty thought about Eddie as a way to blow off steam while you tried to stop your simmering anger for Chris from boiling over. 

This was starting to feel real now, and you absently licked your lower lip, your cheeks warming up. Eddie’s eyes flicked from yours, down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it move. 

Perfect. 

“Well as we are now both aware, Steve and I had this thing where we would try and wing man for each other. I’d help him get dates, and he’d help me in return.” you said. 

“And I am still trying to figure out how Mr. Popularity was having trouble getting dates.” Eddie shifted his body towards you, but the contact remained. 

“Turns out that high school tactics don’t work after high school.” you shrugged. “So I gave him some tips, and it turns out he’s a fast learner. He really didn’t need my help, just a good smack in the head.” 

“What about you? Am I one of a long line of boys whose hearts you’re breaking?” It was a good thing you were sitting down, because he was giving you the most unfair puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. Had you been standing, that look might have made you weak in the knees.  

“You are the only guy I’ve been on a date with this whole time.” You admitted. 

“How long has this thing been going on?” 

“Late September, I think?” You tried to think back to that original conversation, but it felt like a lifetime ago. 

“That long and Steve could only suggest little old me? I thought you’d have people lining up to date you.” There was a sincerity behind his teasing that didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Steve said that it’d be easy for me to get random dates, but I am horribly picky, and the dating pool in Hawkins sucks.” You explained. “Steve didn’t even start holding up his end of the bargain until weeks in.”

“Okay, so walk me through how Steve Harrington cares enough about my existence to suggest me as a potential suitor for you.” Eddie looked at you. “I can’t get that out of my head.”

“Again, if you need me to set you up with Steve I’d be willing to-”

“No.” Eddie gave you a look that you were sure scared the freshmen at school, but it only made you laugh, which softened his gaze. 

“It was Dustin.” you managed to say between giggles. Your hand reached out and casually rested on his thigh, and you felt his leg twitch slightly under the denim of his jeans but didn’t pull away. “He loves to come in and talk to Steve and it turns out that there is one good thing about being in that stupid school, and that’s you.” 

“Henderson said that?” He looked genuinely surprised. 

“Dustin Henderson has two male role models in his life, and that’s Steve Harrington and you.” Your thumb rubbed absently along his jeans. “Steve knew I wasn’t going to be interested in just anyone, so after hearing all about the kid’s grand adventures with you, Steve and Dustin set up the meeting at the arcade.”

“That little shit.” Eddie leaned his head against the wall.  

“And when you totally ditched me, Steve decided to try again at the Hideout.” you nudged him with your shoulder. “I figured that I’d blown any chance with you, so there was nothing to lose by hitting on you and playing up my alcohol intake just a little bit.” 

Eddie’s head snapped to yours so fast that you were surprised he didn’t hurt himself. “What? I thought Steve ditched you.”

“No, he’d never!” you said quickly. “I.... told him to leave so that I could spend more time with you because he was, hm... how do I say this- he was cockblocking me.” 

Eddie’s laughter echoed through the trailer, filling the small space up with life in the exact opposite way that Chris’s laughter had done in the theater. The sound alone washed away any remaining anger about the day. “Shit... I was ready to fight him in your honor. I thought he left a drunk girl at the Hideout alone with no way to get home. You’re a crafty one.”

“I have my moments.” you said with a grin, waving the paper flower. 

Eddie plucked it from your hand and looked it over, before leaning to set it aside on top of his copy of The Hobbit. He sat close to you and his arm casually draped around your shoulders as he leaned back against the wall with you. 

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, despite the palpable tension between the two of you. You knew what was coming, it was written all over your body language as well as his. Everything was out in the open now, no more cryptic words, or weird miscommunications. Whatever was next, was anyone’s move. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder, taking in the moment to enjoy how nice the weight of his arm around you felt. When was the last time you had any sort of physical intimacy with someone outside of hugging your friends? Eddie’s thumb rubbed along your shoulder soothingly, and your hand mimicked the movement on his lower thigh.

Every time he shifted, your stomach tensed up and you wondered if this was it. It wasn’t. Time slipped away from the two of you as you rested on his bed, cuddling with each other. The tension between you never eased up- even when your heart beat slowed down, it wouldn’t be long until a simple touch brought it back up. 

Finally his fingers started sliding down your arm, calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. Sturdy fingers found yours and laced through them, and you felt the heavy rings on his fingers press into your skin. It was a slightly awkward position, with his arm now between your back and the wall, but it was progress. 

The stillness between you was different. Normally, the two of you were unable to shut up, always finding new things to talk about, to learn about each other, to explore with this tentative new bond forming between the two of you. Now? There wasn’t the same rush as before, the two of you could just exist by each other. More talking would happen in the future, but for now you leaned against him and waited for something better to do with your lips. 

You shifted and looked over at Eddie, realizing how close his head really was to yours. He wasn’t looking at you though, his eyes were watching the way your fingers were now messing with the torn fabric of his jeans, your thumb moving between denim and skin. You wondered if that spot on his leg burned the same way that your skin currently was.

Eddie smelled nice. There was the faint smell of cigarettes that lingered on his clothes, but whatever body wash and detergent he used seemed to neutralize most of it. Other than that, he didn’t smell like any object or scent that you could put your mind on. You took a slow deep breath through your nose and decided he smelled earthy and warm like late summer or early autumn, with an undertone of boy. 

What was he thinking right now? Was Eddie feeling the tension between the two of you the same way you were? You didn’t think you were misreading this situation, you’d done this before. Something would have to give soon, were you not being obvious enough? Shit, maybe some of Steve’s advice would have been good here. The two other times you had been in a situation like this, you were the one to make the move first, having grown impatient. But Eddie had clearly been the one to start leaning in first at the movies, right? Was it so wrong for you to want him to make the move? 

Maybe he didn’t want to start because of what happened with Chris? Did he think making a move on you when you were upset over being hit on was tacky? That might be it. Why did that only make you want him more? 

You did a quick check in with yourself over this. Were you mad at Chris? Yes. Were you mad he hit on you? Yes. Did you want Eddie to make a move? Yes. Did you only want Eddie to make a move so that you could forget about Chris? No. You wanted Eddie to do it because you liked Eddie.

Why was this so-

Something bumped your forehead and you realized as you were zoning out that Eddie had been staring at you now. This close, you could see every shade of brown in his round eyes. He shifted slightly again, and your heart jumped into your throat. Warmth flooded you from your cheeks to your toes as you felt his finger twitch against yours. 

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice was quiet in your ear, and it made the back of your neck tingle. “You good? You’ve been staring at my knee for a while.” 

“Sorry, it’s just the sexiest knee I’ve ever seen.” You said, smiling at him.

