#a lot of these are the first book in a series

[corvidlore]

Aha time for my adhd to shine. I’m currently reading 5 books. I had to stop my meds for health reasons and let’s just say, you can tell. We have, in order of that I started them-

1. Words of Radiance - Brandon Sanderson (Started working on the Sanderson Mountain late last year, it will for sure be a marathon and not a sprint but the depth of character portrayed and the storylines so far are immaculate.)

2. Fathomfolk - Eliza Chan (Fish people meets environmental racism and lots of political intrigue. First time reading and it is taking a minute to get into it but we will see how it goes))

3. Alice in Zombieland - Gena Showalter (A reread from the depths, desired some of that high school nostalgia. Feels weird reading about 16 year olds fighting zombies as a now 24 year old person, they seemed so mature and capable when I was younger. Still hits but some of the chapter titles could have been better thought out ie. Down the zombie hole. Like I get trying to blend the alice in wonderland references with zombies but you made me picture what ‘zombie hole’ is and I will never recover)

4. Twilight - Stephanie Meyer (The version that I and 2 of my friends all annotated which makes it so much more fun ! Do not ask how many times I have read this, my favorite terrible book by far. I’ll never forget the first time, I was 10 years old and read it all during one school day in my first year of middle school cus I didn’t want my parents to say I wasn’t allowed to read it. True joy.)

5. A Taste of Gold and Iron - Alexandra Rowland (I found a yard sale over the weekend and got 6 books for 9 dollars ! So far, pretty good. We love an unreliable narrator.)

6. Bonus ! (not started yet but my self control is lacking so why not add another) (a reread of the entirety of a series of unfortunate events. I am on a nostalgia reading kick it seems, and cannot be stopped)

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

[whatifitis]

♡ can we start it all over again? - LN 4 ♡

Summary: The person you thought was the love of your life turned out to be a liar. So now you're left with nothing, no love, no home, and no plans for the future. Everything feels awful but as soon as you feel things are getting better, you run into your first love.

Author's Note: After a long ass wait, here's part 3 to 'i wish you would've stayed'. thank you guys for all the support on this little series <3 yall are the reason i write

WC: 3469

CW: cheating, thoughts about not breathing, yearning from Lando, excessive song references

What I thought was for all time turned out to be momentary.

After a long day at work, you were excited to be able to come home and finally see the love of your life.

Even after all this time together, the love between you two was still so exciting and palpable. You were practically running up the steps to your shared home, fumbling with the keys a bit. You opened the door and didn’t find Gabe in his office like he usually is.

You heard some noise coming from your bedroom and booked it down the hallway in excitement, but when you opened the door, you were met with a sight you never thought you’d have to see. Red auburn hair swayed as the figure rode Gabe, covering his face.

You couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your mouth. The two heads turn to face you and shock is drawn all over their bodies.

“Mikayla?!” you question, watching as your cousin climbs off your fiance, failing to cover herself with your bedsheets.

“I-” is all she’s able to voice.

Gabe is scrambling off the bed, “It’s not what it looks like, baby-”

“Don’t “baby” me. You lost that privilege the second you stuck your dick in someone else.”

“No! I didn’t- It’s not-”

“Oh! So you just tripped and it fell into her vagina?!”

Being met with silence, you’re quick with your movements, walking to the closet and packing whatever you can grab in this moment of fury and despair. You can feel heat consuming your face and body. Tears are forming on your waterline but you refuse to let them see you fall.

You zip up your bag and make your way to leave, stopping for a moment to look at the person you thought you knew. “Loving you was the biggest mistake I ever made. Someone will get the rest of my stuff later. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

You don’t even spare a glance at Mikayla. But, as you’re about to close the door, you pause, feeling the band around your finger: “Oh, and I guess you’ll need this for her” - you spat, tossing your engagement ring to Gabe’s feet.

After everything, everything you told him, he still went behind your back and chose someone else. Come one, come all, you guess. It’s happening again. He called you the love of his life. God, how could you be so stupid. You think back on everything, and it’s all making sense now.

Mikayla wasn’t necessarily ecstatic when you’d told her that Gabe had proposed to you. You were disappointed and confused but brushed it off as she had just broken up with her boyfriend at the time.

When you confessed to Gabe that you were disappointed in Mikayla’s reaction, he reassured you and told you he’d talk to her for you.. Gabe was always quick to problem solve and he always enjoyed making you happy, so when he jumped at the chance to speak with Mikayla, you didn’t think anything of it. After her “talk” with Gabe, Mikayla was giddy. She apologized for her initial reaction to your engagement and asked if she could help you with the wedding planning.

Planning the wedding with your cousin by your side was amazing. The two of you had a shared taste in aesthetic so it made everything feel a lot less stressful. Now you realize why she was so excited. Helping you plan the wedding allowed her to invite herself over a lot to “go over details”. It was almost as if she was planning her own wedding.

You are such a fool. You ended up lost inside a memory of someone’s life, it wasn’t yours.

After everything that just happened, you weren’t sure of what to do or where to go. You were driving around in silence, trying to keep from completely breaking. You call a friend of yours, asking if you could spend the night with her and that you could leave in the morning. Pietra, your friend, assured you that you could stay as long as you need.

After a long and dreadful drive, you had arrived at Pietra’s house. She sat you down on the couch and handed you a cup of tea. “Y/n, what happened?”

You took a deep breath and tried to stay composed enough to tell her, but you couldn’t. The words you wanted to say were stuck in a lump in your throat. Your breathing became irregular as you struggled for air. All you could do was break down into tears as Pietra moved closer to you and pulled you into her arms, rubbing her hand up and down your back.

The weight of everything just came crashing down on you now. You lost the love of your life, your cousin, and all your future plans in one day. You don’t have a home. You don’t have love. You don’t have the one person you trusted with your life. You don’t have the person who put you above everything else. You don’t have the person who had the ability to turn your bad days into good days. You don’t have the person who loved you for you.

You don’t even have Olive anymore.

The two of you grew fond of each other after you and Gabe moved in together. Olive became your best friend in a way. As crazy as it seems, she helped you pick your outfits a few times. But she's not yours. Nothing is yours. Was anything ever really yours?

Time passes and you’re able to calm your sobs. Through your hiccups, you tell Pietra about everything. You tell her about Mikayla, about Gabe, about how you feel so lost now.

“I’m sorry, my darling. I didn’t expect this, honestly. But don’t worry about finding a place to stay. Stay here for as long as you want, it’ll be nice to have you around. It’s hard to find time to hangout with you and I miss seeing you.”

“I missed you too. And thank you for letting me stay here, I don’t know how to repay you. I can pay some rent or something.”

“No. Don’t worry about that. Just help me make some brigadeiro when you feel up to it.” she says, offering you a soft smile.

“I’ll try. I think I’m gonna head to bed now. I gotta get to the office early tomorrow.”

“No. What the fuck? You just got your heart broken. Your whole life just fell apart. No offense. Take the day off, matter of fact, take the whole week off. We’re gonna take a break. Okay?”

“I kinda wanna go to work so I can have a distraction from the fact that I’m failing.”

“You’re not failing, y/n. Gabe failed you. Mikayla failed you. None of this is your fault. You did nothing to deserve this.”

“At some point, I have to realize there is something wrong with me. My relationships never work and the common denominator in all of them is me.” you say, shrugging your shoulders and accepting that maybe love isn’t meant for you. You stand to go to your temporary room. “Goodnight, Pietra.”

“Fine. You can go wallow in your sadness but call your boss cause you’re not going to work tomorrow. I will lock you in your room if I have to.”

You shut the door to your room, not having the energy to counter Pietra’s demands. You have to fight every bone in your body to keep from sliding down the door and sobbing. At least make it to the bed, you tell yourself. Your feet heavily drag across the carpet, trying to get you to the edge of the bed and when you do, you collapse onto it and break. You cry and cry as you curl into yourself. It gets harder and harder to breathe, but you won’t be able to feel the relief of ceasing your breath completely. There’s a hole in your gut in the shape of everything you had and lost.

Gabe played you, for years. It was like he was mocking you with everything you ever confided in him. You had told him things that you’d never told anyone else, and now you regret that. You wish you could unrecall how you almost had it all. Everything you’d dreamed of, being loved and wanted.

All those braids of lies. All those “I’ll never leave”’s and “You’re more than enough”’s.

If you could, you’d go back to the night you met Gabe. You’d go back and tell yourself that he wasn’t the one. You wish you’d never met him. You had all of him, then most of him, and now none of him. What the hell are you supposed to do?

Once your sobs subside briefly, you send a text to your boss, letting her know you won’t be in tomorrow, and probably the day after. You won’t be able to get stuff done while in this state. Maybe Pietra is right. It might be best if you take more than a day or two off work to get yourself back up on your feet.

The next week is spent with Pietra glued to your side. The two of you spent everyday either relaxing or going on mini adventures around town and shopping til you dropped. While it’s been nice, spending time with P and just going out, it doesn’t take away the pain or distract you from it too much. There’s still an empty space in your chest that feels like it will keep expanding until it consumes you into nothingness.

It seems as if your soul is disappearing, leaving you to be a ghost. You still don’t know how it ended. Yes, he cheated, probably more than once, but how? Why? Were you not enough? Did you do something to push him away?

You can’t feel it yet, peace and acceptance. But you are waiting. Desperate to feel anything but this, or nothing at all.

Days and weeks pass and you’re slowly coming to. You’re back at work and you’ve been touring some apartments with Pietra. She insisted that if you moved out, you would at least live close by. You agreed to this condition and you just sent an application for the apartment you liked most. It was beautiful with a few big windows to let the sun in, a window nook you could relax in, and a magnificent view of London.

You were on break at work when your phone pinged with a notification. You look down and see his name pop up on the screen. Gabe texted you, letting you know he packed the rest of your stuff so it’ll be an easier and faster process for you to get whatever was left after that night.

Without responding, you text Pietra, asking her if she could go and grab your stuff with her boyfriend, Max. You don’t think you could stomach going back there. Not after knowing what happened in what was your room. Not after you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling questioning how many times it happened. Where it happened.

Without hesitation, Pietra says yes and lets you know that she’ll have your stuff in your room by the time you get home. You’re forever grateful for Pietra for being there for you through all this, for allowing you to live in her home. You would mention Max as well since it’s his home as well, but you found out that he had told Lando about your situation in full detail. So, he’s on probation right now.

The work day wraps up quite late so by the time you’re driving home, it’s dark and cold. You call Pietra and let her know that you were on your way back, asking if she needed you to pick up anything on your way home. She says no but keeps you on the phone to make sure you get home safe. The two of you talk about work and make plans for the weekend.

As you pull into the driveway, Pietra is already waiting for you at the door, dancing around as you hear a one direction song being played from inside the house.

“Welcome home, bestie.” Pietra screams.

You run up to her and hug her so tightly. You had just seen each other this morning but it felt nice to feel appreciated and wanted. In the past few weeks, you two had grown closer and it felt like you were kids again.

You enter the house and drop your stuff onto the couch when you feel something furry run along your ankles. You look down to see Olive.

“Pietra, what the hell?”

You look up to see Pietra with a guilty look plastered on her face, “Well, when I went to get your stuff from that bitch, I was grabbing the last bag and he had Olive in her little crate. He said he wanted you to have her. He said that the two of you had grown close and he wants you to have her. And if it makes you feel better, he said she’s been shitting in his shoes since you left.”

Bending down to pick up Olive, you look at her face and just hug her close. Turns out she is a girl's girl, and you’re grateful for her, even if she is just a cat.

“Thanks, Pietra. For getting my stuff and bringing my little Olive.”

“It’s no problem. I’m glad you got something good out of all this.”

“Me too.” you say, watching as Olive curls into you and purrs as you scratch beside her ear.

The rest of the night is spent cuddling with Olive and listening to Pietra vent about her own work life and personal life. Apparently her manager wants her to do a brand deal with a cheese company? When Pietra is lactose intolerant?

The next morning, you are awoken by birds chirping outside your window as rays of golden sun make their way to warm your body. It’s a beautiful day outside so why let it go to waste?

After kissing the top of Olive’s head, you start getting ready for the day and put on one of your favorite dresses. It’s a beautiful, pink sundress that’s loose and comfortable but hugs your figure nicely. It’d been a while since you’d worn it, having forgotten about it after Mikayla told you that it made you look like one of the twins from ‘Alice in Wonderland’. Maybe you should’ve seen the signs.

You decide to head to your favorite cafe that’s down the street. After moving in with Pietra and Max, you’d ventured to each establishment in the area and just fell in love with the aesthetic and aura of this cafe. It was cozy with cream colored walls, big windows that allowed the warm sun to shine through, and potted plants in every corner and crevice of the place.

After ordering a coffee, you take a seat at a table in the corner where you can read your book in peace. That was until you heard an all too familiar voice. “Y/n.” - Looking up from your book, you’re met with his eyes. The eyes you fell in love with all those years ago.

“Lando.”

With a shaky exhale, he quickly explains himself, “Max told me you were here. Actually, I kind of berated him to tell me where you were and if I could talk to you. I heard what happened with Gabe and I just had to see you. Can I have a seat?”

“I’m not in the mood, Lando. I’m tired and I feel like I’m just starting to get back up on my feet. I don’t want to entertain this.”

He takes a seat in the chair across from you and you watch the pleads that leak from his body. “Please, Y/n. I just want to talk. I’ve thought a lot about what I’ve done to you and I just need you to listen. Please. I don’t expect to get back together or for you to forgive me and all that. I miss having you in my life and I would really like it if we could at least be friends?”

You just sit there with your arms crossed, raising an eyebrow at him. You know as soon as you see him, you’re gonna wring Max’s neck for telling Lando about what happened and about where you were.

Realizing you weren’t going to speak, Lando continues, “I fucked up, bad. I disrespected you and essentially used you. Like I said the last time we spoke, I didn’t realize what I had til it was gone. I didn’t realize that I actually love you, like a lot.”

With a deep breath, you tell him everything you never said. “Sometimes I can find peace with the fact that you left, accepting that this wasn’t meant for me. Other nights I would bargain with God, asking him what I had to do or give up for him to bring you back. After all of this, I don’t know why I’m holding on to you. There is nothing to hold on to. And I used to be scared of losing you. I think I still am somehow, which is weird. Like if I let you go then I officially lost you. If I just hold on to every little memory, maybe you’ll come back, even if I shouldn’t. And that’s even scarier. It’s scary knowing that after all this time, you still have this hold on me. Like all you have to do is say something, and I'll come back.”

“So why don’t you come back? To me? I’ve grown, Y/n. I’ve changed. And I’m still changing and learning. I love you. And I know that even if I love you wholeheartedly, that’s not enough. I will work everyday to prove to you that I love you. I will work every moment to show you how much I care about you. The day that I left, I lost the love of my life. I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose the love of your life, Lando. You just lost the person you had loved the most so far in your life. You’ll find the love of your life, someday. But it’s not me.”

“Y/n, I don’t know life without you. Everyday that’s passed since I ended things, you’ve always been at the forefront of my mind. I found you then I lost you and looking back is torture. It hurts to know I hurt you. If I could go back and do it all over, I’d do it differently. I would’ve never let you go and I would have treated you better. I would have loved you better.”

“But you can’t. We both need to move on. This whole situation is not healthy for either of us. We can’t keep going around and around. You fucked up and you need to deal with the consequences. I need time and space from anything to do with love. I just got cheated on by someone who was supposed to love and care for me. I have to explain to every person I know why I’m not getting married anymore. I have to tell every single person that I’m not enough and I’ll never be enough. I have to tell everyone that I’m the disappointment they always knew I’d be.”