“Yeah? What about my other knee?” His breath ghosted over face as he let out a laugh. 

“It’s just okay.” The tension was easing a bit between the two of you, and you were torn on if this was a good thing or not. 

Eddie moved so that his shoulder was against the wall and he was facing you. You adjusted yourself accordingly, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes flicked down to his lips for a second before meeting his eyes again. 

“Are you sure you’re good?” He asked, staring at you intensely. 

You were good. You were so good. Actually, if something didn’t happen here soon then that would be the reason you would be not-good. 

“I am now.” You squeezed his hand and gave him a look that you desperately hoped he read as ‘Yes you can do it Eddie I am of sound mind and body and if you don’t do it I may actually explode from the tension between the two of us-’ 

Eddie’s lips finally found yours for just a brief moment before pulling back slightly. You followed his lips, not letting him get away that easily. Your lips met again, and this time he didn’t pull back. His hand reached up to cup your jaw, his fingers lightly brushing against the back of your neck in a way that made the delicate hairs there stand on end. 

When the two of you broke apart, it was you who pulled back after a few moments with a smile. 

“So...” Eddie said, looking at you. 

“So...” you echoed. 

“Still good?” he asked. 

“Hmm...” you considered for a moment. “I don’t know. I think you should do that again, just to make sure.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up in a way that you had only ever seen on stage so far. This time there was no hesitation in his movements as he pulled you closer again and kissed you. You grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down on the bed with you, not letting your lips part. 

One of his hands rested on you side while the other was used to keep himself from squishing you under him. If he had, you wouldn’t have minded. 

In a lot of romance stories, you had always heard phrases like ‘he kissed her breathless’ or ‘she let out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding’. You had always waited for the day that someone would kiss you like that, but now with Eddie you realized that wasn’t what you needed. 

Because for the first time in a long while, with Eddie nipping at your lower lip and slipping his tongue into your mouth, you felt the exact opposite. 

For the first time in so long, you felt like you could finally breathe. 

a/n: Holy smokes, y'all finally got smooched! But don't worry, the party's not over yet. I still have a few chapters before everything wraps up! I've had the First Meeting written out since March or April, and I though that would make the rest of the chapter faster to write. I was wrong lol

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[n1ght0f-nyx]

Maybe something about erik offering to help the reader rehearse a duet and theres tensionnnn

A song for two

erik destler x reader

word count- 1139

warnings/tags- erik x gn reader, pretty soft, erik kinda has that hypnotising effect like he does in some media's (though not outright mentioned)

The candlelight flickered against the cavernous stone walls, painting your face with soft, golden light as you stepped closer to the grand piano at the center of Erik's lair. Your reflection in its glossy black surface trembled slightly, matching the way your heart quaked in your chest. Erik stood beside the piano, his hands ghosting over the keys. His mask caught the light, a stark contrast to the shadows around him, and he regarded you with his sharp, penetrating gaze.

"You said you wished to improve your duet," he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet and laced with a subtle tension. "Who better to assist you than myself?"

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling into your chest. You hadn’t intended for him to take your casual comment seriously. And yet, here you were—beneath the opera house, in the lair of the most enigmatic figure you’d ever encountered. Alone. Intimately close.

"I didn’t want to impose," you said softly, your eyes darting to the piano as if it held the answers to your hesitations. 

Erik let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "You could never impose. Besides, I take great pride in ensuring excellence, especially in those who intrigue me."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you bit your lip, unsure how to respond. Erik turned to you fully, his elegant form towering yet poised, like a predator calculating its prey’s next move.

"Shall we begin?" he prompted, gesturing for you to take your place beside him.

You nodded, stepping closer to the piano. The air between you seemed to hum with an unspoken energy, a pull you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. As you moved to stand beside him, Erik placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, guiding you to face him. The contact was brief, but it lingered in your mind like a ghostly imprint.

"Here," he said, pulling a piece of sheet music from the stand and laying it flat on the piano. It was a duet you’d been working on for weeks—one that had confounded you with its intricate harmonies and emotionally charged passages.

"You’ve been struggling with this section, haven’t you?" His long fingers traced the notes on the page, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You nodded again, your throat too dry to speak. His intuition was unnerving, as though he’d been observing you all along.

"Sing," Erik commanded, stepping back just enough to let you take center focus. "Show me."

You took a shaky breath and began to sing the soprano line, your voice filling the space with tentative beauty. Erik’s eyes never left you, his intense gaze drawing out every ounce of vulnerability you had. When you faltered, his head tilted, and his lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

"Stop." The word was firm but not unkind. Erik approached, his presence consuming the space around you. "You are holding back."

"I’m not—"

"Yes, you are," he interjected, his voice low but insistent. He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of candlelight on the edge of his mask. "You must sing not only with your voice but with your heart. Allow yourself to feel, or else it is meaningless."

You blinked at him, your pulse quickening. His proximity, his words, the intensity in his tone—it all made it nearly impossible to focus.

"Let us try together," he said after a moment, his voice softening. "Perhaps you will find it easier to let go."

Erik moved to stand beside you again, and this time, he took your hand. His gloved fingers enveloped yours with surprising gentleness, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. 

"Follow my lead," he whispered, his breath brushing against your ear. You barely had time to register the way your heart stuttered before he began to sing.

His baritone voice was rich and powerful, yet it carried a vulnerability that mirrored your own. As his voice melded with yours, the world around you seemed to dissolve, leaving only the music and the man beside you. Erik’s hand tightened around yours as you reached the more intricate harmonies, guiding you through the complexities with an ease that left you breathless.

When the final note lingered in the air, you realized you were trembling. Erik’s gaze bore into you, his eyes softer now but no less intense.

"Do you see?" he murmured. "When you allow yourself to feel, your voice transforms. It becomes something… transcendent."

You nodded, unable to find your voice. Erik released your hand but didn’t step away. Instead, his fingers hovered near your face, as though he were contemplating some forbidden touch.

"Why do you look at me like that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Like what?"

"Like you’re searching for something," you said, your breath hitching.

Erik’s lips parted, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. His gloved fingers lingered against your skin, the touch electric.

"You…" His voice faltered, and for a moment, he looked almost fragile. "You are unlike anyone I have ever known."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, the raw honesty he rarely allowed anyone to see. Without thinking, you reached up and placed your hand over his, holding it against your cheek.

"Erik," you whispered, his name a tender confession on your lips.

His eyes widened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his other hand found your waist, drawing you closer. The world around you seemed to still as he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from yours.

"Forgive me," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I should not—"

But you silenced him with a kiss, your lips pressing softly against his. Erik stiffened for a heartbeat before melting into you, his hands pulling you closer as though he feared you might vanish. The kiss was hesitant at first, filled with the tentative curiosity of two souls discovering one another. But as the moments passed, it deepened, a silent declaration of the emotions you could no longer deny.

When you finally pulled away, Erik rested his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. 

"You will be the ruin of me," he whispered, though there was no malice in his words. If anything, he sounded almost… grateful.

"Perhaps we will ruin each other," you replied, your voice soft but steady. "But isn’t that what love is?"

Erik’s breath hitched, and for a moment, you saw the faintest glimmer of tears in his eyes. He said nothing, only pulled you into a fierce embrace, holding you as though you were the only light in his endless darkness.

And in that moment, you knew you had found something extraordinary—something worth risking everything for.

[andy-15-07]

A Dance of Eternal Promises

pairing:Alexei Vronsky x f!reader

summary:During preparations for a grand ball, Alexei and his beloved celebrate enduring love, whispered dreams, and hopeful new life.

word count: 2264 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

Alexei Vronsky and you woke early on that gentle morning, the sunlight barely brushing the ornate windowpanes of your shared home. Today was not merely any day—it was the day of the grand ball, and with it came the celebration of both your union and the soon-to-be arrival of your first child. In the hushed light of dawn, while the city still slept, the two of you found yourselves immersed in the soft rituals of preparation, each moment an ode to the love that had grown between you.

You sat before a carved antique vanity, your delicate hands moving with quiet precision as you arranged your hair. Resting gently on your lap was the unmistakable reminder of the life blossoming within you—a small, vibrant promise of the future. The room, adorned with roses and pastel draperies, filled with the scent of freshly cut peonies and the gentle murmur of your whispered hopes.

Alexei, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that spoke of refined elegance, approached with a smile that brightened his usually composed demeanor. “My love,” he said softly, his hand reaching to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, “you are more radiant than the morning light itself.”

Your eyes met his in the mirror, and a tender warmth spread through you. “Thank you, my dearest Alexei. Tonight, as we step into the ball, I want every eye to see the glow of our joy—of the life we are about to share.” Your voice carried both excitement and the weight of dreams fulfilled.

With measured care, he pulled you into a gentle embrace. “Every step we take tonight will be a step toward the future we build together. I long to dance with you, to lose myself in the music and the quiet promise that every heartbeat holds.”

The conversation flowed as naturally as the gentle breeze that stirred the lace curtains. You spoke of the anticipation of dancing beneath the soft glow of chandeliers, recalling memories of your first dance—when the world fell away and it was just the two of you, your hearts keeping perfect time. “Do you remember,” you began, your voice tinged with nostalgia, “when we first danced together, and it felt as though every note of the orchestra was written just for us?”

Alexei’s eyes sparkled with recollection. “How could I ever forget? It was as if the stars had aligned solely to bring our souls together. Every graceful turn we shared that night was a promise of the life we would lead—a life filled with passion, hope, and the constant wonder of love.”

As you both moved about your preparations, the room resonated with gentle laughter and whispered dreams. You carefully fastened a delicate brooch to your gown—a deep burgundy silk dress that hugged your form elegantly, its color reminiscent of the passionate hues of a sunset. “I have thought about tonight all week,” you confessed, adjusting the fabric with loving care. “I want our dance to tell the story of our journey, the struggles and triumphs, and now, the joy of a new beginning.”

Alexei stepped closer, his hand warm on your shoulder. “And I want every step we take on that dance floor to be a testament to our unyielding devotion. Our child will inherit a legacy of love, strength, and the beauty of shared dreams.” His voice, low and earnest, mingled with the soft strains of a distant piano.

You paused, a soft smile curving your lips as you glanced down at your belly. “Sometimes, I find myself imagining our child watching us now, wondering how we became so intertwined in each other’s hearts. It feels as if every moment, every glance, has led us to this crescendo of life.”

Alexei’s gaze softened. “Indeed, my love. Every heartbeat, every whispered word, every shared secret has woven the tapestry of our lives. Tonight, as we join the swirling throng at the ball, I want you to know that in every conversation, every dance, I see our past, our present, and the endless promise of our future.”

The hours ticked by as the two of you moved seamlessly between moments of quiet reflection and bursts of playful banter. At one point, while you adjusted a stray hem of your dress, you teased, “I wonder if our child will inherit my flair for mischief or your impeccable sense of style.”

Alexei chuckled, his laughter warm and rich. “Perhaps a little of both, my dear. I imagine our little one will have my adventurous spirit and your gentle grace—a perfect blend of both our souls.” His eyes crinkled with mirth as he continued, “And who knows? Maybe our child will be the one to steal the show at the next ball.”

The room around you was alive with the quiet symphony of domestic bliss—the soft clinking of fine china as breakfast was set out on a nearby table, the rustle of silk as you moved about, and the ever-present undercurrent of shared hope. Each object in the room seemed imbued with meaning, a silent witness to the love story unfolding with every whispered word and tender glance.

Before long, the time came to step out into the bustling world beyond your door. The grand staircase of your home, polished to a mirror-like shine, welcomed you both as you descended with measured grace. Every step echoed with the promise of the night ahead, a night where you would become the center of a celebration not just of opulence and artifice, but of a love that had been nurtured in the quiet moments between chaos and calm.

Outside, the world was vibrant with life. Carriages glided along cobblestone streets, and the chatter of passersby formed a lively counterpoint to the inner sanctum of your shared joy. Alexei, ever the gentleman, extended his hand to you. “Shall we, my love?” he asked, his tone both gentle and insistent, as if urging you to embrace the magic of the evening.

“Always,” you replied, your voice filled with quiet resolve and anticipation. “Let the night be a canvas for our dreams, a stage upon which our love is the performance of a lifetime.”

Walking together to the ball, your dialogue was a continuous exchange of memories, hopes, and plans. “Do you recall the first time we met at a similar celebration?” you inquired, eyes sparkling with the recollection of a long-ago summer night. “The way your smile lit up the room, making it seem as if everything had suddenly fallen into place?”

Alexei’s response was immediate and heartfelt. “I remember every detail. Your laugh was the melody that captured my heart. Even amidst the chatter and clinking glasses, it was as if only your voice reached me, pulling me toward you.” His tone held a note of reverence as he added, “Every dance, every glance since has been a reaffirmation of the bond we share.”

At the grand entrance of the ball, beneath glittering chandeliers and the admiring gaze of elegantly dressed guests, your conversation deepened. “Look at how everyone stops to admire us,” you whispered, a blend of amusement and quiet pride in your tone.

Alexei’s eyes never left yours. “They see only a glimpse of our story, but in that glimpse, they witness the passion and hope that define us. Tonight, the ball is not simply a celebration of society—it is a celebration of us, and of the future that awaits.”