“You’re not a disappointment, Y/n. You never have been and never will. Let me show you what love really is like. I promise. We can go as slow as you’d like. We can be just friends. I can’t promise sunshine and rainbows 24/7. I can’t promise that there won’t be times where you’re mad at me. I can’t promise that I’ll be perfect. But, I can promise to stay. I promise to love you wholeheartedly, and do it proudly. I will love you loudly, shouting it from every rooftop. I promise to keep you safe. I promise to take care of you. I promise to surround you with love. While I hope you can love me again, I know it’s not easy and not something that has a high chance of happening. I know I don’t deserve it, but can you please let me in again?”

As you sit there looking at this person, this person who you loved with all your heart for so long. This person who took your heart and broke it into pieces. This person who has come back over and over again. This person who hasn’t loved or dated since the last time you two had spoken. This person who claims to love you.

“I don’t know, Lan. Can you?”

—————————————————————————

Tags for pt 3: @leclerc13 @f1fantasys @htpssgavi

I only tagged those who specifically asked to be tagged in pt 3 cause I didn’t know if those tagged in pt 2 wanted to be tagged in this one 😭😭😭

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Summer (Cregan Stark x Reader)

A/N: I can finally wrap up my romcom! Big romantic gesture ahead. Check the masterlist of this series here, if you are new. And to my lovely, lovely readers, thank you for staying wityh me during this madness.

Warnings: My anxious introverted reader being anxious (Shocker) Cregan has self-doubts. Mature language.

YOU ARE HAVING a terrible day. It surprises you because that doesn’t happen as often any longer. Today, you would rather not talk to anyone, much less Cregan, whose hovering would only serve to make you more anxious. Today, you want to crawl under the covers with your comfort book and pretend to be dead. 

Yet, you cannot. Because you can’t find the damn book anywhere. You are sure the compilation of histories of Old Valyria Daemon had given you has to be in your rooms.

You have pulled open all your desk’s drawers, checked the bedside table twice, checked the bed, even beneath it. Not even your chest with linens was spared. It’s nowhere. 

With little choices left, you have begun searching the nursery too, but haven’t quite mastered the courage to search Cregan’s solar. You remember taking the book alongside you to read as you kept him company sometimes, but do not recall leaving it there. 

You feel torn. Cregan and you are getting along now, but you still hesitate going to him with your troubles. Not only you had leftover guilt even though you have both chosen to move on from your rivalry, you also prided yourself on being independent. 

Asking him or anyone for help always makes you feel uncomfortable. You didn’t want others to perceive you as weak. 

Stop. You are being silly, you tell yourself. It’s not like you are about to ask him to solve your life, you only will inquire if he has seen your book. 

Still. What if he thinks less of you for being careless with your things? Or if he thinks you are being overly sentimental to get this worked up over a book? 

Worse, what if he thinks you are accusing him of stealing? 

You let out a groan. You are overthinking. Your bad days often include a lot of anxiety, and today it is a bad day. A terrible one, that will be worse if you don’t find your beloved book. Determined, you march to Cregan’s solar and knock on his door. 

“Aye?” He calls out, northern accent on full display, and you can’t help that your knees get a little weak.

“Cregan? May I come in?” Suddenly, your bravery and determination have deserted you. Your voice comes out squeaky as a mouse. By the Fourteen Flames, to love is to be humbled, it seems. 

“You always may, wife.” You wince at being addressed as such. You suppose it’s a good thing he isn’t calling you by your full title any longer. 

Pushing open the door, you step inside. Cregan is seated on his desk, a frown on his face. He is squinting at some maps, in the way he sometimes does. His frown softens when he sees you, standing on the door. 

“I enjoy how my colors look on you.” Cregan rumbles, a pleased smile forming on his face. Today, you are wearing one of the warmest dresses you own, in a pale gray. It’s made of velvet, and you enjoy how it feels over your skin. You had commissioned it after you arrived at Winterfell, using the generous pocket money that Cregan allowed you. 

You had to give it to the man. No matter how annoying you had been at first, he had never been tight-fisted with your allowance. 

“Thank you.” You feel your cheeks heating up, and fight the urge to fan your face. What you don’t manage to fight is the urge to preen under his gaze. 

Cregan chuckles. You narrow your eyes at him. Is he mocking you? He lifts his hands in surrender, attuned as he is to your moods. 

“Apologies. It’s cute, that’s all.” 

“The dress?” 

“You.” And it’s said with such disarming honesty, you do not know what to say. You search his face, yet his expression is so open, so fond, no hint of mockery can be found. It’s…  Cregan must be thinking of her, for sure. That expression doesn’t mean anything. “What were you here for?”

You clear your throat. 

“Um. I was… I lost my book.” 

“What book?” Cregan asks, shifting his maps aside. He is clearing his desk, you realize. “The one about the conquest?” 

“No, not that one.” Your voice turns shyer still. Secretly, it pleases you that he remembers what you had been reading last week. “It has a brown leather cover and the title is in gold.” 

“The one in High Valyrian?” And his tone is casual. Far too casual. You begin to worry that your book might have met its end. You look him in the eyes, but find little there. Cregan has an impeccable blank face. He gives nothing away. “Check the selves. Maybe it is there.” 

You turn around and begin doing so. But the more titles you check, the more nervous you become. Cregan is an organized man, his books are carefully separated by subject. The servants know to keep to his order, when he rarely leaves them lying around. 

Your book would stand out. You know it. A tight knot of anxiety begins to settle on your stomach. As you reach the lower shelves, you feel tears gathering in your lash line. You cannot believe you are about to cry over a book. 

Cregan will never love you. He will go right back into thinking you are some soft southron, with no spine. No one cries over books. He will think you are ridiculous. 

Despite your back being to him, he seems to sense something is wrong.

“Love? Is everything alright?” 

“I cannot find it.” You whine, losing your battle with the tears. “My book. It’s really important that I find it.” 

You hear him get up, and walk closer to you. He hugs you from behind, holding you to him. 

“Shh… I know. I have been unkind to you.” You are confused about his words, but not enough that you reject the comfort of his embrace. Cregan is warm against your back, and smells faintly of parchment and leather. There is something herbal clinging to his skin, too. His smell and his size make you feel safe. He is tall enough that his form covers yours completely.“I took your book.” 

You flinch. Your hackles begin to rise. Your sadness leaves, clouded by absolute wrath.  

“What?” 

“I wanted to gift you something. It’s being copied by the Maester as we speak. I wanted it to be a surprise, I know how much you love it.” He nuzzles your neck, and it pacifies you slightly. The prospect of a gift entices you, especially if it is a copy of your favorite book. Perhaps Cregan will have it nicely bound.  “I regret it now. Knowing how much you love it, I should have known it would upset you.”

“I wanted to read it today.” You complain, still sad. It has been an awful day for you. “I do not feel so well.” 

“Of course, sweetling.” Cregan drops a kiss to your crown. “I’ll have it delivered to you. Would you mind lending it to me tomorrow? You can recall it anytime during the day if you need it, like now.” 

“Alright.” You whisper, softly. Cregan gathers you in his arms again, and moves the two of you to the loveseat. There, he settles you in his lap. He takes of his cloak and drapes it over you. This way, you are fully surrounded by his warmth and smell.

He calls a servant. True to his word, the book is back in your hands in less than half an hour. You spend the rest of the afternoon reading in his lap. 

Suddenly, your bad day doesn’t seem so bad. 

WHEN HE FEELS like an inconsiderate brute, Cregan tries to think happier thoughts. While grief and self-doubt do not chase him as much as they chase you, he is still a widower with a wife who despised him at first. 

Often, gazing upon Rickon or you is enough to help him feel more settled. More at peace with himself. His son is well adapted enough, he reasons, as he sees him run around the courtyard. You do not despise him, he thinks, as you curl by his side. 

Today, neither is working. Rickon and you are together, a picture that normally would serve to pull him out from his brooding. Of course, since Rickon is on the floor wailing, it isn’t quite working. 

Cregan has a headache. The pain is spreading from his jaw, towards his cheekbones, and from there turning into sharp icicles that feel like they are being stabbed in his skull. 

The day has been long. He had ridden out at dawn to deal with some wildings near Wintertown, and then had to answer his correspondence. The dammed Greens would not stop pestering him to switch sides and hand you over, alternating between threats and flattery. 

As if the Starks were some miserable turncloaks who betrayed their oaths. As if Cregan would just hand over his wife to some usurping cunts. 

The nerve of those Hightowers knew no bounds. What was next? Demanding a Sept be built in Wintertown for those false gods of theirs? 

And if that wasn’t enough to make his day terrible, during the afternoon Cregan had received an outraged Sara. Apparently, for some unknown reason, she had received an offer to become Lady Cerwin And for another unknown reason, it was the most terrible fate. Ever. 

Rickon keeps screaming. He has been that way for a while. Cregan had been alone with him, watching him play on the rug with his blocks, when he had started crying and wouldn’t stop. 

Cregan had tried picking him up, rocking him, walking him back and forth, but nothing helped. One of the servants must have heard and alerted you because you had appeared looking disgruntled.

You had been in the middle of your quiet time, as Cregan enjoyed calling it. Awkward Princesses who hated socializing needed time to recover from hearing petitions during the day. He had realized so when he started teaching you to pass judgement. 

As the time for Cregan to march south to defend your mother’s claim became more imminent, he was giving you more and more responsibilities in Winterfell. That way, you would be prepared to hold the North when he left. Prepared to protect his Kingdom and his son. 

“Tower! Tower!” Rickon wails, as you pick him. Your face is as tired a Cregan feels. His head is heavy. He cannot stand Rickon screaming any longer. By the gods, Cregan is a terrible father. He cannot even calm his son when he needs him. After his many attempts to calm him down were unsuccessful, he had just set him down. 

“What’s the matter, sweet boy?” You ask, holding Rickon close to your heart. Rickon continues to cry. You meet Cregan’s eyes over his son’s head. 

Cregan shrugs. He is unsure of what triggered the tantrum. 

“Shh, all is well. I get overwhelmed too, sometimes.” You say, and Cregan gets the feeling you are talking to him and not to Rickon. “But we can’t rebuild your tower if you are getting all wiggly.”  

This is about the building blocks, Cregan realizes. He feels like a terrible father. A failure. 

Bennard’s words come to mind once more. How can you govern the North if you can’t govern yourself? You failed.

Your swordsmanship is poor, and you still are a pup crying for your parents. You cannot rule. 

He had heard a variation of those words for years, every time he had tried to push his claim. And look, Cregan knows he is not a poor swordsman, and he has tried his best to rule. Men don’t cry, but he does it occasionally. Rarely. His tears never dry out, no matter how old he grows, but it is the only thing of Bennard’s words that came true. That isn’t so bad, is it? 

You have settled on the floor, Rickon on your lap. He still cries, but he has stopped shrieking. You have started building a tower on your own. 

“I think I will place my princess here. And a dragon here.” You explain, as if you are building some great castle. Rickon stares, transfixed by you. Cregan understands the feeling all too well. He remembers the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of your skin against him, your smell. He has been unable to get the memory out of his mind in days. 

It would be pleasant, a session of cuddling with his wife, were it not for the circumstances that lead up to it. All Cregan’s fault. 

“A shame you want to keep crying and won’t help. I suppose I shall have to ask your father to play with me.” Your eyes are coy. You give Cregan a glance, and his lips form a smile despite himself. Of course you would try bribery. 

Of course, it works. Rickon picks up the first block, still sniffling. 

“No! Father isn't a Princess. You are!” 

“You are right, Rickon.” You agree, as if it were the most natural thing. “Silly me. He is a wolf. We should build him a Wolfswood.” 

And so, Rickon forgets his tantrum, settled by your gentle touch and encouraging words. And Cregan’s heart soars. 

“MILADY, LORD STARK wishes for your company.” One of the serving girls says, eyes downcasted. You pause in your perusal of the granary, making a quick note on your ledger. As the Lady of Winterfell, it falls to you to ensure the castle has supplies enough for winter, or so Cregan says. You find the Northern’s obsession with the season a bit much, but considering little grows here, you too would feel better knowing you have enough grain if something happens. 

“Right now?” Considering he had been the one to send you on this errand, it confuses you a little. He must have known taking stock of the granary would take you all day. 

“As soon as you can come. It’s not urgent, but he wishes to see you soon.” 

You feel nerves creep up on you. Cregan never summons you. When he wants your company, he simply appears near you or waits for a meal to invite you to spend time with him. 

You can’t help it. War and grief had frayed your nerves. These days, you feel like everything could be a sign of bad news. 

It’s not urgent, you repeat to yourself. It’s not urgent, it’s not urgent, you chant in your head, but your steps towards the inside of Winterfell are hurried. 

The castle is unusually quiet. The maid guides you to one of the unused wings of the castle, one near Cregan’s rooms. You have never asked, but you know these were the rooms his uncle used to inhabit when trying to usurp him. The man had never dared taking the lord’s rooms from Cregan, lingering near instead, a feeling you understand too well. 

Your husband is a formidable man. You wouldn’t want to cross him, either. 

The serving girl hesitates when the two of you reach a big oaken door. 

“What is it?” You ask her, with a frown. “Why do you linger?”

She doesn’t answer. She simply shoots you a shy smile. Annoyed at her shyness, you push the door open yourself. Your breath catches. 

When you step inside, it is as if you are stepping inside your storybook. The walls are covered with tapestries depicting some of the prettier illustrations, priestesses wearing amethysts, dragons of shining ivory, lovers holding hands. 

The room is decorated in understated creams and golds, the furniture made of the finest woods. Despite the themes of the decoration, it is clearly meant to be a Lady’s solar, even if not attached to your rooms. 

There is a soft, woven carpet that cushions your every step. It is made of pure white fur, to combine tastefully with the rest of the decoration. You can already tell it will feel like heaven on your bare feet, even through your boots. It must have cost a fortune. 

Near two, giant windows, a low table sits. It holds a vase very familiar to you, shaped in the form of a dragon. It is filled with winter roses, though you had seen it before in Dragonstone, full of your mother’s favorite flowers. 

There is a fireplace, as it is customary in almost all the rooms in Winterfell. On its mantle, small toys and mementos from your childhood sit. Near the fireplace, a small sitting area awaits, with comfortable looking armchairs and loveseats, and a low table in which a tea set, painted with Valyrian motives, rests. 

There is a desk in a corner, much bigger than yours, and a small bookshelf, that resembles the layout Cregan has in his own solar. It has sparse books, but all of them are in High Valyrian. Your favorite book has a place of honor, right in the middle of the highest shelf. 

Yet, the true star of the room lies on the back of it. There is a huge round table, like the one from your stories, made of sturdy wood, that resembles the one from the war room from Dragonstone. Not only are the Seven Kingdoms featured, but also Essos, Sothoryos, the Summer Islands and even Great Moraq. Cregan is in the middle of lighting the table, struggling with how one is supposed to do it. 

“How..?” You babble, astonished. To assemble this… You understand now why he had needed your book so many times. The time and care put into building this room, so delightfully whimsical yet honoring your culture at the same time… Your eyes prickle with tears. 

“We can send it back.” Cregan says, alarmed by your tears. “If you…” 

“No!” You say, with an energy that surprises you. You take the candles from his hands and begin lighting the table the proper way. “This is… My home. And my book.”

Cregan’s face is uncharacteristically unsure.

"I hoped it would remind you of where you came from. Of whom you are. A Princess of Dragonstone. My Princess.” 

“You did this… for me?” Your hands tremble as you set the table alight. All the known world, on display for you. In a war table. It is only then that it registers.  

Cregan is willing to go to war for you. Kill in your name. Lay the whole world at your feet.  You have to grip the back of one of the chairs as to not fall down, knees weak. 

“I know you are far from home. And I haven’t… We haven’t always been on the best terms, but you never shied away from your duties. I wanted to give you something that was about you.” 

“I never thought you saw me.” You whisper. “I… I owe you an apology. For everything. For insulting you, when I arrived, for speaking of Lady Arra, for… For not seeing you either, at first.” 

You have been blind, you realize, as you look at your book come to life in this room. The man who had given it to you had shown you that one could form a family with a widow and cherish their sons as if they were your own.

Daemon wasn't a kind man, but he was loyal to family. You were far kinder. If he could do it, and be happy, so could you.

“There is no need to apologize to me.” Cregan gathers you in his arms, and presses a kiss to your lips. His own are chapped from the cold, yet the only thing you feel is his warmth. And for two people as different as winter and summer, you find that your bodies do understand each other. 

It takes Cregan but a week to convince you after that. The first letter you write in your new desk begins as it follows: 

“Dear Jacaerys, I want you to know that I am completely, perfectly, incandescently happy…”

[sailorsoons]

Hello, Darling (c.hs)

Pairing: Vernon x afab reader

Summary: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. Ater a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

Word Count: 21,558

Genre: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

Type: Smut, Angst

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

Additional Content Warning: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

❀ A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)

A/N 2: Alternative summary for this fic is Hali repeatedly drags Chan because she loves him so much

Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.

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Cool wind lifts the pages of your book, threatening to flip them over. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU DO NOT SEE YOUR TAG HERE, TUMBLR WOULD NOT LET TAG YOU AND YOU'VE BEEN REMOVED FROM THE TAG LIST.

[endiness]

Sorry to randomly go off on your reblog, person I am reblogging this from, but I am compelled to correct the disinformation campaigns surrounding the show, so: The OP is an alt-right account that made this post to incite people against Lauren and the show. The headline itself is a misleading, clickbait headline that was also meant to incite people against Lauren and the show. In the original article by Vulture, Lauren states that Henry was annoying because he was bugging her for the role before scripts had even been written yet — and even Henry Cavill himself admitted he was being annoying.

Henry Cavill also massively over-exaggerated how much of a fan he was of the franchise and how much he knew of it. He hadn't even read the books when he first sought out the role because he thought they were based off the video games, he only read the series once back in 2018 after Lauren told him about the books and that the video games were actually based off them, and he's really only played the third game — which he hasn't even played the DLC for.

By his own admission, he also didn't actually do any research or preparation for the role:

“I asked my agent to put me on the spot and wanted to meet Lauren as soon as possible. I didn’t even need to prepare specially for the role. Because I breathe, I experience this universe every day. I’ve already had many opportunities to think about this character when I was playing the game. My preparation was already done before the casting even began!”

(Just for comparison's sake: Joey Batey's read the books 3 times as of 2023 and Therica Wilson-Read tries to go back and reread the series before each season, she watches video essays on youtube to refresh her memory, and she's played the games — and both actors have had their co-stars come to them with questions about their characters and storylines and everything because of how knowledgeable they are about the series.)

Henry Cavill also started the whole narrative about how much he cares about the source material and adhering to it in the press for S2 to deflect from how he cut Geralt's lines in S1, making his characterization inaccurate to the books — which he also lied about by trying to act like Geralt was never originally written as being verbose when he was, he tried to blame Geralt's lack of dialogue on Yennefer and Ciri's prominence, and he tried to act like the lines he was cutting weren't even that important anyway so it didn't really matter that he was cutting them.

(He was also directly responsible for, or at least had a hand in, a lot of other deviations from the books. By his own admission, he didn't want to play Geralt and Jaskier as being as friendly as they are in the books. He didn't seem to understand Geralt or Yennefer's characters or their relationship as he cut a sex scene between them because he didn't think it'd be in character of them to have sex after reuniting even though it absolutely would've been. He nixed even the idea of Geralt and Triss just platonically finding comfort in each other even though that's what happens in the books. He didn't want to play Geralt struggling with fatherhood in any way in S2 or, really, with any character flaws and only positive character traits which led to the domino effect of the most controversial changes from the books in S2 such as Yennefer's betrayal, Eskel's death, and Voleth Meir being the big bad of the season.)

Henry Cavill also started that whole narrative about how important the source material is to him as if the source material and Lauren's vision of the show are some at odds with each other because he was mad that he was co-lead with two women and that the show focuses on women so much.

Also, granted, the following falls into speculation and rumor, but.

There is far more evidence to support the theory that he was fired for being sexist than there is for the idea that he was either fired for caring about the source material too much or he ragequit because of that — especially as he was responsible for many things that went against the books in the first place; he started the whole narrative about how important the books are to him to cover up that fact, make himself look better, and make Lauren, the writers, and the rest of the show look bad; he was mad about how prominent women are in the show even though women play key roles in the books; and S3, his last season, was the closest adaption of the books so far anyway.

Tells you everything you need to know about the people making these adaptations.

[vettelsvee]

hiii!! 2 with oscar please?😭

YOU WANT THAT BOOK? I'LL BUY YOU THE WHOLE SERIES | Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar takes you to a bookstore and, after he sees you fingerling over a saga, he decides to buy it for you (without knowing it was about fictional versions of Formula 1 drivers) ↳ REQUESTED: Part of VEE'S F1 PROMPTS LIST (VOL. I)! Feel free to request anything you want <3 Hope you liked it anon! 💖

WORD COUNT: 1891

WARNINGS: Brief mention of drugs, mentions to Dirty Air saga (spoiler free) with not much knowledge about it

VEE'S NOTES: Was I expecting posting a fic today? No. Did I have to write something to distress after the pretty bad exam I made today? Yes! Now writing this and thinking about Teacher!Seb fics has made me feel in a better mood (ngl I'm pretty disappointed with myself). Anyways, hope you like today's fic and remember that, if you did, feel free to comment me your thoughts and, also, reblog as it helps me a lot! Thank you so much for reading <3 ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | TALK TO ME! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

The moment you crossed the doors of the bookstore, you felt like you were at home.

Maybe it was the scent of vanilla and coffee, or perhaps the instrumental music playing softly, just like the one you were used to listen to at home in the afternoons while spending hours lost in a book and its story. You were so excited that you gripped Oscar’s hand tightly, your heart pounding faster than usual at the movie-like moment you were living.

"Alright…" Oscar began, his gaze wandering in every direction, completely absorbed by the towering bookshelves surrounding you both. "I’ve taken you to a bookstore, so I think my job here is officially done."

You stared at him in disbelief before rolling your eyes.

"Osc, you don’t just take your girlfriend to a bookstore. You stay with her the whole time to live the experience, you know… that whole reader's boyfriend thing."

Now it was Oscar’s turn to roll his eyes, though he couldn’t help but smile as you spun around and rushed toward a nearby table. Despite having little to no interest in reading, unless it involved race reports or it was Mark Webber’s biography, he loved the passion you had for books. Though, much to your dismay, he had never actually finished any of your recommendations even you insisted on him a lot.

"Yeah, okay, sure. You lead the way, Mrs. Bookworm…"

You weren’t listening. Instead, you were completely lost, eyes darting from one book to another, unable to stand still from sheer excitement. The overwhelming number of stories in front of you didn’t help either.

Then, it happened. The moment you spotted the book you had been searching for longer than you cared to admit, you let out a small squeal. Oscar jumped at the sudden sound, hurrying over to you only to find you clutching a red book, turning it over in your hands, inhaling its scent like it was some rare artifact.

"Oh… my… god…" you whispered.

Oscar glanced at the cover. Throttled. His eyes flickered to the camera and polaroids, especially the one in the center, which showed a red car eerily similar to the one Charles had driven a few years back when he first joined Ferrari.

"Oh…" Oscar muttered as realization hit him. "So it’s a Formula 1 book…"

Do Formula 1 romantic books exist?, thought Oscar, a bit in disbelief.

You turned to him, shoving the book in his face.

"It’s not just a Formula 1 book! It’s THE Formula 1 book! Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted it for?"

"Since before we started dating, or after?" he teased, smirking. "You’re dating an actual Formula 1 driver, and here you are, thrilled to read a love story about one."

"Noah Slade is different. Very different, actually."

"Oh, so I guess this Noah guy is gonna replace me now, huh?" Oscar feigned offense.

"Well… I like you more. A lot more. And… I don’t know… you’re you. No one could ever compare, so…"

It wasn’t just you who turned red. Oscar did too, lowering his gaze while you pretended to read the book, using the pages as a shield to hide just how flustered you were.

This wasn’t how you had imagined telling Oscar you loved him for the first time.

"Well…" you tried to speak, clearing your throat, but Oscar cut in.

"Are you getting it?"

You opened your mouth but hesitated. It was a limited edition, and also very expensive. If you bought this one, you’d have to get the rest of the series too, but you were broke because, of course, you had impulsively bought five books just last week.

"Uh… I don’t know…" you murmured.

He studied your face for a few seconds, and without thinking too much about it, he stepped closer and grabbed the book from you.  

“What are you doing?”  

“Buying it for you,” he said casually as he walked toward the checkout.  

“Oscar, don’t you dare!” you shouted, rushing after him and snatching the book from his hands to put it back on the shelf. “You don’t have to—”  

“You want that book?” he asked. You nodded timidly. “I’ll buy you the whole series.”  

You stumbled, nearly falling as you tried to stop Oscar from grabbing Collided, Wrecked, and Redeemed.

“Oscar, you can’t just buy me an entire series just because…” you whispered, trying to keep up with his hurried steps.  

“Oh, no? And why not?”  

“Because… Because…” You opened and closed your mouth, struggling to find a reasonable enough answer to make him stop. “Because… It's too much money, Osc, that’s not right!”  

Oscar laughed. You knew perfectly well that your boyfriend was a millionaire, and even though he was very careful with his money and his expenses, buying four books wasn’t much of an expense for him the way it was for you.  

“Besides, you already spend so much time around the Formula 1 world. I don’t think it’s necessary for you to spend even more time listening to me obsess over fictional drivers and talk about them nonstop.”  

“Don’t worry, love, I’ll be more than happy to hear you ramble about those cheap copies of us,” Oscar scoffed, smiling at the cashier as he handed over the books.  

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, giving up as the woman started scanning the books.  

“And yet you love me…”  

Your face burned instantly. Not knowing how to respond, you focused on watching Oscar swipe his card and chat briefly with the cashier about you, his girlfriend, before taking the paper bag with the books inside.  

“Boys nowadays should be more like you, son,” the woman commented to Oscar, beaming. Then she turned to you. “And you, sunshine, enjoy your books and your wonderful boyfriend as well!”  

You nodded shyly. Oscar bid the woman goodbye and headed for the exit, holding the bag in one hand while placing the other on your back, guiding you outside before wrapping an arm around your waist.  

You couldn’t stop wondering what you had done to deserve such a thoughtful and attentive boyfriend like Oscar.  

“So, I guess now you’re going to try to make me read this series… Dirty Air, am I right?”  

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, finally looking at him and pushing aside that lingering shyness, the feeling that you didn’t deserve such a gift. “I’m convinced you’re going to fall in love with Santiago Alatorre.”  

“Santiago Alatorre?” Oscar repeated, curious. “Wait, wait… Are these characters, like… completely fictional? Or are they based on any of us?”  

You chuckled softly, carefully taking the bag from Oscar because you were excited to carry it yourself.  

“Well…”  

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t know, because that’s already an answer in itself.”  

You bit your lip, unsure whether to tell him the truth. It was obvious, really, but you felt… weird about him discovering the fantasies the author had written based on some of them, and moreover the fandom surrounding those stories.  

“Okay, fine…” you sighed, giving in. “Yeah, some of them are based on you guys.”  

“And?”  

Oscar raised an eyebrow, though he wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to know more about what was written about them.

“What do you mean and?”

“Who each of us is who. If there are supposedly four main characters…”

“Oh, yeah, about that…” You played with your hands, mentally trying to stay calm and not go into full fangirl mode, like you always did whenever Oscar talked about something that excited him. “So… Noah is supposed to be Charles, at least physically and in terms of teammates… but his personality and life are much more like Max’s. You know, toxic father and all that…”

“So, this Noah guy is a menace? Like Max back during the 2023 season?”

“No, no! I guess he’s… ambitious, let’s say.”

“And the others?”

“Liam, the one from the second book, is a bit complicated,” you commented. “People see him as Pierre, and some others as Mick, but to me, since he’s German, he’s kinda like Nico Rosberg mixed with Seb’s personality from his Red Bull years… or at least the way teenage girls see him, like a playboy type. I think you’re too sure what I’m talking about”

“And not just teenage girls I must say,” Oscar added.

“Then there’s Jax, who is one hundred percent Lewis,” you continued. “Jax is Liam’s teammate, so it makes sense, you know… what I explained to you earlier.”

Oscar nodded, understanding very little but happy to see you so excited.

“And the last one, Santiago, the one I mentioned before, is Carlos,” you blurted out with a growing smile. “He’s Spanish and Charles’... I mean, Noah's teammate! And, well… they say he’s really cute, so I hope to read the first three books as quickly as possible to get to his.”

“I’m starting to think that, from the way you talk about him, he’s going to become your newest addition to you not so short fictional crushes list,” Piastri laughed.

“Oh, absolutely. You know I have a thing for the good guys, and according to the TikToks I’ve watched, Santi is exactly that.”

“I can’t believe you’re fantasizing over fictional versions of my rivals,” Oscar said, tilting his head as he laughed.

“Don’t be dramatic, Osc. Why do you think I like Santi so much from what I’ve seen? Because he’s supposed to be as much of a sweetheart as you!” you exclaimed. “But I promise that no matter how much I talk about these guys after tonight, once I start the first book, it’ll just be some kind of substitute for you or whatever ridiculous thing you’re imagining.”

“You know what?” You tilted your head. “I think you should write one of those Formula 1 romance books based on our story.”

Your eyes widened in shock, unable to believe what your boyfriend had just said.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean it. You should do it,” Piastri shrugged. “I know how much you love writing, and seeing how happy these books make you… Plus, I’m curious to see what kind of terrible personality you’d give me. You could make me the typical egotistical guy who constantly gets into PR trouble for, I don’t know, smoking weed? Like what happened with Zayn and Louis from One Direction. You told me about that once, right?”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back your laughter and look serious, but it was impossible.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not already writing a fanfic about us and posting it on Tumblr.”

Oscar’s jaw dropped.

“What?”

You laughed again.

“No, Y/N, that’s not funny. You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking…”

“Do you really think I am?” you teased, raising an eyebrow, feeling quite pleased that you had finally confessed one of your best-kept secrets, one you had been dying to tell him even you felt a bit ashamed.

Oscar stared at you, his mind struggling to process the information.

Were people actually reading a story about his life, possibly with real details, and thinking it was completely fictional?

“What exactly are you writing about… us, Y/N?”

You just giggled, took his hand, interlaced your fingers with his, and kept walking.

“I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to check out jellyastri81 on Tumblr and find out for yourself.”

[dare-to-dm]

So lately my husband has gotten obsessed with Lord of the Rings. We had our rewatch of the extended series a couple months ago, and I did my normal thing of peppering him with all the extra facts and lore I know. I always worry this will be annoying, but can't help myself. However, this year something flipped a switch in his brain and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about Lord of the Rings since.

Unfortunately, while I enjoyed this at first, I have found that I just can't keep up with his voracious desire for more LOTR facts. He keeps coming to me with questions and I've started to draw a blank because I'm not an actual Tolkien scholar. I've been watching lots of youtube videos from actual Tolkien scholars and binging the cliff notes of The Silmarillion and such, but it's all too much to keep straight in my head!

I've been desperately trying to get him to read the books himself. As of right now, he's only read The Hobbit, and that would have been over 20 years ago. Instead he tends to wake up in the middle of the night and start watching the films again on repeat. He also found an old XBOX 360 game LOTR game to play. Which would be fine except that he seems very intent on understanding the official cannon, so I feel like refusing to engage with the actual source material is a weird choice.