Inside the ballroom, the ambiance was enchanting—a sea of dancing couples, lively music, and the soft murmur of delighted conversations. Yet even amidst this splendor, your dialogue remained intimate. While waltzing in a secluded corner of the floor, you said, “I sometimes worry that the splendor of this night might make me forget the simpler, quieter moments that truly matter.”

Alexei’s reply was immediate, his tone both reassuring and filled with adoration. “Never, my dear. For even in the brilliance of these lights and the grandeur of this setting, it is the simple truth of our love that shines brightest. Every shared smile, every whispered word, every heartbeat in sync with mine—it is all a reminder that true beauty lies in the authenticity of our connection.”

The dance continued, and with each turn and each gentle step, your conversation wove seamlessly between playful teasing and profound declarations of love. “Do you think,” you asked softly, “that one day, when our child is old enough, they will listen to our stories and understand the magic of a night like this?”

Alexei’s smile was both mysterious and tender. “I believe they will, my love. They will learn that our life has been a series of moments—a dance of passion and hope, of challenges met with courage and triumphs celebrated with joy. And in every step we take, they will see the unbreakable bond that has carried us through every storm.”

In the midst of the waltz, a dear friend approached, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Alexei, your love for her is as inspiring as the legends of old,” she said, her voice lilting in admiration. “Tell me, what is it that makes your union so extraordinary?”

Alexei’s eyes softened as he replied, “It is in the quiet moments, when the world fades away, and it is just the two of us—our hearts speaking in a language older than words. Our love is not simply a dance of appearances; it is a quiet, enduring melody that will guide us and our child through all of life’s seasons.”

Another guest, caught up in the enchantment of the night, added, “And now, with the promise of a new life soon to join your dance, it is as if the universe itself is rejoicing in your happiness.”

You smiled at these kind words, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Our child will be born into a world filled with love, laughter, and the beauty of shared dreams,” you said, your voice a soft murmur that resonated with every listener. “I want them to know that no matter where life takes us, our love will always be the guiding star.”

As the evening unfolded, every conversation, every shared laugh, and every whispered promise further enriched the tapestry of your lives. The ball became a living, breathing testament to the love you both nurtured—a love that had weathered storms and now shone as brightly as the chandeliers above.

At one point during a quiet interlude by a window draped with silver curtains, you paused to reflect. “Sometimes I wonder,” you said softly, “if all the beauty of this night is enough to capture the magnitude of our love. It seems so vast, so deep—how do we even begin to measure it?”

Alexei’s gaze was tender as he took your hand in his. “We do not measure love in grand gestures or opulent settings,” he said gently. “Love is found in the quiet moments—a shared glance, a soft touch, the way your eyes light up when you smile. Tonight, every moment is a note in the symphony of our lives. And no matter how grand the ball or how sparkling the chandeliers, it is our hearts that truly illuminate this night.”

In that moment, your words merged with his, forming a melody of hope and assurance that lingered long after the music had faded. You both knew that while the ball was a celebration of the present, it was also a promise—a promise of a future where every shared dance, every quiet conversation, and every new heartbeat would add to the enduring story of your love.

Later, as the final dance drew near and the crowd began to thin, you found a secluded corner where the gentle murmur of the evening gave way to a peaceful quiet. Here, with the soft glow of moonlight filtering through tall, arched windows, you continued your heartfelt dialogue. “I want you to promise me something,” you said, your voice husky with emotion. “Promise that no matter what comes, we will always hold on to this feeling—this unyielding joy, the simple truth of our love.”

Alexei pressed his forehead gently against yours, his voice a tender vow. “I promise, my beloved. Every day, every dance, every breath we share will be a reminder of the promise we made—to cherish one another, to hold our dreams close, and to nurture the love that has always been our guiding light.”

And so, as the night slipped quietly into the early whispers of dawn, Alexei Vronsky and you remained entwined in a timeless dance—a conversation of hearts, an endless dialogue of hope and commitment. The ball, with all its splendor and elegance, was but a backdrop to the real celebration: the celebration of your union, your shared dreams, and the promise of a new life soon to join your eternal dance.

In the gentle silence that followed, as the last notes of the music faded into the cool night air, you both knew that the beauty of this night would linger long in your hearts. It was a night of whispered confessions, of dreams shared between glances, and of promises made beneath the watchful eyes of the stars. A night that encapsulated the very essence of your love—timeless, unyielding, and infinitely beautiful.

With one final embrace and a quiet kiss that sealed every unspoken vow, you stepped out into the future, hand in hand, ready to greet the promise of tomorrow. The dance of your lives, rich with the laughter of the past and the hope of the future, continued onward—a brilliant, ceaseless melody echoing in every heartbeat, every shared word, every soft whisper of love.

[actuallymoon]

Draco Headcanons pt.1

Draco has a surprising knack for housework. With his parents often preoccupied with their work, Draco found himself alone more often than not. During that time, he gravitated toward the house-elves, observing their every move with quiet fascination. Curiosity led him to occasionally join them in their tasks, and over time, he became quite skilled in them, something he kept well hidden.

As a child, Draco was very creative. His imagination knew no bounds, and he expressed it through painting, drawing, dancing, and even acting. Whenever his parents read him stories, he would illustrate the characters and display his drawings proudly in his room. He often roped the weary house-elves into acting out scenes from his favorite books, even designing costumes for the roles from his parents’ wardrobe.

Draco was also interested in sports from an early age, particularly in flying. Despite his parents’ offers to hire the best instructors, he insisted on teaching himself. For a time, he was also fascinated by gymnastics. Unfortunately, a group of older boys mocked him for pursuing what they deemed a "girly" sport, and his enthusiasm was quickly dampened.

Draco’s biggest challenge was his perfectionism. If he wasn’t immediately successful at something, he would often give up in frustration. This trait was evident when his parents signed him up for piano and violin lessons. Though he had the potential to excel, his initial struggles made him want to quit. It was only through his parents’ persistence that he continued practicing, eventually mastering both instruments.

At Hogwarts, Draco was often told that he resembled his father. However, his family and relatives saw that he was more similar to his mother, in both his appearance and mannerisms. His sharp features, the way he held himself, his dramatics and even his subtle gestures were all echoes of his mother.

Draco had a secret crush on Harry Potter throughout their school years, though he would have rather died than admit it. However, as he watched Harry marry Ginny after the war, his feelings began to fade, and he eventually found love with Astoria Greengrass.

Draco was a dramatic child, prone to grand gestures and emotional outbursts. This trait only intensified as he grew older. Whether it was his sharp wit or his tendency to make a scene, Draco’s dramatic nature was a core part of his identity.

Draco has a deep appreciation for drag shows and the artistry involved. He admires the bold fashion, the exaggerated makeup, and the sheer confidence of drag performers. However, despite his admiration, Draco himself prefers to stick to his formal, traditional style and wouldn’t dare to step out in anything less than his meticulously tailored robes.

While Draco doesn’t label himself as a vegetarian, he has a strong preference for plant-based foods.

Contrary to popular belief, Draco’s favorite color isn’t green but a rich, dark purple.

Despite his best efforts, Draco cannot grow a beard. The most he can manage are a few faint whiskers on his upper lip and a sparse scattering of hairs on his chin and jaw. As a result, he maintains a clean-shaven look.

When Draco became a father, he took on most of the childcare responsibilities, partly because Astoria’s health had declined, but mostly because he simply couldn’t bear to be away from Scorpius. The late-night feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights were all cherished moments for him. His love for his son was overwhelming, and he wouldn’t trade those precious, messy moments for anything.

Draco is obsessed with taking pictures of Scorpius. Even the smallest, most mundane moments like Scorpius sucking his thumb seem like picture-worthy events to him. He proudly shows off these photos to anyone who will look, beaming with pride at every picture of his son.

[lilghostiequinni]

Piano Keys

Main Masterlist Lando Masterlist

Pairing: Ballet Dancer!female oc (Angel) x Lando Norris

Warnings: Fluffy, Established relationship,

Summary: She dances ballet and knows the struggles of those similar to her boyfriend. She, however, isn't a competitor or competing, just in plays and productions. But he is a competitor and he races to compete, but what of his first win.

Requested: NO / yes

Angel is watching the Miami Grand from the garage; her boyfriend, Lando, had no idea she was there.

She told him she wouldn't be able to come but would watch when she could because she was supposed to be in New York for a production, but was able to get a last-minute flight to Miami in order to surprise her boyfriend as the production was now in line with the race schedule.

She watched as Lando took first after the safety car and stayed in first for the rest of the race.

When Lando won, she cried.

She cheered.

She ran up to the team as they approached the barriers.

She watched as Lando jumped into the arms of his team, celebrating his first win.

She watched Lando's face light up even more when he saw she was there and basically dragged her over the barrier into his arms.

He kissed her head, then her cheek, then kissed her lips.

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled closer than ever after the kiss, whispering congratulations in his ear.

Lando was soon called away to do everything else that he called work rather than driving the cars.

She waits in the paddock for Lando to be done.

The next month, Lando surprises her at one of her charity shows for children, where he's gotten other drivers to attend.

Charles Leclerc that Lando directs over to the piano to help Angel by playing the piano after the first pianist bailed at the last minute to be with their dying father.

The morning after her show, Lando woke up to the sound of a piano from their living room rather than his girlfriend in bed.

He got up, walked down the hall, sat next to his girlfriend on the piano bench, and leaned his head on her shoulder as she played.

"What's it called?" Lando asked after kissing her shoulder.

"Piano Keys."

A/N: Again, from yesterday. One more than today's stuff will start coming out.

Tags: @poppyflower-22 @samantha-chicago @barcelonaloverf1life @tallrock35 @hellothere9597

If you want to be removed from a tag list, let me know so I don't keep tagging you. If you are striked through, I don't know if you want to be tagged, but just let me know if you want me to continue or stop

[inistellan]

February Daily Writing Challenge 2025 Day 1 - Hypnotic

The hypnotic tic-tic-tic of the metronome wasn’t a necessity at this stage of Stellan’s musical studies. Perfect tempo and perfect pitch were something he had mastered during his time as a musician in the Silvermoon orchestra many, many decades ago. It was a habit at this point, and more than anything it was a comfort. There was something about the rhythmic ticking that soothed his mind and brought about a sense of nostalgia.

He had missed those times, when his days were full of practice and many nights full of playing the role of The Chameleon. He was at his busiest with less time to think about the world at large and what was next on the horizon. Not less stressful, just stressful in a different way.

Now, there wasn’t a need to work. He had enough funds from his previous lives that he could comfortably retire and spend the remainder of his years traveling or even just sitting at home playing his grand piano. But once you get a taste, it’s hard to return to a civilian lifestyle.

He struggled with those in between times, when the mercenary crew was on leave for some undetermined amount of time. It was a good thing, that meant there was relative peace in the world - but he wanted the war, and he wanted the strife, and he wasn’t alone in those wants. It was an unspoken desire shared among many of those who had spent their lives in the service of the military or as a mercenary. He didn’t wish for people to get hurt or to lose their lives, but he craved the action and being able to put some of his best skills to good use.

With a discontent sigh, fingers glided over the piano keys with a heavily practiced ease, attempting to push away encroaching thoughts with a few of his favorite pieces. It didn’t work, it never did these days. The restlessness was an all too familiar feeling, and anytime it had reached these levels he knew it was time to change faces and to change names.

Is that what he truly wanted? 

He was rather fond of Inistellan Volanthus, and thought that perhaps this is actually who he was always meant to be in the end. But still, the feeling remained.

Hopefully it was fleeting.

@daily-writing-challenge

[pinkcreamypeach]

Interactions (Story)

Characters- Wendy, Iggy, Ludwig, Kamek, Lemmy, Junior and Peach with mentions of Bowser. (Some of the koopalings basically)

(This is my first time writing the Koopalings, and wow, they’re incredibly tough to writel. Apologies for the abrupt ending. I didn't have a solid plan going in, but this was more of an experiment.I really wanted to explore Princess Peach building relationships with each of the Koopalings. It might be a little out of character, but I still thought it would be interesting to try! The others will get their turns with peach.)

(Look at this adorable GIF! 😭 Bowser and his children core)

“Oh, Mario..."

*Peach found herself in yet another lavishly furnished room within Bowser’s fortress. It was an improvement from past imprisonments, yet the familiarity of captivity left her feeling just as trapped. She never voiced her discomfort to the King and never spoke much to him at all. Silence had become her shield, a quiet defiance. Even as fear lingered, she had long since learned to suppress it.*

*Wandering the room, her eyes settled on a grand piano tucked into the corner. Drawn to it, she gracefully approached, adjusting her gown before lowering herself onto the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, tracing their familiar arrangement. She pressed B, then C. A simple observation B and C, like E and F, sat side by side with no black key between them, their notes naturally a half step apart.*

*She had been playing since childhood, and instinct took over as she began a simple warm-up. First, the treble clef medium to high pitch. Her fingers moved with careful precision, striking each note as quarter beats, never holding them too long. Eyes closed, she hummed softly in accompaniment, losing herself in the gentle melody.*

*Then, the door creaked open slowly, quietly. The absence of heavy footsteps confirmed it wasn’t Bowser. The mere presence of footsteps at all meant it wasn’t Kamek, either. That left only one real possibility.*

“You can play the piano?"