[vulcanvampyr]

'the newsreader' season 3 and bpd rep

note: major spoilers ahead. trigger warning for mentions of self-harm, suicide, and substance abuse.

you don't see a lot of fictional characters with canonical bpd diagnoses in media. the illness is usually ascribed to one-off villains in crime dramas, or in the case of movies like girl, interrupted (1999), largely romanticized. a recent exception was rebecca bunch from the tv series crazy ex-girlfriend (2015-2019), who embarks on a profound journey from diagnosis through treatment and healing amidst the show's musical backdrop.

when i started watching the newsreader last year, i picked up on a lot of borderline traits in helen norville. i related to her mood swings, her protective measures to prevent abandonment, and her difficulty identifying, describing, or regulating her feelings. from there i sort of decided in my head that she had bpd, without the canon confirmation. this is nothing new for me--as someone with the disorder, i'm always quick to catch these traits and run with them, since i rarely see canonical representation of the illness. over the years, i've "headcanoned" fictional characters like david rose, ed teach, and bojack horseman with bpd, among others.

-

when helen starts seeing a therapist in the first half of the newsreader's final season, the therapist, marcia, recommends that helen take in her surroundings and employ breath work during times of stress. i clocked this right away as a mindfulness DBT (dialectical behavioral therapy) skill, but figured given the show's 1989 setting, they probably wouldn't "go there."

but sure enough, i watched helen go to the library, look up her therapist's treatment methods. i saw her burst into marcia's office talking about how the disease is incurable: "it's for manipulative, vindictive, narcissistic, promiscuous, hysterical people. and apparently there's no fսcking treatment for it" (3x03). but DBT is an experimental new treatment, marcia says, and it's been met with much success thus far. finally, she says aloud what i'd been thinking: helen meets the criteria for bpd.

helen storms out of the room, tries to escape her reality with alcohol and valium. she's sent out of the newsroom and isolates herself at home. i watched all this unfold onscreen in disbelief, an uneasy lump settling somewhere deep in my stomach because as surprised as i was to see the words--borderline personality disorder--utttered onscreen, i understood, painfully, what helen was going through.

i was diagnosed with borderline in 2018. by that time, i had been exhibiting self-harm behaviors on-and-off since about 2014. i went through periods of extreme, bone-crushing sadness followed by numbness. i oscillated between flippant communications and desperate pleas for validation with those close to me. several textbook characteristics for borderline.

my therapist told me, "don't look it up online," but of course i did, ducking into the office restroom after our session for an immediate google search. i was inundated with exactly the material helen must've seen, if in a different format: bpd is the hardest mental health disorder to treat; many therapists won't even treat folks with bpd; people with bpd are statistically more likely to attempt suicide. there were online listings for a book frustratingly, reductively called i hate you, don't leave me, the only major popularized work on the illness.

these are all things i read on a first-page search many years after the setting of the newsreader. fortunately, a quick search in 2025 looks different, featuring many landing pages on psychiatry websites focused on debunking myths about the illness.

but in 2018, at the age of twenty-five, i thought: this is it for me. it's all fallen into place. i'm broken, i'm broken, i can't be fixed.

-

when helen's former-lover-always-best-friend dale jennings comes to check on helen later on in the episode, what plays out is one of the most beautiful, raw, and validating scenes for someone with the illness to witness.

we watch helen go through the intense back-and-forth of processing her feelings in real time:

i've been seeing this woman, this, um, this therapist, dale, and she's been really good. she's been really good. she's given me, like, all of these kind of, um, ways to...to handle, um, stuff. and then today she said, um, that i... that... that i just am fսckеd. [...] and it's not like, um...like a, um...it's not like i'm sick. it's just my personality. [sobs]

... blaming dale ...

she said it's a personality disorder, and it's...and it's true, you know? it's just true. and...and, i mean, you must have seen it. [...] why wouldn't you say? you're the only person who's ever told me the truth, why wouldn't you tell me? why wouldn't you tell me?

... and then blaming herself.

i could have done something about it. i could have fixed it. i could have done something about it. and now there's no one! [...] i even fucked up with you, my fucking family, and now my fucking job.

i can't overstate the sheer vulnerability displayed by anna torv in this scene. it's a highly realistic portrayal of an initial reaction to getting this diagnosis. there's the instinct to prescribe yourself with inherent wrongness, to cast a cloud of villainy over your whole life to this point.

it's dale's response that seals the deal for me in terms of marking this an effective, empathetic portrayal of bpd onscreen.

"it's called borderline personality disorder, apparently," helen says, "did you see that?" in other words: did you see that in me? and if so, why are you still here?

dale just looks at her and says, "all i see is you."

to hear a character say that to a person with a confirmed bpd diagnosis is frankly revolutionary for television, even in media's generally progressive view of mental illness today. dale sees helen for all she is and still loves her. with the stigma that still exists around bpd, i don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that many folks with bpd would give anything to hear those words.

"all i see is you," dale says, "and i don't think it makes a difference. do you feel different?"

and what a question. this brings things into perspective for helen, and perhaps even for the viewer. this diagnosis doesn't change anything about what came before, or who helen is as a person--namely an inspiring, hardworking journalist and a loyal partner and friend. now she just has a name for the strong emotions that color her world. and with that name comes the power to learn, to grasp, to move forward and heal.

in the months following my diagnosis, as i started working on DBT individually and in a group setting, i slowly began to accept this part of myself. i called it by name, and i told it to the world. it reframes a lot of my behavior, past and present. it's helped me put terms to my emotions and how to handle them. and yet it's not all of me.

so, after the diagnosis, do you feel different? helen's answer is mine, too:

"no," she replies after a bout of surprised laughter, "i fucking don't."

-

after her diagnosis, it's clear helen doesn't take to therapy or DBT right away. she's suspicious, stubborn, and in denial about her path forward.

in 3x04, helen challenges marcia in any way she can, saying her fast-paced career doesn't allow for skill work, and summing up the study of DBT skills as "infantile checklists." marcia stands her professional ground, though: "if there were a pill that treated borderline, you would have it, but there isn't. this therapy requires your full engagement. you know what the alternative is." by the end of the scene, helen reluctantly begins trying again to work with her therapist, ranking different DBT skills and their effectiveness in her day to day.

again, i'm struck by the realism in this portrayal. the show references actual DBT skills with care and detail, despite the newness of the method in 1989. there are four major modules--mindfulness, emotion regulation, distress tolerance, and interpersonal effectiveness--and within them myriad terms and exercises pioneered by psychologist marsha m. linehan. several are referenced throughout the season.

helen's resistance is palpable--DBT makes up a whole book, and i can't say i was thrilled embarking on the journey myself. at first, a lot of it did seem trite--splashing my face with cold water, or practicing box breathing in a room full of people.

but what i had to realize for myself--and what helen does, too--is that these skills are an ongoing practice.

later in the episode, helen calls her therapist in distress after an encounter that brings her face-to-face with the uncomfortable reality of racism in australia and her innate privilege. "this therapy is not about denying your feelings," marcia reminds her, "it's about bringing you to a frame of mind where you can better navigate the situation. and right now, you need a distress tolerance skill, so pick one."

sure enough, we see helen doing laps up and down the stairs--employing the TIPP skill to bring her back to baseline. this is one of the many things i love about the newsreader's handling of bpd: it shows the borderline character doing the work. you don't "graduate" from DBT. i've gone through two group rounds myself, and have worked since my diagnosis with various therapists on individual practice. and still, over 6 years later, oftentimes the skills i need the most aren't readily at hand in high-stress moments. i'll never be done doing this, and that's kind of the point.

-

helen's story arc comes to a head in 3x05, when the press reveals details of her stay at a mental institution as a young woman. helen not-normal, the headline says. helen spirals--this could be the end of her career. she panics, begging for it to be retracted. this loops back to the denial of her condition, her emotions, her very self that plagued her for two seasons (and presumably far before). but this time, her therapy work grounds her:

marcia: helen, what can you control? what can you always control? helen: my reactions. marcia: you control what you do next. and what you do next tells everyone who you are.

so helen uses her journalistic platform to talk about mental health. she goes live on her show public eye with a social worker and former psychiatric nurse, who was institutionalized herself and thus became passionate about revamping the mental health industry: "if community were more accepting of people with mental illness, that would make the biggest difference." facing the camera, helen responds:

having experienced anxiety and depression myself, i do believe that...that it is the shame and the isolation that makes it so unbearable. and perhaps if we could change the way that we view and discuss mental health issues, it might seem less impossible to overcome.

this is just the start of helen's self-acceptance journey--and audiences receive it overwhelmingly positively. public eye is inundated with calls after the show. helen even reconciles with her sister, after years of little contact.

helen's choice to be authentically herself, live on air--marrying her public persona with the very real person behind it--is so important for folks with bpd to see onscreen.

-

the sixth episode and series finale, "the fall," positions helen further getting a handle on emotion regulation. in an explosive confrontation between her and her co-executive producer, bill, helen takes a deep breath in response to his slew of insults. she responds to him calmly, setting a boundary:

i don't want to do this with you anymore. i really tried to protect your feelings. i mean, i blamed myself. i blamed your marriage. i blamed our working relationship. but i'm not going to be punished because I didn't want to fսck you.

later, in front of a group of largely male network executives, she sets her terms for the show going forward, delivering an ultimatum. the network pushes back on her terms, saying, "you do not get to control this." but, oh, she does. in establishing understanding and control of her emotions and her reactions, helen is able to fully harness her power as the queen of australian news.

in the end, helen ends up running public eye alongside her trusted co-producer, noelene, with dale serving as the show's international reporter. she's become herself, owned herself and her illness, and is still a wildly successful newsreader and journalist--not despite her bpd and the work she's doing to manage it, but partly because of all that too. because she knows herself, and unabashedly, she lets the world know this part of her, too--if not in name, then in her continuing to move forward with the candor around her experience with depression and anxiety.

i chatted with my therapist about helen's season 3 storyline. i'm still processing what i watched, and i wanted to reflect aloud about why that was. i had a really visceral reaction to helen's story that i'm still moving through, and one i wasn't expecting. and i think it's because this sensitive, realistic, honest portrayal of bpd and treatment and recovery resonated with my journey. seven years out from my diagnosis, sometimes the behaviors and cries for help i exhibited in my early to mid-twenties feel far away. is that really the "person" i was? was the diagnosis accurate? i realized it had to have been, for this season to have pulled at me so strongly.

and i remembered this is just one facet of who i am, and i've worked hard to learn how to manage it. my symptoms may look different now, less severe--but it doesn't change what happened to me, what i've been through, what i did at my borderline "height"--and the work i've done and continue to do. there's no "cure"--but there is recovery (not linear--no healing ever is). it's so clear in the show's final moments that helen is on her way there, too.

having the opportunity to see what i've experienced mirrored back at me through a beloved fictional character, as well as to reflect on how far i've come, is something i've not really experienced until now. i'm impressed with how the writers handled this aspect of the season, and i want to continue moving through how it resonated for me, and i'm sure for so many others.

helen, thank you.

i am so proud of you. (and i'm proud of me too.)

[nuttersincorporated]

Scarecrow: So let me get this straight: a natural disaster carried you and your dog across the uncrossable desert. You and your house fell on top of Nessarose – one of the only independent leaders outside the wizard’s control – and now she’s dead. The people rejoiced because she’d become an intolerant religious extremist.

Dorothy: Yes. I feel really bad though. I didn’t mean to kill anyone!

Scarecrow: You didn’t kill anyone. She died because of the natural disaster. You were just there at the time. Anyway, then my ex-fiancée came down from the sky in a bubble.

Dorthy: You mean Glinda?

Scarecrow: Yes

Dorthy: Then yes. I didn’t know she used to be engaged to a scarecrow.

Scarecrow: I was actually a Winky Prince when we were engaged.

Dorthy: Oh

Scarecrow: Anyway, my ex implied that you might be evil because you aren’t beautiful enough to be obviously good. Then she put Nessarose’s shoes on your feet, told you not to take them off and sent you – on foot – to ask the wizard for help!?

Dorothy: Yes, that about covers it.

Scarecrow: -screaming internally-

Dorothy: Are you okay?

Scarecrow: Me!? I’m just fine! Why do you ask!? You know what? Maybe I should come with you so that you don’t die. Would that be okay!?

Later

The Tin Woodmen: So, you’re saying that the cripple I asked out – to impress Glinda – is dead and Glinda sent you to find the wizard?

Dorothy: I killed a disabled person!?

Scarecrow: Dorthy, we’ve been over this, you didn’t kill anyone. I promise none of this is your fault.

The Tin Woodmen: Who cares about that? Ding dong the bitch is dead! I might finally have a chance with Glinda! Dorthy, I’m coming with you!

Later still

Lion: I am terrified of everything but you say you’re going to see the wizard?

Dorothy: Yes

Lion: Talking animals used to be treated as equal citizens in Oz but now we have no rights at all. As I cub, I was taken from my mother, placed in a cage and kept away from other talking animals. They hoped it would stop me from learning to talk. I was rescued and set free but I grew up alone and without sort of socialisation or education.

Scarecrow: …

Lion: Anyway, I’m sure that if everyone says the wizard is good, then he must be. The mistreatment of animals is probably just a big misunderstanding. If I can have courage and talk to the wizard, I’m sure this whole thing will be sorted out.

Dorothy: Can we just stop for a minute? Will someone please, explain what’s going on? I feel like I’m missing a whole lot of contexts here.

Toto: Just so you know: in later books, in the official original L. Frank Baum Oz series, it will be reveal that all animals in Oz can talk. I just didn’t feel like talking in the first book.

While the Wicked book by Gregory Maguire covers a lot of interesting, important and deep topics; it was unrelentingly depressing and the narration showed little to no sympathy for the women who suffer horrible things.

The L. Frank Baum books – though by no means perfect – have a far more progressive Land of Oz than the one Gregory Maguire wrote about. If fact, Gregory Maguire took a world that had women in most of the important positions of power and turned it into a sexist, racist and patriarchal world.

I prefer Wicked the musical to Wicked the book because the musical brought the fun back.

Dorothy: Did you say something Toto?

Toto: Woof no woof, woof

I’ve seen so many people joke about Glinda being exhausted having to cope with plucky little Dorothy Gale doing her little song while the entirety of act ii of Wicked is occurring in the background. Like the crushing weight of her complicity in an evil system is dragging her to hell and also her fiancé is now a scarecrow and has run off with her situationship. But the act ii context is actually exponentially crazier for Dorothy? Like imagine you are a fifteen year old whose admittedly unambitious dreams of just leaving the farm are already rendered impossible because you are staring down the double barrel of unprecedented rural poverty and climate crisis. You get caught out in a natural disaster and accidentally kill someone and end up straight in the middle of the craziest six-way divorce anyone has ever heard of that is currently actively melting down. No one tells you this. And they’re all taking it out on you. Free her!!!!!!

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔳𝔦

summary. our tributes are to be rounded up, judged by the gamemakers, and ranked 1-12 on skill. what with all that took place the night prior, this should be fun!

content warnings. graphic depictions of abuse (memories), lack of communication, complex emotions (neither of these girls can process their feelings wtf)

total wc. 10,190

notes!! i've got nothing to say here. i talked a LOT in the post-notes tho! so be sure to check those out! anyway,,, once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

09:30.

TRAINING CENTER, GROUND LEVEL.

Echoes of desolation ring throughout the training room. Hardly anyone showed up today, deeming it more salient to practice for the ratings at noon. See, following lunch, everyone will be called by District to the Observation room. Within it will reside the Gamemakers—those responsible for the brutality for the Games each year. There, the tributes will show off their skills and earn a score that ranges from one to twelve. To be given a one is the lowest possible rating, deeming the tribute to be menial; to be given a twelve is, well, unheard of. Nobody has scored a twelve. To earn higher than even an eight is considered incredible.