*The voice was smooth, refined. Ludwig von Koopa the eldest of the Koopalings, though not the largest. He stepped inside, studying her posture and technique with a discerning eye. A nod of approval followed, seemingly pleased with her form.*

"Since I was four," she replied, finishing her warm-up on a whole note before shifting slightly, patting the space beside her in invitation.

"Do you play, Cher?" she asked, tilting her head.

*Ludwig approached, his confidence evident as he took the offered seat beside her.*

"I am well-versed in the violin and various classical instruments," *He stated matter-of-factly.*

"The piano should be no great challenge."

*Peach merely smiled, sensing his pride. She gestured toward the keys.*

"Alright, Chérie. Play A, D, and F. Then G# and D#."

*Ludwig studied the keyboard, methodically counting the notes. His fingers pressed A and F correctly, but the other notesoff. The resulting discord made him wince.*

“What dreadful sounds," he muttered in clear distaste.*

"Ah, ah," *Peach chided gently, suppressing a laugh.* "It’s only a warm-up. You're just pressing random keys, it's not supposed to sound pleasant. It’s about understanding the layout, the feel of the instrument."

*Ludwig sighed, composing himself. If nothing else, he was not one to shy away from mastery.*

*For nearly an hour, Peach sat beside Ludwig, watching as he struggled with the piano. Every time he struck an off note, his nose would scrunch in irritation. Yet, rather than giving in to frustration, he would exhale sharply, compose himself, and try again. His determination was admirable, though Peach couldn’t help but notice his occasional glances at her hands how smoothly they danced across the keys. Was he trying to improve for his own sake… or perhaps to impress her? Maybe both.*

*Eventually, they moved on to a duet. She took the treble clef, playing the higher notes, while Ludwig handled the deeper ones. She placed a sheet of music in front of them, instructing him to follow the notes without looking at his claws only the sheet. It was a challenge, but he watched how effortlessly Peach played, her fingers gliding with precision. That, if nothing else, pushed him to try harder.*

*Their harmony, however, was abruptly shattered.*

"MY BOW! MY BOW, MY BOW!"

*A shrill wail pierced the air, causing both pianists to hit a cacophony of wrong notes. Ludwig snarled in irritation, while Peach winced at the sudden noise. They turned just in time to see Wendy O. Koopa storming into the room, her signature pink bow in ruins, tears streaking her heavily made-up face.*

"What on earth is the meaning of this?" Ludwig snapped, utterly affronted by the intrusion. Barging into the princess’s room unannounced how uncouth! Not that he had knocked either, but he was the eldest, which made it entirely different, of course.*

*Wendy, undeterred, marched up to Peach and grabbed at her dress, holding up the tattered remains of her ribbon.*

"P-Papa isn’t even here to help! Junior burned my ribbon bow while he was eating! UGH! Now it’s ruined! WAHHH!" *she wailed, sniffing between sobs.

*Ludwig sighed, rubbing his temples.* "And here I thought you had a shred of maturity."*

*Wendy shot him a venomous glare, her mascara running down her cheeks.* "Eat a bone, you pompous, upright blueberry!"

*Peach, meanwhile, simply smiled and knelt down, lifting Wendy into her arms with surprising ease. Over time, the princess had grown used to the bratty Koopaling, and despite Wendy’s usual attitude, she didn’t resist. Peach carried her to the bed, gently dabbing at her tear-streaked face with a napkin.*

"Hush, hush… We’ll fix everything," *She soothed.* "In fact, I’ll make you a new one better than the last."*

*Ludwig frowned slightly, watching the exchange. Wasn’t Wendy supposed to despise the princess? He distinctly remembered her ranting about Peach in the past. Yet, with each capture, Wendy had been spending more time around her… and now she was sitting there, still sniffling, but letting Peach comfort her.*

"Where is Junior?" *Ludwig asked, standing up to investigate.

*Wendy scoffed dramatically, flipping her claws in the air.* "Busy destroying more of my dreams!"*

*Ludwig rolled his eyes and left, leaving the two alone. Peach, ever patient, searched through some smooth pink fabrics, selecting a few shades fit for a replacement bow. Nearby sat Wendy’s makeup set a complete mess, with lipstick smeared and eyeshadow streaking down her face.*

*Peach sat beside her, carefully wiping away the last of her tears. Wendy, still pouting, crossed her arms but didn’t pull away.*

"Let’s turn that frown upside down," *Peach teased gently, dabbing at her cheeks with the napkin.

*Wendy’s eyes softened ever so slightly. She huffed, glancing away.* "Whatever makes you feel good…” *She muttered, then added,* "I’m still better than you."*

*Yet, despite her words, her tail wagged slightly behind her, something she didn’t seem to notice. Peach only chuckled, rolling her eyes but continuing to smile.*

—----------------------------—-------------------

*Kamek conjured multiple clones of himself, ensuring that young Prince Junior was well cared for. At this time, the little Koopa was merely an infant, crawling about with boundless curiosity. The duplicates engaged him in play, only to be scorched by his natural fire-breathing abilities that, unlike most young Koopas, he wielded effortlessly.*

*The Magikoopa let out a weary sigh. As the king’s most trusted advisor and the highest-ranking member of his army, he bore the immense burden of keeping order in the kingdom. The years weighed on him. While King Bowser remained in his prime, Kamek had lived for centuries, witnessing the rise and fall of many generations before him.*

*Deciding he had earned a moment of respite, he prepared to take a well-deserved nap. Meanwhile, Ludwig descended the grand staircase of the castle, his steps deliberate and composed. As he roamed the corridors, his path led him to the shared quarters of Iggy and Lemmy. Upon stepping inside, he was met with the expected chaos.*

*Iggy’s half of the room resembled a fully functioning laboratory, littered with mechanical components and half-finished inventions most of which were likely hazardous in the hands of the two mischievous siblings. Yet their father encouraged their curiosity, believing that learning through failure was an essential part of growth. Iggy and Lemmy, of course, had no qualms about surrounding themselves with volatile contraptions.*

*Lemmy, ever the acrobat, often swung from the various structures scattered about, his movements as fluid as a performer on a high-wire. Ludwig, though unimpressed outwardly, secretly admired his agility. Today, however, Lemmy was absent, leaving only Iggy, who was covered in soot and dust, hunched over a new project battle-grade turtle shell.*

*Ludwig rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, prompting Iggy to perk up and adjust his glasses before flashing a wide grin.*

“Oh! Big brother!” *He chirped.*

*Ludwig stepped inside, carefully navigating the maze of scattered tools, discarded blueprints, and failed experiments. His tail instinctively lifted to avoid any grime.*

“Hello, Iggy. And what peculiar contraption are you working on now?” *Ludwig inquired, arching a brow as he observed the mess.*