Anyway, due to today’s peculiarity, most tributes have dedicated the day to rest, not wishing to waste their energy prior to the ratings. Only six people are here, seven with Ellie appended—everyone else having opted for absence. Including you.

Among those present are Sam and Henry, which is unsurprising as they spend every second possible within the training room. As well as Dahlia Hart, the young girl from Eleven, who has yet to venture away from the animal station, a large book clutched in her small hands as she reads about random creatures of her interest. Elliot Delcan from Nine is here as well, too caught up in his own interests to care much for his surroundings. Anthea Solace from One is immersed in a deep conversation with the trainer who teaches tributes to make fishing hooks and nets, though they both seem to have long since abandoned the actuality of their situation. Remy Wilson, your District partner, is present as well, struggling to build a shelter out of sticks and moss.

Ellie is currently being lectured on how to tie a knot. The trainer was stoical for the first twenty minutes, though he’s seemed to lose that sense of patience. But Ellie’s stupid rope won’t bend the way his does, the fibers all frayed and twisted.

“Under, Williams.” The man repeats for the hundredth time. He holds the rope out as he easily ties a bowline knot, forming a perfect circle. His hands move too fast for her to grasp his exact motions. He raises his brows. “See?”

Fuck this. Ellie heaves a heavy sigh, throwing the rope onto the tiled floor before pushing to her feet and storming off. 

As she heads over to a random station across the gym, someone blocks her path. Ellie nearly trips over them, their frame far too small to be jumping out at people like that. She looks down, already irritated. Two feet shorter than her in height, Dahlia Hart’s big brown eyes stare up at her. Ellie’s anger dissipates instantly at the sight of the young girl. There are so many kids in the Games this year. Too many.

“Can I talk to you?” Dahlia asks, tilting a head of coily hair. Her voice is so small, yet her tone remains direct and terse.

“Uh, yeah.” Ellie forces herself to push down any prior—and unrelated—feelings of vexation as she agrees to speak with the girl. She follows Dahlia over to a secluded area of the gym, the two of them partially hidden behind a rack of weaponry. “What’s up?”

“Your ear.” Dahlia speaks lowly, pointing to the gauze that it’s currently wrapped in. 

Ellie had attempted to cover the bandages with her hair this morning, even asking Tilly for some help with a better way to style it, though she couldn’t do much. She simply situated the auburn strands more deliberately before coating her entire scalp in some kind of hairspray that left it feeling oddly solidified in place. 

“What about it?” She attempts to sound casual as she raises a brow at the child. 

“I saw.” She whispers as though they’re sharing some horrible secret. They might be. “Nolan attacked you yesterday. He threw a spear at your head and Y/n defended you. She hit him for breaking the rules and she’s the one being punished.”

The mention of you protecting Ellie sends a shiver down her spine, especially after everything from last night—which she’s been doing a good job at trying not to think about. Thanks a lot, Dahlia.

“She’s a L/n, nothing’ll happen to her.” Ellie assures her shortly, wanting to get out of this conversation as soon as possible.

Dahlia frowns. “I thought you guys were friends.”

Friends. 

What a strange word. It entails so much, yet so little. It describes two people who have known one another their entire life, yet can also describe two people who have spoken thrice. So much room for interpretation. So much room to fuck it all up. 

Ellie thinks of you, though the word doesn’t embody your enigmatic relationship with accuracy. Moonlight on soft skin, smoke in chilled night air, pillowy lips joining of idiotic impulse. Such gentility. But there are other memories as well; a duality. Sharp gazes across crowded rooms, words cryptic when shared in publicity, fists finding purchase in the other’s body during practice.

After you, she thinks of Riley. A friend for life, naught else. Their laughter rang true, the same sound trailing all the way back to their shared youth. To have grown with someone is a special feat that not many are lucky enough to experience. She’s watched Riley’s jaw set with age, her teeth fall out and regrow over the years, her voice roughen with puberty. But now, when she needs that seemingly impenetrable bond most, there’s nothing. A voyage from splendor to oblivion, from brilliance to shadowy nihility. 

Friends. What a joke.

Ellie looks down at Dahlia’s curious eyes and can’t bring herself to get mad at her. It’s not the child’s fault that the world is so cruel, so faulty. She’s yet to be exposed to such torment, and she likely never will. Not after she was Reaped. Not after you inevitably steal the victor’s crown from the hands of twenty-three innocent tributes.

“There can’t be friends in the Hunger Games, Dahlia.” Ellie says solemnly, gaze softening.

“Yes there can.” She speaks as though there's not a doubt in her mind. Perhaps there’s not. Perhaps the purity of youth is all anyone can cling to for a sense of clarity in a world such as this. Dahlia presses her lips together, mouth twisting to the side. “Friends can be made anywhere, my mom said. So long as you’re willing to maintain them.”

“Your mom must be a very wise woman.” 

“Oh, she is. She’s a preschool teacher back in Eleven.” Dahlia says proudly. “She’s had hundreds of kids and she’s never wrong.”

“I suppose teachers rarely are, huh?”

She nods. “They’re the bravest of us all, I think. Nobody else is fearless enough to tolerate such unruly kids, daily.”

“Yeah,” Ellie chuckles.

She’s not exactly the best person to have the conversation with. The entire reason she and Riley met was because they happened to be sneaking out of school at the same time. Ellie was fleeing the concrete building when she spotted Riley scaling the fence, just barely out of sight from the Peacekeepers that patrolled the campus.

Point is, she’s feeling a bit on edge at the moment—speaking to a child about the morality of professors, knowing damn well she was the most disrespectful student any of hers had the displeasure of teaching. Despite this, she manages to maintain a rather monotonous conversation with Dahlia about this, happy to indulge the girl enough to keep her attention away from the initial reason behind their meeting here. She’d withhold this small talk all day, if she needed to.

Anything to keep her mind off of you.

However, the comfortability of the dull discussion is cut off when Dahlia somehow manages to loop the topic right back to Ellie’s ear. And she does it so seamlessly that it’s almost impressive, as if she’d planned it all along.

“Another thing my mom always talks about,” She says, “Is honesty. How good people shouldn’t be punished for bad peoples’ misdeeds.”

The look she gives Ellie’s ear is enough to make her swallow harshly, unable to form a good response to the accusation.

“Y/n is a good person, right? Why is she getting all the effects caused by Nolan’s badness?” Dahlia sounds more like she’s simply thinking aloud rather than speaking to Ellie. “It doesn’t make sense. You should be honest, tell everyone that he hurt you and she was being a good person by defending you.”

“Sorry, kid.” Ellie sighs. “But it’s far more complicated than that.”

“How?” Dahlia shoots back.

Too many ways. First of all, Nolan is a career tribute despite being Reaped from District Ten. He’s trained for brutality and expects to be shown respect. Ellie, albeit unintentionally, dismounted this by fooling him. He’s a victim to the Games just as everyone else is. Second, you weren’t technically defending Ellie. You pushed him for her, sure, but you hit him because of what he’d said about your family. And if that were to be revealed to the Capitol, they’d likely have Nolan turned into an Avox for speaking ill of the L/ns—which is terribly dramatic and unfair on their part. Lastly, Ellie would be seen as weak for needing to be protected. Plus, considering all that’s happened between the two of you, she doesn’t much wish to see you praised for saving her.

“How about this,” Ellie proposes, “Why don’t we go ask Remy what to do? He’d be good friends with Y/n because they’re from the same district, wouldn’t you think?”

“Hmm,” Dahlia hums in thought, “Maybe…”

She places her hands on each of Dahlia’s shoulders and begins to lead her out from behind the weaponry, bringing her back into the gym area with everyone else. She quickly gazes around the room until she spots where Remy remains at the shelter-making station, patiently picking up a stick that’s fallen from the shabby roof. 

He looks up as Dahlia and Ellie approach, his eyes widening.

Ellie hasn’t spoken to Remy, only having seen him in passing. He seems to be far more shy than Dahlia—who is quite outspoken and, as it turns out, unafraid to confront people. His build is far smaller than any of the other kids, appearing to be three years younger than he actually is. His body is thin, topped with a head of curly brown hair and big eyes filled with wonder. 

“Dahlia, meet Remy.” Ellie says, hoping this will manage to get her out of the accusatory conversation regarding her wounded ear. “Remy, meet Dahlia.”

Remy doesn’t have the chance to speak before Dahlia is jumping right to the point. “Your partner, Y/n, did you notice anything odd about her last night?”

Ellie is a bit impressed, as well as grateful, that she’d refrained from blurting out the entire situation to him. She knew there was a high chance someone had witnessed the entire scene, though she was far more caught up in other issues to care much for possibilities such as that. Dahlia’s refrain is a good sign that she won’t go around telling random people.

“She–” Remy blinks, his brown eyes flicking between Ellie and Dahlia repeatedly. His hands begin to fiddle with the stick he’s still holding onto. He makes an expression of discomfort, revealing his crooked teeth with gaps between each one. “I– uh, I don’t talk to her much. She was in her room all last night, I think. I didn’t see her. Not– She didn’t show up to dinner, I don’t think.”

“Did she talk to your mentor about anything related to Nolan?” Dahlia interrogates him, leaning closer with wide eyes. Remy looks terrified as he takes a careful step away from her. 

“Nolan?”

“Yeah.” Dahlia nods. “He’s the buff guy from Ten. Did they mention him?”

“I–I don’t know what they talk about.” He tells her shakily. “They don’t talk much. If they do, it’s private. Or– Well, sometimes they argue? I dunno. They’re weird.”

Ellie frowns, thinking of the things you’d told her about your brother—you two were best friends as kids until he was Reaped. It vaguely reminds her of Riley and herself. She imagines a small child watching them in the suite. Having to bear witness to the tension and unspoken words. That must be a heavyweight on his shoulder, on all of your shoulders.

She pats Dahlia on the head before she can interrogate him further. “Alrighty. Let’s leave him alone for now, yeah?”

“But–”

“C’mon,” She says, “You can show me what animals you were reading about.”

This seems to excite the girl, brown eyes lighting up. She grabs Ellie by the wrist and tugs her toward the animal station. As she’s pulled away from Remy, she casts a glance over her shoulder just in time to see his frown. He’s twisting the stick in his hands as he stares at the floor, expression saddened. He’s never looked smaller.

Dahlia sits Ellie down on the wooden bench and begins telling her all about the random creatures in her book. She nods along to what she’s saying, though her mind is elsewhere. On Remy, on you.

Is Remy disheartened because of Dahlia's pushiness to know about you? Or is it about the Games in general? If it’s to be the former, Ellie wonders why. Nothing too bad could happen within the suite considering the abundance of cameras around the center. Does he have issues back home that plague his mind, or is it just you? Ellie wishes desperately that she could see all that’s happened within the fourth floor. Just for a few moments. Just for a few answers.

Not only to uncover the root to Remy’s despondency but also for her own selfishness. A beastly feeling that rears its head in your proximity. The desire to know more, more, more about you. It sickens her to know that this is what the entire Capitol feels—an insatiable yearning to become acquainted with the L/ns. She’s nothing more than one of them, yet another poor soul to have fallen in the trap of your lineage.

But, worse than that, she can’t seem to hate you for it. She’d gotten to know you quite well in the past few days. Even if it were all a trick of your own concoction, she can’t stop thinking of those words you’d shared in regards to Cat. 

“We weren’t much of anything before we were nothing.” Ellie had said.

“Yet you were still something.” You pointed out. “That’s what matters.”

Perhaps there’s a common denominator here, and it’s Ellie. She’d been with women before, and plenty of them. Her first relationship was when she was in year six, having dated a girl for two days before they broke up over something childish and dumb. Then, in highschool, she dated Riley for half of a year, though they eventually came to realize that they work best as friends. Then there was Cat—a girl she met at the Hob while selling her quarry. They were sleeping together on and off for two years before the Reaping, never having assigned the title of girlfriend to their relationship. 

Ellie has no idea what your dating history looks like, but she’s certain it’s not as pathetic as her own. She’d never been with anyone seriously. Even when she was with Riley, they didn’t do anything more than hold hands and kiss. And Cat hardly counts in actuality—though the emotional effects remain prominent despite the lack of acknowledgement. 

She’s annoyed that you left her, yes, but there had to be something more. You kissed her as though you were just as desirous as she. Plus, the look of fear in your eyes when you pulled away pointed to something other than a mere change of heart.

Her hopes were to talk to you today, to sort through everything that's happened. But you didn’t show up to training, which she should have expected. Maybe she’ll be able to catch you in the halls or something. As long as it takes place before the Games, she hardly minds the circumstantial location. Because as soon as you’re all placed into the arena, there’s no possibility that she’ll be able to have a conversation with you. And, even if you two miraculously ran into each other, your words would have to be cryptic due to the cameras.

It might be pathetic, but Ellie doesn’t even care what happens. Regardless of whether you scream at her or hug her, the ending will be the same—her dead in the arena as you exit as a Diamond. She just wants closure before she’s killed. Because this has been driving her insane all day. She slept a total of thirty minutes last night, actually.

“-–And this is a tree-rat.” Dahlia says as Ellie turns back into her words. “They’re Capitol made, I believe. Look at their snouts, that’s not evolutionarily induced.”

Ellie nods, humming as Dahlia points to the photograph on the laminated page before she begins reading out the paragraph below it that explains the animal’s function. Her voice is so soft, her fingers so thin. It’s absolutely monstrous that she’s expected to fight to the death in the arena. Especially when the ages this year stretch so high. 

After a conversion with Joel last night over dinner, Ellie found out that the tributes from Twelve are in their late forties. Due to the lack of children in their District, middle-aged citizens took up the majority of the slips of paper. In Twelve, hundreds of kids die everyday due to starvation. Even if a child were to be Reaped, they’d likely have killed themself upon seeing the food on the train—accidentally filling their bellies too full.

The men seemed ominous when Ellie saw them during prior training days, looming over the other tributes creepily. Joel informed her that their names were David and James. David has a red nose and grey hair parted in the side. James is always wearing a beanie over his greasy hair, sticking to David like glue.

Ellie looks across the room at Remy’s crooked smile as he finally finishes creating a shelter. A few stations down, Sam is getting better at creating a fire, Henry cheering loudly whenever he manages to create a spark. She then gazes down at Dahlia’s expression of excitement as she goes on about a random fish. These kids are so innocent, so undeserving of this fate. There’s also Cooper Whitlock from Eleven and Lev from Two. 

Never, in the history of the Games, have so many children been Reaped. This year’s arena must be especially brutal.

10:42.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

You’ve hardly left your room today, seeking the comfort of privacy. You’d lowered the temperature last night so the air is freezing, causing you to burrow under your heavy blankets with heightened vehemency. Plus, the metallic machine built into the wall beside your door can materialize food, so there’s really no reason to leave. You have everything you need.

You’ve fallen in and out of slumber all morning, your dreams filled with distorted images of various people in your life—Ruben, your mother, Remy, Ellie, Alice. It’s disturbing, the malformity. Each dream ends the same, causing you to wake with a jolt every time. It ends with a very distinct sound. Your mother’s cane slamming against tiled flooring. The word ‘again’ ringing through your ears in a gravelly voice that sounds like a mix of everyone’s. Over time, as you’ve experienced this over and over, the sound starts to remind you of something else. Of a lighter falling from a pocket.

“Again.” The mangled voice croons, hot breath tickling the back of your neck. You oblige, body fatigued with overexertion. You try your hardest to train without fault, to be perfectly flawless in each move you make. But, as always, you misstep. Right beside your ear, a loud clacking sound is heard. It’s so loud, reverberating through your skull as the floor shatters beneath your feet.

You jolt awake, chest heaving as you sit up in your bed. Despite the cold air of your room, you’re coated in sweat. Just like each time prior to this, you have to look around to remind yourself that the dream wasn’t real. 