*Iggy’s eyes lit up with excitement. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he struck a proud stance.*

“Well!” *He lifted a claw, his tone taking on the cadence of a well-rehearsed lecture.* “A battle turtle shell would serve as an excellent defensive mechanism for several reasons. First, natural armor! Turtle shells are incredibly durable, composed of bone and keratin, offering remarkable protection against physical attacks. And then, of course, there’s the electrostatic—”

*Ludwig half-listened as Iggy launched into an enthusiastic, highly technical explanation. While his younger brother rattled on about modifications, defensive mechanisms, and scientific theories, Ludwig idly surveyed the room. He yawned discreetly, of course but he had to admit the concept was intriguing.*

“Furthermore,” Iggy continued, “versatility! The battle shell could be enhanced with modifications such as retractable spikes, concealed weaponry, or even a propulsion system for enhanced mobility!” *He concluded his monologue with a deep breath, beaming with satisfaction.*

“Well, have an—” *Iggy turned to acknowledge Ludwig, only to realize his brother was casually rifling through his blueprints instead. Papers were lifted, glanced at, and unceremoniously dropped back onto the cluttered workspace.*

“Were you even listening?!” *Iggy huffed, crossing his arms.*

*Ludwig looked up with a bemused expression.*

“Well, yes. The beginning, a portion of the middle, and the conclusion. However, considering it took you twenty minutes to explain, I believe I absorbed the most relevant points.”

*Iggy scoffed.* “Oh, sure! Yet I sit through you playing that boring violin all the time!”

*Ludwig recoiled as if he had been personally insulted.* “Boring!? Oh, please! Your lack of appreciation for refined music is nothing short of tragic.”

*The two descended into a heated argument, their bickering filling the room. Just then, Lemmy strolled in to retrieve his roller ball, only to pause, tilting his head at the sight of his quarreling brothers. It was just another typical day in the Koopa Kingdom.*

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Fifteen

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: So much fucking angst, and ya know - cuss words.

Notes: Okay so this was the chapter that started it all, it’s the very first thing I wrote for this story and it just grew from there. I wanted something that rivaled when Edward left Bella minus the concerning leave her in a forest at night shit. Listen to Don’t Leave Me Now - Emelie Hollow if you want to really hurt after this chapter lol

Word Count: 2335

Series Masterlist

• September 13th, 2005 • Cullen Residence •

Reader

Numb.

It’s a weird feeling - the tingling in your fingers, the ringing in your ears, the copper tang from biting your tongue. I don’t think I’ve even blinked since… Well, since Alice removed me from the war path of her brother.

It was almost as if someone else was in my body, watching this train wreck of a birthday party.

Everything was fine. I was cozied up to Jasper, he was whispering kisses into my hair and rubbing mindless patterns on my back as he held me close. Warm, safe, content, protected.

Until I wasn’t.

Until Alice wrapped an arm around my waist after Bella opened the envelope from Esme and Carlisle. Next thing I knew, I was across the room and Bella had a paper cut.

Chaos was an understatement.

Jasper met my eyes, pitch black hunger showed back instead of the person I was familiar with and a cold shiver ran down my spine. Rose flashed in front of me, drawing his predatory gaze before it finally landed on Isabella. Edward, sensing the turn in Jasper’s attention, pushed Bella away to intercept his brother’s loss of control.

It all happened so quickly, my eyes could barely track what transpired.

Edward shoved Jasper across the room, right into the grand piano under the second floor landing, causing a gasp to rip from my throat. Bella was knocked into a table, colliding with glass that tore open her bicep. Carlilse was torn between helping Emmett restrain Jasper and staunching the blood flow from Bella’s larger cut. I started shaking, one hand covering my mouth and the other gripping Rose’s arm, Alice’s arm still around me and Rose standing before me protectively.

This has to be a nightmare. How did this turn so quickly?

Once Emmett wrestled his brother outside, the Cullen’s took their leave one by one, leaving Bella and I with Carlisle. Escorting Bella to his office to patch her arm up, I'm left alone in a room that looks like a bomb had been set off just moments ago. And it had, our fragile mortality just decimated what was supposed to be a night of celebration. After a few moments of spiraling out, I feel a hand on my elbow bring me back to the present - Esme.

“Dear, let me clean, I don’t want you to accidentally… C’mon.” She tells me in that light motherly tone, trying to be gentle and kind as she leads me away from the shattered glass covered rug.

I can’t accidentally cut myself, not if I want to be around Jasper.

Jasper.

“Where is he?” I ask in a daze.

“Sweetheart-“ but I interrupt her.

“I need to check on him, the others will… make sure I’m alright.” The words are acid in my mouth, it’s almost unfathomable to even doubt my safety in the presence of him.

Almost. And it breaks my heart.

“Garage.” She answers gently.

Jasper

I can’t breathe.

Not that vampires need oxygen, but I’m probably as close to getting a panic attack as one could get.

“Breathe man, everything is fine.” Emmett tries to reassure me, but it’s futile. I’m pacing back and forth in the driveway, while the rest of my adopted siblings watch from the garage.

“Everything is not fine.” Edward states, still as a statue from the corner.

“Dude, not fucking helping.” Rose fires back with a flash of teeth.

I continue my pacing, my fingers tugging on my blonde strands in an effort to ground myself and it’s doing nothing for my anxiety. What did I do? Is Bella alright? Is Y/n? I need to get a fucking grip on this hunger. A paper cut sending me into a spiral, you’ve got to be shitting me-

My internal monologue is interrupted by the door to the house opening from in the garage, the object of my thoughts emerging as if I summoned her.

“Y/n you can’t-“ Emmett starts, but she cuts him off, her eyes only on me.

“Alice, I’ll be fine, right?” She asks my sister without looking in her direction.

After a moment’s pause, “Yes, but-“

“No ‘but’s’, I need to speak with him alone. I trust him completely.” Stubborn and headstrong.

“We’ll be inside.” Alice acquiesces, to whom I’m not really sure.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Rosalie hesitate, protectiveness dripping from her, deliberate and aware that I could feel it. After a short nod from Y/n, she turns sharply to follow the rest of them inside. Odd, the one who abhors humans the most would feel the need to… protect one that’s threatened her way of life.

Before tonight I would’ve laughed, but now? Now I’m not so sure I even trust myself around her.

“Are you alright?” She asks me in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard from her, standing eight feet from where I pace but it might as well be the fucking Pacific Ocean.

I laugh, “Am I alright?” I repeat back to her.

“That was a stupid question, I was just-“

“I’m not fucking alright!” I explode, reaching the end of my sanity. I hear her suck in a breath and I immediately regret the tone in which I threw the words at her, but my thoughts keep flowing.

Reader

“I can’t do this! Not when it’s so easy for me to flip a switch and hurt you!” He exclaims desperately, eyes wild.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean you can’t do this?” I know he could feel the anguish pour out of me in droves at just the thought of what he’s implying. He wouldn’t actually leave over something so small, would he?

“You don’t fucking get it, darlin’... I have to go-I can’t do this, I won’t hurt you. Not if I can help it.” Turning away I stop him in his tracks.

“I love you.” The confession slips before I could reign it in. His back tenses before spinning around in a split second flash.

“Y/n-“ He gapes like a fish out of water, the look on his face is nothing but pure agony as he turns and disappears into the night.

Did he?

Did he just leave?

Even the forest is silent, like it’s waiting with bated breath for my next move.

How did this night start so wonderfully, then turn into this? My mind is empty and too full at the same time... And breathing? When did that become such a task? In and out - but how can I force air in when my heart is in my throat? My lips start to tingle, cheeks prickling painfully.

I close my eyes and shake my head like it’s some Magic 8 ball, trying for a different answer-a different outcome.

This can’t be, denial starts flooding in to try and put out this burning in my chest. There’s no way Jasper Hale just decided so quickly-so easily, to leave me.

There’s no way.

I love him.

That’s enough, right?

I must’ve been standing here for hours. Hours, days, months, years it’s felt like since I was staring into those gorgeous dark eyes filled with such self-hatred.

I jolt out of my thoughts when a pair of cold hands find my shoulders, I glance up to see Emmett’s concerned face. I feel as though the cold has seeped right through my skin, straight to the bone. It’s almost like I’m in this bubble. I see his mouth moving what seems to be a mile a minute, but the ringing in my ears drowns his words out.

Is this what that feels like? Shock? Focus Y/N, focus.

I feel a gentle shake from Emmett’s hold on my shoulders, “Are you alright? What are you doing standing in the driveway alone? Where’s Jasper?”

“He’s gone, Em.” I whisper, turning robotically to where I last saw him.

Emmett’s eyes widened, “He-he what?” I see him glance towards the woods that line the driveway, “I’ll find him and-”

“Emmett no, let him go. No one will change his mind, not right now anyways. Please,” I say a little quieter, “Don’t go.”

He envelopes me in a massive hug, “Never, Y/n/n.”

After a few moments and a small squeeze, he starts to lead me back inside to face the rest of the Cullens, where do I even begin to explain this mess to them?

Everyone gathered in the living room, silent after Emmett gave them a short explanation as to why we were missing a member while I stood next to him with my eyes glued to my shoes.

Looking around to see everyone’s reaction, I first notice a bandage wrapped around Bella’s bicep - Carlisle’s handiwork underneath, no doubt. Standing an awkward distance away from his girlfriend I notice Edward scarily still, no trace of emotion on his face which causes a shiver to snake down my spine. I turn, seeing Esme have what looks like a silent conversation with her husband through meaningful and pained expressions, I quickly look away knowing it’ll break my heart even more to watch the exchange. Rosalie walks over to take Emmett’s hand on his opposite side, his other still on my upper back - grounding me. Her face was a perfect depiction of concern directed at her mate, I couldn’t deal with that either, so I glanced at the last face in the room - Alice. Her features are torn and taught, like she’s searching the future and not liking what she’s seeing.

I feel like my life is just slipping from beyond my control, this has to be a horrible dream. It couldn’t have been more than an hour ago that I was standing right here, in this room, with Jasper’s arm draped around my waist, watching Bella descend those stairs.

I wonder a few steps beyond Emmett’s reach and stop, needing out of this house but not quite ready to be alone, I turn back around to my best friend and plead, “Em, take me home?”

Sparing a glance to his girlfriend who tilts her head in a nod of understanding, “Of course, let me grab the keys to the Jeep.”

It only takes a second with his speed to stand in front of me again, “Alright, let’s get out of here.”

I turn to Esme before I’m fully out the door, “Thank you for hosting the party tonight, it was lovely while it lasted.”

Her face scrunches in sadness, “Oh honey-“

“Goodnight everyone.” I say as Emmett steers me into the garage.

“Don’t do that, you don’t have to-“

“Have to what?” I cut him off as I shut the passenger door, the sound reverberating in the enclosed space.

“You don’t always have to spare everyone’s feelings at the expense of your own.” He climbs in himself and jams the keys in the ignition, the familiar rumble of his beloved machine filling the silence.

“It’s fine-everything is fine, this isn’t happening. It can’t be.”

“Y/n-“ He starts, but I cut him off as he activates the garage door and pulls out.

“No Em, it’s-I just can’t okay? I don’t know my head from my heart right now and I just need to hold myself together like this for just a little bit longer, alright? My sanity is dangling by a thread.” Running my fingers through my hair, I turn towards the passenger door to lean on it.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. I know he wants to talk, to say the magic words that fix this widening hole in my heart that’s growing by the second, but he can’t. No words can fix this, nothing fixes this sudden loneliness that Jasper created the moment he decided this course of action in our situationship. So I stare out my window, trees flying by, the outside world a blur.

Pulling up in front of my house, I spy the porch light my mom must’ve left on for me, assuming I’d get home late. I hear the engine cut off and turn to my left, surely he isn’t going-

“I’m coming up.” His eyes set like he’s on a mission.

“Are you crazy? Hell no, I’m not about to let you sulk in the corner while I bawl my eyes out like some pathetic pity party!” Throwing my hands up.

“Listen, Y/n-“

“Besides, your Jeep in the driveway is going to look suspicious! Even if you park it down the street, my mom is familiar with it.” I try to reason with him.

“But-” Emmett continues to try and sway me.

“Em, I’ll be fine,” I whine, “I know you’re worried, I’ll have my phone and I’ll text you tomorrow. This isn’t your responsibility to fix, I just think I need to be alone right now.”

He lets loose a deep sigh, “I’m just worried about you is all.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You’re just looking out for me and I appreciate it.” I look back to my house, “Maybe come over in a day or two? When I’ve had some time to process it all?”

“Of course, I’ll see if I can find this idiot and figure out where his head is at. Maybe beat him up for ditching my best friend in the dark.” He shoots me a playful grin, trying to lighten the mood.

“Emmett...” My eyebrows push together, his thoughtfulness constricting my throat.

“Go to bed, call me if you need to talk or whatever, everything will be fine.” He pats my leg in reassurance.

I climbed out of his massive Jeep and shut the door. Glancing behind me as I walk away, he gives me his signature lopsided smile as the engine turns over and he begins backing out of the drive.

Everything will be fine, yeah?

Yeah fucking right.

Who knew that was the last time I would see them, two weeks ago.

Everything was most definitely not fine.

Next

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