A half-eaten plate of food sits on your nightstand, thin rays of sunlight struggling to squeeze between your closed curtains. On your desk resides an abandoned notebook with a minimum of twenty pages torn from the spine. It wasn’t real. It was a dream. Again.

Just as you begin to burrow down into the bed, a knocking is heard at the door. Knuckles on wood, wood on metal, metal on tile. It all sounds the same. Knocking, clacking, clanging. A fist, a cane, a lighter. With a deep breath, you sit upright and attempt to straighten out your hair.

“Come in.” You call out, though your fingers continue to battle with the tangled strands.

The door creaks open and Ruben’s head pokes through the crack. His expression is soft as he speaks harshly, “It’s almost noon, get off your ass.”

You lift your head, recognizing the look in his eye. He doesn’t mean his words, they’re forged by the Capitol. He’s unable to speak his mind, even in the privacy of your assigned bedroom. But this isn’t your bedroom, is it? It’s the equivalent to a pigpen where animals for slaughter are kept prior to their death. There’s nothing comforting about that.

You kick the blanket from your body, suddenly feeling disgusted by it all. 

Ruben continues to watch you from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest to paint a facade of impatience. He sighs, “You look horrible.” 

This statement is actually true. You’ve yet to take a shower or brush your hair, still wearing the outfit that you’d worn while watching a movie with him last night. The ratings are in an hour and a half, just enough time for you to clean yourself up.

“I’ll take a shower then come down for lunch.” You say, feigning obedience.

“Good.” Ruben speaks harshly before turning on his heel and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. That was a nice touch, you ought to admit.

You remain in your bed for a few moments even after he’s left, staring at the wall as your mind reels. You’ve yet to give yourself time to process things—anything. Whenever your brain begun to stray, you’d simply fallen back asleep. Now that that’s no longer an option, you feel as though you’re drowning in your own thoughts. Good thing you’re from Four, you’re rather skilled at staying afloat.

With a deep inhale, you stand from the bed. Cold air licks down your spine, tracing goosebumps along the entirety of your skin. Shivering, you walk over to the thermostat and reset the temperature back to a normal setting. You then enter the bathroom and strip out of your nightclothes.

The warm water is heavenly in contrast to the biting air outside of the bathroom. Your body visibly relaxes under the heat, allowing the shower to rain down as you stand there, unmoving.

It reminds you of the sea from Four. Despite only having visited a few times—due to your parents prohibiting any unnecessary expeditions from home—you’d come to love it. The endlessness of the horizon, the sound of crashing waves, the scent of salt. Oh, if you were to live in your ideal oasis, it’d be the ocean. Such tranquility for something deemed to be evil. The ocean is a woman, always has been and always will be. And that in itself is enough to make you fond of her.

You can easily recall the days you and Ruben were brave enough to sneak to the beach. Sand squished beneath your toes as Ruben splashed around in the waves. He’d pick you up by the arms over each comber. You giggled as he hauled you into the air, your eyes shut and mouth wide with delight. 

I mean, it was so close to your home. You needed only to walk three minutes South and you were in the surf. Plus, contradictory to your parents’ beliefs, nobody even noticed the two of you. Until they did.

One time, when your parents were called to the Capitol for a few days for some kind of Diamond party, you and Ruben snuck down to the beach. You had begged him to take you, pleading as he continuously refused. Eventually, however, he gave in—as he always did when it came to you. It was noon when you’d reached the sandy dunes, wind whipping through your hair. You giggled and ran through the hot sediment toward the surf. Ruben, carrying all your belongings, clambered after you with a heavy sigh. You were seven, he was twelve. You were both so blissfully unaware of the calamity that would evoke in the year to follow.

Ruben set up the umbrella and chairs as you darted straight for the water, laughing the whole way down. The waves were rough, stretching far higher than normal. Not that you paid much mind. By the time Ruben joined you in the water, you were deep into the ocean—enough so that your feet came off the ground when the waves rolled in.

“You’re too far out, Y/n, c’mon.” He said, grabbing your wrist as he began to tug you toward the shore. You groaned, though you allowed yourself to be led away. You floated on your back as he gently pulled you through the rippled water.

He stopped once the water was shallow enough to have reached his knees and your belly button. You frowned, “I wanna go deeper, Ru.”

His lips thinned, casting a glance out at the horizon. The waves were huge, white-capping as they curled into themselves. A few, out deeper, even reached three feet in height. Ruben turned back to you with a pointed expression. “Maybe later. It’s too windy right now.”

“Fine.” You huffed, though you weren’t entirely swayed into conduct. 

The two of you ended up having lots of fun, notwithstanding your prior complaints. He taught you the names of different fish, though the ones you were able to see were only varieties of different minnows. He also showed you how to read the tides, explaining the way the moon’s gravity pulls the water like a rope. You didn’t understand it, but appreciated the lesson. As he pointed out at the horizon, moving on to explain the underwater currents, something deep in your chest yearned to venture forth. Like a tether tied you to the deep blue. You ignored it, knowing it’d be best to obey your brother’s orders. He knows best, after all.

The sun moved along its coast through the sky, inching lower as the hours ticked by. By the time pink clouds were beginning to feather through the vacant blueness, Ruben decided it was time to eat something. He’d packed the ingredients to make fish sandwiches, stored away in his green bag that sat by the umbrella. 

“Can I swim for a little while longer?” You asked him. 

“Fine.” He gave in instantly. “But only while I prepare the food. Once it’s done, you’re eating with me, okay?”

“Okay!” You agreed, nodding with a wide smile.

He kissed you on the head before wading through the water back to the sand. You watched him go, salty water trickling down his scarred legs as he crouched into the sand. He dug through the bag, his back facing you.

You turned toward the water, cupping your hands around your eyes as you looked for the fish he’d taught you about. You see a school of shiners and a few fatheads. Then, a large shadow catches your gaze. Childish curiosity filled you as the huge fish swam through the seagrass. Eyes still downcast, you began to follow it. As the fish sped up, so did you. Giggling, you wandered deeper into the water as the fish swam out to sea. Before you knew it, the waves were washing over your head.

A particularly large wave swiped your feet out from under you, causing your entire body to be pulled under the wash. You resurfaced a few feet away from where you’d just been, the current having tugged you away like a puppet. You coughed, throat burning with salt as you treaded water. 

“Ru?” You called out in a rough voice. You spun in a circle only to find water on all sides of you. The waves kept coming, washing you under the surface. Panic gripped you by the neck as your legs kicked in the water. You began to cry. “Ruben!”

Another wave, another shout. You began to see the sand in the troughs of the waves, golden  and glistening like a beacon. Your arms were getting tired, the current only pulling you farther and farther from shore. Suddenly, someone was grabbing your wrist. Young, alone, and taught to trust nobody, you instantly kicked them in the breastbone. 

Cursing under their breath, the person released you. It was a stranger, a middle aged woman who was big enough to touch the ground with her feet. You breathed hard, tears streaking your salty face. She sputtered, looking up at you with a worried expression. It quickly faded to astonishment as her eyes widened in recognition. “You’re Y/n L/n.”

You continued to stare at her, still treading water and still crying. You called for Ruben again, which only confirmed her suspicion. 

“I can take you to him.” She claimed, holding out her hand.

A mixture of youthful naivety and lack of choices caused you to take her hand. She held you on her hip as she walked through the water. You continued to cry as she attempted to make conversation—asking about your family and what you’re doing all alone. You didn’t answer her, uninterested in such small talk.

By the time you reached the shore, Ruben was already running over to you. The moment you saw him, you kicked the woman hard in the side and caused her to drop you into the sand. You quickly pushed to your feet and ran to your brother, sobbing incoherent apologies. He ran his fingers through your hair, pressing kisses to your head as he assured you that everything was fine now that he knew you were okay.

That night, word got back to your parents in the Capitol. Word of their children causing quite the scene at a beach. You two had made headlines within a few hours—’Little Y/n L/n, lost at sea, saved by a kind passerby who she’d repaid with violence. Sounds like she’s already an innate victor with such instinctive barbarity.’

Your parents came home earlier than planned, having stormed into the house in the middle of the night. You’d been curled up against Ruben when they slammed open the bedroom door and flipped on the light. You had barely rubbed the sleep from your eyes when your father clamped his hands around your ankles and tore you from the bed. You slammed against the floor, instantly woken.

He held out a crumpled newspaper, “What the fuck is this?”

“I–” Your eyes were wide as a bruise already began to form on your back where you’d smacked the hardwood floor. “I don’t know what–” “I told her it was a good idea.” Ruben spoke up from the bed, voice quiet and shaky. You were taken aback by the blatant lie, though he didn’t back down. “I knew you guys would be gone for two days and– Well, I’d always wanted to go to the beach, so…”

That did it. That was enough for your parents to redirect the blame. 

You’d so rarely seen your father. He was always holed up in his home within the victor’s village. But he was beckoned to the Capitol alongside your mother and so they likely heard the news in unison. As such, they decided to act on their unanimous rage together.

As a child as young as you were, it’s expected to have missed your father. Even in knowing of his faults and abusiveness, you still yearned for his being in your life. This night erased that with entirety.

You spent the rest of that night sobbing in your bed. You trembled under your blankets, your pillow clutched to cover your ears from the sounds of your brother’s screams. You could hear the noises of impact before another scream left him. Or, more worryingly, you wouldn’t hear him getting hit. Just the screams.

Needless to say, that was your last visit to the beach.

And the last time your parents ever trusted you guys enough to leave you home alone.

As the warm water washes over your body, relaxing your tensed muscles, you can’t help but feel that same sense of guilt that you had all those years ago. Lying in your bed, cold and alone, naught but shame crept up your throat.

That same sense of self depreciation embodies you now. For what, however, you’re nescient. It could be for causing Ruben to put on a facade of hatred for the Capitol; it could be for having left Ellie last night due to your own past misery. But both are lucid, right? Ruben knows you hit Nolan for a reason and admitted to having forgiven you. And Ellie is one of the most understanding people you know. Tonight, when the two of you meet on the roof, you’ll explain everything. She’ll listen, as she always does. She’ll forgive you, because that’s the type of person she is.

You didn’t attend training today because you couldn’t seem to pull yourself from bed. 

Last night, after the events on the roof, you snuck into Ruben’s bedroom in the dark of night. Just as you’d promised. The two of you watched a movie, just as you had as kids. It was awkward at first—sitting a few feet away from each other and not speaking a word. But, as time passed, that familiar sense of comfortability overtook you both. This wasn’t Ruben, the morphling Capitol Diamond. This was Ru, your big brother.

You turn off the faucet and wrap yourself in a towel, dripping water onto the tiled floor. The bathroom is huge, stretching to be at least thirty feet long and ten feet wide. The mirrors are fogged and you wipe your hand across the glass to see your reflection. There are bags under your eyes. Part of you wants to cover every inch of your skin in makeup to conceal the lack of sleep you’d gotten. But another, more satisfying, part of you wishes to show up to the Observation room a mess. The Gamemakers love your brother for his beauty. They’re likely itching to get their eyes on you, praying to the heavens that you’ll be just as easily exploited. 

“Hurry up!” Ruben calls through the door. “Your outfit is sitting on the bed.”

Every tribute is to wear an identical outfit so as to not flaunt individuality. To the Capitol, the tributes are no more important to them than a blade of grass crushed beneath their boots. For them to showcase their personalities and feelings would be to make themselves personified, human.

You leave the bathroom, dress into your assigned clothing, and head to the living room. Everyone is already waiting there. Alice is crouched down, fiddling with Remy’s messy curls. Ruben is leaned against the wall, watching. When he spots you, his lips tug upward in fondness. He’s quick to hide it, but not quick enough for it to have gone unnoticed. Not by you at least, perhaps by the cameras though.

“Took you long enough.” He grumbles.

You shoot him a look just as feigned. “I just couldn’t get enough of Capitolistic delicacies. Their showers here are wonderful.”

Ruben has to look away to avoid laughing at your evident sarcasm. Alice looks up, appearing pleased by your display of appreciation, unaware of its insincerity. She stands to her feet, brushing her hands on her frilly skirt. “That’s good to hear, Y/n, I’m glad you’re finding comfort here.”

“As am I.” You smile.

Ruben falls into a coughing fit. You know him well enough to recognize this as a way to hide his laughter—a trick you’d both abused at the dinner table with your parents. When he’d make a comment that went over your father’s head or when you’d make a face to mock your mother. Coughing was always a good way to shield humor.

Once he’s managed to regain sanity and Alice has finished tampering with Remy’s mused curls, the four of you head down to the cafeteria. In the elevator, Ruben turns to you.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He says.

“It’s just an evaluation,” You roll your eyes at him, “I think I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a pointed look. “I know you. I know you’ll be tempted to do something foolish. All I’m asking is that you don’t act on impulse.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The elevator doors open to reveal a bustling hallway. Tributes, mentors, and escorts walk around. Mentors give their final pieces of advice, escorts attempt to tidy up appearance, and tributes try not to puke from nerves. 

You try to pick out the people you recognize. Nora Harris, the mentor for District Eight, speaks gently with a nervous Raven Hansley. You hardly remember Raven from training because all she did was study plants and animals, never practicing any sort of combat. A few feet down the hall from them, Dina Woodward is braiding Dahlia’s hair. She speaks soothingly to the child, her hands moving with gentility. Even farther down, Abigail Anderson is speaking with Owen Moore—the mentor for District Ten—in a hushed voice. 

Mentors and escorts are prohibited entry into the Observation room. They’re not even allowed into the cafeteria where you’ll wait for your name to be called. They have the choice to either head back to their suite or wait in the hall for their tributes to return. Seems like most of them have yet to enter the cafeteria, even. 

It takes less than a minute before Ruben is pulled into a conversation with another mentor. You turn and recognize her to be Thea Thatcher—Thalia’s older sister. She won the 68th Games. Thea starts small talk with Ruben, which he returns kindly. You find the conversation a bore, though you remain at his side, scowling at her silently. Remy doesn’t dare stray far either, practically clinging to Alice as she starts a conversation with Tilly down the hall. You turn in her direction, squinting. But you don’t see Joel—or Ellie—anywhere. She must already be inside waiting.

Slowly, the crowd begins to disperse. The tributes enter the cafeteria and the mentors either take their leave or remain in wait. You see that Abigail and Owen both leave once their tributes have entered, though Dina stands in the hallway to wait for her youthful tributes’ return. She’ll be waiting a while, though, seeing as they’re from Eleven.

You make a mental note of all the mentors you didn’t see. The ones that likely arrived earlier than everyone else. Teresa Servopoulos from Three, Maria and Joel Miller from Five and Seven, Bill from Nine, and Stephen Lawrence from Twelve. Everyone else, you spotted in the hallway at least once. These are the people who, either don’t give a shit about formalities and didn’t care to show up, or care a lot arrived prematurely.

“C’mon, then.” Ruben says once Thea has long since left. “I think Alice already walked Remy inside, I don’t see either of them.”

You nod in agreement, walking with him down to the cafeteria. You pass Dina, Thea, Nora, and Jordan who have all decided to wait for their tributes. Thea, you can understand, because Thalia is her sister and she’ll return sooner than anyone else seeing as she’s from One. Going back to the suite would be pointless, really. Dina, you know, is big hearted and is waiting because of how young her tributes are. You don’t know much about Nora, but you know one of her tributes is Deaf, so perhaps that’s a reason behind why she’s waiting. You respect Ashley though, you don’t pity her. She’s strong, more so than a lot of the other tributes. You’re sure she’ll make it far in the Games. And Jordan, who is the mentor for Roland and Archie—the lovers from Six—you’re completely unsure of why he’s waiting.

“You’re so nosey.” Ruben says, nudging you along as he notices your staring.

“I’m just observant.” You reply. “It’s a good habit to have.”

“I suppose.” He shrugs before pushing the cafeteria door open for you. Just before you’re able to walk through, he places a hand on your shoulder. You turn to him. “Remember what I said about your impulsiveness. Don’t be reckless.”

You shrug his hand away, giving him an expression of reassurance. “I got it, Ru, don’t worry.”

He nods, though it’s clear that you did little to ease his nervosity. The doors shut behind him and you enter the cafeteria. Large, circular tables are spread across the room. Most people have paired up by District, sitting with their partners from the Reaping. There’s also the Careers, who have already formed their group prior to the Games.

You see where Ellie sits beside Riley. Dahlia has also joined them, appearing to be talking Riley’s ear off. Brows furrowed, you look around for her District partner, Cooper Whitlock. Then you see him and oh. Oh, that poor boy. He’s joined up with the Careers. 

You turn back to where Dahlia sits, only to find that Ellie’s eyes are pinned on you. The hairs on your neck rise at the feel of her gaze piercing straight through you. You know exactly what she’s communicating. With a twitch of her brow, you know. She has no clue why you left last night. Yet you’re both aware that you’re doomed. From the very start, you’re doomed.

You consider walking over there and explaining it. Saying everything that begins to bubble in your throat. But then you catch another sight in your peripheral. Remy. He’s sitting all alone at a small metal table, his leg bouncing with nerves. With one last apologetic glance shot Ellie’s way, you turn on your heel and head toward him.

She’ll understand. She’s kind and compassionate and she will. She will understand when you explain everything tonight. When you explain that your mother’s ghost still haunts you; when you explain that the kiss you shared was rapture incarnate; when you explain that, despite the perfection of the moment, it can never happen again; when you explain that the Games are a wall built to keep the two of you separate, that’s how it is and that’s how it forever will remain. She’ll understand because she’s Ellie and she’s never done anything wrong.

“Thalia Thatcher from District One.” A scratchy voice calls over the intercom. Immediately, the girl stands from her table and walks over to the Observation room with a high held chin. Her hair is platinum blonde and perfectly straight as she walks past your table, brown eyes contorted into a sharp glare. Okay, then. Fuck her too.

It’s twenty minutes before the next name is called. Anthea Solace from One. She spends thirty minutes in the room before Lev from Two is called. Then Yara. Each tribute takes between twenty to forty minutes during evaluation. Throughout it all, the cafeteria is completely silent, waiting for the next name to be announced. This evaluation is the make or break of a tribute’s reputation. It’s the only way to show off your skills prior to the Games. The only way to show the sponsors your skill via the rating you’re given. Nobody will know what happens within the Observation room, but everyone will see the score. It’s imperative that it’s high.

Ellie’s eyes remain pinned on you for the entire two and a half hours that you wait for your name. The whole time, you refuse to look in her direction. You sit beside Remy, your back straightened. His knee has yet to cease its bouncing, eyes blown wide in anxiety. The tension in the room is so high that you’re almost glad to hear your name called.

You stand from the table, the entire cafeteria silent as you walk over to the double doors that lead to the hallway. You push them open and walk down to the Observation room. The door is heavy, though you find that the air within hangs even heavier.

The floors are concrete, walls lined with various weapons to choose from. There are targets for archery and knife throwing, dummies for spears and swords. High above, a small room overlooks the gym. Within it resides the Gamemakers. They sit on plush couches with tables full of warm foods and bubbly drinks. They live in luxury, haphazardly giving scores to tributes without much care. Without thinking of how this can end someone’s life.

They stare down at you with anticipation, expressions ranging from greed to hunger to lust. Your stomach churns as you look up at them. They’re excited. They’re leaning forward to watch you with wide eyes, itching to see what you do. You’re your father’s son, your brother’s sister. You’re bound for greatness and they cannot fucking wait to see you in the arena. Can’t wait to see how you fight to survive. How you look when you’re hungry, when you’re killing someone, when you’re bathing.

What weapon will you grab? How long will you take? What score will you get?

Overcome with disgust and rage for the Capitol, you make an impulsive decision. You hadn’t known, at first, what Ruben meant by recklessness. It was just an evaluation. You walk in, throw a few knives, and leave. But now? Under their beady-eyed appetency? You know exactly what he was telling you not to do. And you do it.

With a scoff, you turn on your heel and exit the room. You won’t give them a show. You don’t feed their yearning stomachs. You won’t provide them with anything they can use against you. You won’t play their Games.

14:32.

TRAINING CENTER, CAFETERIA.

You only spent a minute in the Observation room. The next name is called almost immediately after you. Ellie’s brow creases in confusion. Everyone else spent roughly half an hour each. And yet, here you are, always managing to stand out.

It irks her.

Yesterday, she’d have been overcome with piqued interest and wide eyes. But not now. Not after you left her last night, didn’t show up to training, and blatantly ignored her in the cafeteria. She knew it would happen. She knew you wouldn’t be able to speak to her. But, for some reason, it still pisses her off to know that you value your reputation above her.

And she knows it’s stupid. You two have only known each other for three days and spent the majority of our time together illegally smoking. But still. And she’s even more angry at herself for being angry in the first place.

Another hour passes before Riley’s name is called. She doesn’t say a word, standing from the table and leaving silently. They’ve still yet to speak. And that adds yet another weight on Ellie’s chest. It’s too much all at once and she thinks the tonnage might crush her like an insect. 

“Are you nervous?” Dahlia’s voice is below a whisper as she speaks.

Ellie gives her a small smile. “Everyone is.”

“Even the strong people over there?” She nods toward the Careers—Lev, Yara, Nolan, Thalia, Violetta, Ashley, and little Cooper. Ellie has no idea why they allowed Cooper into their group, but it can’t be good. Whatever it means, it’ll lead to his demise in the end.

“Yes.” Ellie confirms. “Even them.” Dahlia nods, attempting to ground herself. Just then, the intercom clicks on and a distorted voice comes through the buzzing speaker. “Ellie Williams from District Seven.” She pats Dahlia on the shoulder before standing to her feet. 

Riley spent thirty four minutes in the Observation room. Ellie wishes they still spoke because she’s dying to know what she did. She wishes they could sneak into each other’s room and share their respective stories from the evaluation. But that’s not possible, not now. She enters the room with a sigh.

She doesn’t even look at the Gamemakers before she walks over to the bows and arrows. She can hear their chatter, but pays them no mind. She stands on the white line painted a few yards away from the target. Bow in hand, she holds it out in front of her. She shuts one eye, pulling the arrow back. With a grin at knowing it’ll land perfectly, she lets it fly. Just as anticipated, the point of the arrow lands right on the target. Perfect aim.

Her heart beats fast in her chest. Maybe she’ll get a high score. She looks up at the Gamemaker’s room only to see they’re not even looking at her. They’re getting drunk, talking and laughing together over hearsay. Anger traces through her body, igniting within her bones.

Not a single one watched her.

There’s a fancy lightbulb hanging from the ceiling on a thin chain. It’s the only source of light in their little room. Without thinking, she grabs a second arrow and aims it upward. Urged by vexation alone, she pulls it back as far as it’ll go before releasing it.

The arrow wizzes through the air before the point collides with the thin chain, snapping it easily.

The bulb falls to the floor, glass shattering all around the room. The Gamemakers fall silent within the blackened room. With shock, their heads turn toward the tribute of cause. They hadn’t even been keeping up with who was in the room. But here she is. Ellie Williams. 

She scowls at them deeply for a moment before slamming the wooden bow onto the floor and storming out of the room without dismissal. She slams the door behind her loud enough to cause the mentors waiting in the hall to jolt. They all appear annoyed. Except for Dina Woodward, who looks more amused than irritated. Ellie hates her. 

Well, that was dramatic. She doesn’t have Dina. She hates everything. The residual anger in her body is so overwhelmingly vast that it clouds her vision and tightens her throat. She can hear the muffled announcement of Raven Hansley’s name being called as she enters the elevator. She punches the number seven button. When the doors slide open, her anger hasn’t so much as inched lower. If anything, it seems to be growing. Her hands are shaking and she can’t puzzle out why.

“How was it?” Tilly asks as soon as she enters the suite. She’d barely had time to fucking breathe before the woman is on her. 

Ellie shoots her a glare. “You’ll find out along with everyone else when the scores are revealed.”

“Oh,” Tilly frowns, “Well, then.”

Ellie brushes past her. Joel and Riley are in the sitting room, likely talking about how her evaluation went. Normally, Ellie would rush to join them as she’s eager to hear about Riley’s experience. But not now. Not when her emotions are swallowing her whole.

She enters her room, accidentally slamming the door behind her. She tears the outfit off her body, the high neckline feeling as though it’s choking her. She changes into something more comfortable, opting to spend the next few hours in her bedroom until she has to watch the scores be announced.

She sits at her desk, sketching random items. But nothing looks right. The lines are too choppy, the lighting is completely abstract. She ends up balling up twenty pages before she gives up.

Why is she so mad? It’s no shock, really, that the Gamemakers weren’t paying her any mind. She halfway expected it. There wasn’t that high of a chance that they'd be anticipating her arrival. That they’d give a damn about tributes like her—tributes that weren’t you. She wonders how your evaluation went. Did you walk in, give them a charming smile, and leave? She wouldn’t put it past you. The Capitolites would eat that up. You’d easily earn a fucking twelve for flashing them a grin.

That’s when it registers.

She’s not mad, she’s overwhelmed. All the shit from these past few days is finally coming crashing down on her. That would explain that shaky hands and ragged breathing. She tries a different approach. Instead of forcing herself to sit still and draw something, she lies on her bed and allows her mind to swarm.

Marlene. What was the first thing that she thought when she heard Ellie’s name called? Did her breath hitch? Did her eyes water? Did she feel like her child was being ripped away? Or did she just avert her gaze, not wishing to witness the effects of the Capitol infiltrate into her personal life?

Riley. What the hell is going on inside her head? For the majority of Ellie’s life, she could easily read what she was thinking. She could decipher each and every thought that brushed through her mind. To have been stripped of that, to have a security blanket torn from her? She feels bare and vulnerable. She doesn’t have her best friend to run to, she doesn’t have anyone to confide in.

Which is likely why she found such comfort in you. From the moment she got on that train in Seven, she was advised to stay as far away from you as possible. She was told that you were from a family of murderers and had such blood in your veins. Yet, she refused to heed that warning. She met up with you in secret, smoking illegally with the cigarettes Joel was kind enough to lend her. She confided in you because she was dumb enough to think you’d done the same. But who’s to say you weren’t spouting complete lies? Nobody knows anything about you. Each word that left your mouth could have been untrue and Ellie would have absolutely no way of knowing. Despite this, she kissed you. Or you kissed her. Whatever the small details may be, your lips met nonetheless. 

Which brings her to Cat. For the first time, she allows herself to truly contemplate all that happened regarding her. Sure, the relationship itself was never set in stone. Yes, everything they shared was built on sand. And yes, she ended up slipping right through Ellie’s fingers. But it still felt real. She still cared for her and loved her. Cat explained everything in the Justice Building, Ellie simply hadn't been listening. She was blinded by her own sorrow to recognize that Cat was acting for her. She was acting out of love. She ended things with Ellie because she knew that continuing would only add more layers of  complication. Ellie would go into the arena with a lover back home. No. Not back home. Here, in the Capitol. A stylist. Her stylist. God, how fucked up is that? If anyone were to figure that out, they could both be arrested. Turned into enslaved, muted Avoxes. 

Cat did what she did for Ellie. And she returned the favor by kissing you. By abandoning what they had for you—someone who doesn’t give a single damn about her. Someone who plans on killing her as soon as you’re put into the arena together. How stupid could she be? She needs to get her head screwed on right. She needs to stop evading her feelings to chase momentary bliss. 

A knock at her door grounds her.

Good. 

She needs to explain everything to Joel and Alice. She needs to tell them that she’d just fucked up any chance she had at obtaining sponsors. The Gamemakers are sure to give her a low rank. They might even punish Ellie by killing Marlene—as a way to show that defying the Capitol never ends well. She needs to tell Joel. Maybe he can do something. He’s good at this stuff, right?

Ellie opens her door to see Joel in the doorway. 

“Perfect.” She speaks.

He raises a brow. “What’re you on about?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“I dunno how much time we’ve got.” He rubs the back of his neck, unsure. “They’re ‘bout to air the evaluation scores. I was supposed t’ come get’cha.”

“I’ll be quick.” She promises.

And then she tells him about the evaluation. How she shot an arrow right at the Gamemakers, successfully shattering the lightbulb. Joel looks absolutely appalled, so she hurries to continue speaking before he has the chance. She explains her relationship with Marlene—how she’d raised her, but isn’t technically her mother—and asks him if he thinks the Capitol will punish her for what Ellie did today. 

Once she’s finished, Joel just stares at her for a few seconds. “God, kiddo, you sure know how t’ get into an assload o’ trouble.”

“Answer the question.” She says. “Will they do anything to her?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, plunging his hands in the front pockets of his worn out jeans. “They ain’t gonna kill your ma. They won’t do anythin’ to her unless ya win. If you die in the Games, there’s no point in hurtin’ her. All it’ll do is cost ‘em money. If ya win, though, they can punish her. But I doubt they will. ‘Specially if they end up likin’ you.”

“Well.” Ellie frowns. “I doubt I’ll be winning this year.”

“‘N’ why’s that?”

“There’s no hope for anyone who’s put into an arena with a L/n.” She says. “You know that.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’ve got some good news for ya then.” She raises a brow. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard from a few o’ the other mentors that Y/n did absolutely terrible on her evaluation.” He tells her, voice lowered, like they’re sharing a secret. It reminds her of Dahlia. That girl is always saying things she shouldn't. “They say that she walked in, stood there for a sec’, then walked right on out.”

“Hm.” Ellie thinks on this for a moment.

She knows you went in for less than a minute because she heard how fast they called for the next tribute. But she didn’t wonder if you’d somehow fucked up, she just always assumed that everything you did was genius and intentional.

“C’mon, kiddo.” Joel says, patting her shoulder. “Tilly ‘n’ Riley are dyin’ to see the scores.”

She nods, following him down the hall to the sitting room. Surely enough, they’re both already on the couch waiting for Joel to have fetched Ellie. Riley is in an armchair talking to Tilly, who is sitting on the long couch. Joel takes the other armchair, forcing Ellie to sit beside Tilly.

On the screen, a news reporter is talking about the tributes, working up the audience’s excitement levels. His hair is bright green, just like all the other Capitol people she’s seen thus far. Such an odd fashion trend, vibrancy.

“—And, without further ado, here are the scores.”

The screen travels in order, scrolling down to show each tribute. It has a picture of their face on the right, their name and score placed on the left. Thalia earns an eight, Anthea earns a four. Lev and Yara both get the same score, a nine. Sam receives a six, Henry a seven. Then there’s you. 

“What!?” Tilly blurts out as she sees your score, her upside down eyes blown wide in shock. Even Riley looks taken aback by the number. Joel just chuckles, leaning back with a small grin.

A one. You earned a one. 

The lowest score anyone could possibly obtain and you, a L/n, has managed to get it. The commentator even sounds unsure on what to say, happy to continue scrolling through the tributes. He moves down a bit quicker, trying to get your appalling number off the screen. Remy earned a five, which the news reporter is more than glad to offer comments on. 

Joel must’ve been right. You walked in there and did nothing. Ellie would usually be amused by this, impressed even. But instead, she’s just irritated. You seriously thought you could just waltz in there and get an astonishingly high number. Fucking ego.

Ariadne got a nine, Selene got an eight. Archie earned a five and Roland earned a six. 

And then there’s Riley. She got an eight. Tilly compliments her, grinning widely at the high score. Joel says something kind as well, though he gives Ellie a strange look. Perhaps he’s recalling what she did, knowing her score is next. It’s a bit comforting to know she won’t get lower than you. That’d be impossible. At least she did something.

Her picture comes on the screen alongside her name. Then her number.

An Eleven!

[post] notes!! Okokok idk if I explained any of that well. At all. 😣 Their emotions are so hard to write because THEY don't even know wtf is going on. If u already get the gist of their inner monologue u can skip this, if not I'm gonna give a brief rundown to try & explain a bit better without their mental bias:: Yn is easier to explain so I'll be doing hers first. She thinks that Ellie is an absolute saint - which we all know is #FALSE, but since she's been thru so much as a kid and was so blatantly neglected of attention & love, she instinctively clings to whoever provides her with that (hence her attachment to Ruben and her unknowingly forming attachment to Ellie). Since she and Ellie spent so much time together (it was literally 2 days & a total of like 3 hrs MAX), and she grew to trust her enough to confide in her, she now deems her to be, as I said, a SAINT. Which is why, in her POV, we see her brushing off Ellie's staring & everything bc she's under the impression that Ellie will understand her if she explains. Ellie, on the other hand, is far more complex than merely thinking "omg shes so awesome I trust her, she'll understand! woohoo!". No, Ellie is torn - which was hard to write bc she's unaware of her own division. She trusts and cares for Yn, as anyone in her position would. I mean, shit, we saw the way she literally SWOONED over everything that girl did. But, due to her instantaneous attraction to her, Ellie has now been let down even more harshly. Or, in relation to her Icarus metaphor, "the higher you fly, the farther you fall" and needless to say Ellie flew really high really fast. Which was 100% her fault, but she's under so much pressure that she takes out all the built up frustration induced by Riley, Marlene, the Games, the Evaluation, EVERYTHING, on Yn. Well,, mentally. She's yet to do anything outward. So yeah. Yn thinks Ellie is a perfect angel & Ellie thinks Yn is the devil who's to fault for all things bad. But neither of them know what the other is thinking. YAY! So excited to see how they (healthily) handle this!! ☺️

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.    @h4-rt3s.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevyscoven.    @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia. @abby-anderson-wifey @imdeletingthisaccount1.

[scwicks]

FROM THE ARCHIVES

First, I must apologize. Unfortunately, tumblr has not provided dates to posting. Good thing?? Bad thing?? Personally, I would have appreciated dates. Despite MY preferences, I copied this from a posting "years ago" and I thought perhaps it would be an interesting rerun. Enjoy:

Reveals from the Outlander Emmy Panel: How Caitriona Really Got the Job, Who Knows What About Ghost Jamie, Stolen Souvenirs and the Murtagh Dilemma – Check Your Local Listings

The story Toni Graphia told in the 2nd panel

Excerpt:

Balfe may have been teasing about the ghost scene pages, but there was one true revelation for her during this night…the truth about how the producers found her.  When she is asked where she was in her career four years ago when she first auditioned for Outlander, Balfe laughs ruefully: “Well, I didn’t have a career. I was a struggling, jobbing actor in Los Angeles. I had bits and pieces of jobs every now and then, but I was going through a particular dry spell. You get sent to these auditions through your manager, and a lot of the time you put yourself on tape and you send it off and generally, you never hear anything back.” That was true of the first Outlander tape she sent in. For that audition, she had been given a two-line description of the character. “I didn’t even know it was a series of books,” Balfe admits. “It was… a nurse from the 40s, she’s confident and she does something …so really you have nothing to go on.” When no word came, Balfe says, “I was just like, well, that’s just another one.” But a resourceful UK agent thought she should give it another go, and got his hands on a more extensive breakdown of the part and an extra scene. “I re-taped [my audition] and that got sent off and I think Toni Graphia…[was] trolling through tapes and came across [mine] at the last minute.”

But Executive Producer Toni Graphia interrupts Balfe with a completely different story of how it happened. “Actually, we didn’t come across [the tapes],” Graphia says, and shared for the first time how the actress, who had never done television prior to Outlander, came to her attention. “Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s heard [this story],” Graphia says. “I’d been up all night Googling things like ‘undiscovered acting gems in the UK.’ Yeah, I put that out there….You were being interviewed about a web series you’d done, or something. It was a personal interview… And I…was just watching you naturally, who you are as Caitriona. I went, ‘Oh my God, I think that’s Claire.’ I knew it was risky…but I sent it to Maril and said we should look at this girl. And [they told me], ‘She’s sent in a couple of tapes.” You know, you didn’t have a lot of credits at that time. But we went back and looked at them and thought, “Wow, she’s pretty good.” Adds Graphia: “We got really lucky because you were the perfect Claire. I can’t imagine anyone else doing it.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Look, Don't Touch 5

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, stalking, breaking and entering, possible blood and violence, and femcel energy. Tags are not exhaustive and more may be added as the series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get bored of watching and that makes you careless. (dark!reader)

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: mondayyyyyy

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like snakes love Woody’s boots. Take care. 💖

You blow a raspberry as you stare at the shadows on the wall. You can hear them. Mostly Bucky rumbling on with whatever excuses he has for the mess he’s made. Steve’s a hero, sure, he has his code, and you don’t presume to know his opinions, that’s very parasocial, but you don’t think he’d approve of all this. 

You narrow your eyes as you ponder on that. Steve Rogers. Captain America. The golden boy. Hmmm. 

“Someone,” you make your voice willowy as you call out, “please,” you sniff deeply, “can you help me? Please? I’m in a lot of pain.” 

Yellow light streams down the hall as a door opens. Bucky snarls, “don’t” but the footsteps elude him. Steve comes out into the glow of the entry way and flips on the switch in the front room. He looks at you with barely concealed confusion. 

You swallow blood and spit and cough. You can’t help but smile as fuzziness pulses through you. You’ve sat in crowded cafes, hidden, watching him. You’ve had close brushes with him, but this is different. You’re in his space and he sees you. Also, you are naked. 

“Cap?” You bat your lashes and squeeze out some tears. “Please, help me. He did this to me.” 

He stops a foot from you and stares. You gaze back at him; light-headed. It could be the concussion or his presence but you’re floating. You blink and try to latch onto the act. You’re losing it here. 

“Steve--” 

“You broke in?” He asks. 

Your forehead crinkles and you look at your lap. You exhale. 

“I’m homeless. I just... I needed somewhere to stay and I wasn’t going to take anything--” 

“Bull. Shit.” Bucky enters and grabs the notebook from behind the couch. He struts over to Steve and slaps it against his chest. “It’s all in here.” 

Your eyes dart between them. You’re sitting there, bloodied in a chair, you definitely aren’t the perpetrator here. 

“I don’t know where that came from. It’s not mine. It’s all a mistake,” you snivel and cough again, this time letting the blood dribble out. “Please...” 

Steve looks down at the notebook. Bucky lets go and marches around him. He swipes up your phone. 

“She has videos of you. Don’t listen to her. Steve. How long have you known me?” 

Steve frowns and slowly peels his eyes away from you. He opens the notebook. You deflate and leans back. Well, you tried. 

He paces as he reads then stops and sits. He curls his shoulders as he leans forward and squints at your writing. He turns the page, then another. Bucky stands behind him, arms crossed, chest puffed up, victorious. 

Steve sits up and puts the book on the cushion. “Jesus, Buck, why didn’t you call the police?” 

“We both know what they do with these cases,” Bucky counters. “Steve, you have to deal with this.” 

“How?” He stands and spins around. “You want me to torture her? Kill her?” 

Bucky sighs and clucks. “She’s a maniac. This isn’t the first time--” 

You stare at Steve’s back, his shoulders, his perfectly forged figure. You clench and bite your lip. Here you are, tired up, at his mercy. You think about the videos, those nights watching from the roof, him and those modelesque puppets. 

“Cap,” you pipe up. “You can do whatever you want to me.” 

He flinches then faces you. You tilt your head and wink, wiggling in the seat. Fuck any sense, you’re right there in front of him. You can die happy. 

He brings his hand just below his nose and drags it over his mouth and jaw. He heaves and shakes his head. You see the doubt needling in his forehead, the tension bulging in that vein along his neck. 

“It’s true. I’ve been watching you. I have seen everything. And I loved it,” you babble. “The way you toss those girls around. You’re so rough, your so... mpph,” you moan. “Steve, you can do all of that and more with me and I’ll beg for more. I’ll let you do things those girls would cry about.” 

“Fucking christ,” Bucky exclaims. “See, Steve, I told you--” 

“And what were you about to do when I walked in?” He spins back to his partner-in-crime. Literally. At this point, Steve is an accessory. 

Bucky huffs, “look. I’ve been here for days, keeping her under control, for you. I’m covering your ass. If I hadn’t caught her--” 

“What? Look at her? What could she do?” 

“I wouldn’t ever hurt you, Captain,” you avow. 

“Shut up!” Bucky barks. “Steve.” 

“We gotta let her go.” 

“What?!” 

“Yeah. You’ve done enough. I think she gets it.” 

“Does she?” Bucky stomps around. “You untie her right now and she’s going straight for you.” 

“I’ll be on my knees,” you purr. 

“She has a whole set-up, Steve. She can get in here. That means she can get a lot of places. She has videos, I don’t know that they’re all here. That they aren’t stored somewhere waiting to be sent out across the internet. We let her walk and she will hurt you in other ways.” 

Steve rolls his shoulders, “I don’t know. I don’t know,” he throws his hands up. “Bucky, what’s wrong with you? Why—I can’t think. I can’t--” He stops and peeks at you again. “Give her some clothes at least. Clean her up.” 

“Thank you, Captain,” you preen. 

“I’m going to break your goddamn jaw,” Bucky snarls. 

“No, no more hurting her,” Steve jabs his finger in his face. “Get her a shirt or something and... let her lay down. I gotta... I need to sleep, Bucky.” He looks around and tuts. “Look at this place.” 

“Fine,” Bucky grits his teeth and glares at you. “I’ll clean it up. All of it.” 

“I mean it. No more,” Steve orders. 

“That’s right, sergeant, be a good little puppy and listen to your captain,” you taunt. 

Steve twitches and looks over his shoulder. His eyes slit and he pokes his tongue in his cheek. “Right. Everyone get some sleep and we’ll figure it out. Tomorrow.” 

You wait until Steve is gone before you cackle. Bucky shakes his head. You grin and wiggle on the seat, “you said you’d do your job like a good boy.” 

“You are fucked.” 

“You were close but no,” you pout mockingly. “And I missed out on a few pathetic seconds of winter dick, mmm, sad.” 

“You don’t stop.” 

“It’s been two days and you don’t get it,” you sneer. 

“I wasn’t going to--” 

“You were going to.” You insists. You peer past him, leaning as far as you can, “I think he likes me.” 

“Pfft, what the fuck makes you think that?” 

“You didn’t see how he looks at me.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure, he was all googly eyed--” 

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I don’t want that white picket fence, I just want a piece.” You squirm thirstily. “Yeah, woo, just a taste.” 

Bucky tisks and waves you off. He stomps out and returns with a grey shirt. It’s Steve’s. You’re giddy at the thought of wearing his clothing. Bucky gets you out of the chair and pulls it over your head. He wipes your face gruffly and gives you water to rinse out your mouth. He bends you over the sink as you do to keep you from spitting it at him. 

He hauls you back and walks you to the sofa. He shoves you down so you bounce. You turn to look over your shoulder at the end of the hallway. He snaps his fingers and growls. 

“I’m watching you all night so don’t fucking try it,” he jeers. 

“He said he wants sleep,” you face him again. “I only take captain’s orders, sergeant.” 

You push your shoulders up then lower yourself onto your side. You nestle in and hum. You close your eyes and pull a pillow under your head. 

“That’s much better,” you sigh. 

📷

You sleep.  Not well. But you sleep. Your guard dog is back on his leash and waiting for the captain to let him off. He might be disappointed. 

As the sun beams over you, you remain languid on the cushions. The idiot is in the kitchen, snapping cupboards, sighing over the grind of the coffee maker. You're perfectly content to wait and see. This is exciting. Your regret is chipping away little by little. 

How long did you spend in the shadows? Watching? Waiting for something but you just couldn't accept what. Now you know. 

Against all odds, against every effort, you wove your way into Steve's life. It's not ideal but you're not a romantic. It just feels good to be acknowledged.  

You sit up as you hear footsteps down the hall. He's coming. You're almost giddy. Like one of those fan girls lined up at the cons making those icons pose in the most cringe photos. Oof. 

Steve glances at you but doesn't speak. He continues onto the kitchen. Bucky meets him in the doorway. 

"Morning," the latter greets. 

Steve exhales heavily, "I gotta talk to her." 

"Sure." 

"Alone," he insists. 

Your heart leaps. You and Steve alone? Ooh. You'll be happy just for the break from the winter bummer. 

"Steve," Bucky says, "you really shouldn't--" 

"I think I have the right to get the truth from her. Not you." 

"Steve," Bucky pleads a second time. 

"How long have we know each other? Trust that I know what I'm doing," Steve argues. 

"It isn't you I'm worried about." 

A huff and a click of his tongue is Bucky's surrender. You turn yourself straight and sit up on the sofa. You wait patiently. 

"Guess I'll go for a run," Bucky mutters. 

"Sure, that works," Steve agrees. 

You’re calm. It’s not easy. After days being tied up, you’re already restless but the prospect of having your moment. That’s enough to make you jitter. 

Bucky stomps out and sends you a glower. You resist a smile and return only a yawn. He rolls his eyes and keeps going. Steve lingers in the kitchen, biding his time. You wonder if he’s scared. That would be hilarious. 

The air thickens and you look out the windows. Your heart is racing. You keep your gaze toward the city. You don’t want to embarrass yourself. 

“Going,” Bucky calls and you ignore the heat of his glare. The door slams and he’s gone. 

You wait. Finally, you sense him. You look at Steve as he stands in the archway to the kitchen. He steps out and crosses the room. He rounds the mess on the floor and puts a mug next to your elbow.  

“Don’t know if you drink coffee,” he says. 

He grabs a throw blanket from the chest near the window and throws it over you. 

“Thank you, Captain,” you mewl and stare at him. He swallows tightly and backs up. He crosses his arms and sighs. He brings a hand up to rub his cheek. 

“I saw the videos.” 

You don’t flinch. You just nod. He squints. 

“You’re not going to deny it?” 

“Well, there’s no point, right?” You shrug. “Your buddy can hear my heart, you must be able to.” 

“Sure, uh,” he taps his fingers against his neck. 

“You don’t have to be shy,” you slide forward on the seat and he drops his arms. You show your palms. “I’m not going to do anything. Promise. Really, Steve.” You clutch your hands together, almost in a prayer. “I will do anything you want. I'll let you do anything you want. Even if it’s... you know, the end.” 

He blanches and shakes his head. He pinches his nose. He turns his back to you. 

“You don’t have to feel bad,” you breathe. His shoulders are perfectly formed, and his waist... he is truly a super soldier. Not like that other one. Ew, why are you thinking of Bucky? “Just the fact you know about me, I can die happy--” 

“You really think I would kill you?” He hisses and faces you. “I’m an avenger.” 

“You are but I've also seen how you treat woman. I remember that little one you choked. Thank god she woke up, right?” 

“Stop,” he demands. You obey eagerly and seal your lips. “I didn’t find that video.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t get that one,” you lean on the armrest and pick at the cuff still on your wrist. “Wait... Steve? You think I would do something like that? Blackmail you? Expose you?” 

“Well, you did watch me...” 

“I did but not because—not to do that,” you teeter on the edge of the couch. “Steve, I worship you. I wanted to be the one you crushed into these cushions.”  

You slither onto the floor and land on your knees. The blanket falls away from you. You bend forward and put your hands on the floor. You crawl to him slowly. 

“I would do anything for you. Anything. And you don’t have to hold back. I can take it all.” You sit on your heels and look up at him. You know you’re not beauty, you’re nothing special, but you’re what he needs. You’re malleable. Disposable. “Please, you can put it anywhere you want.” 

He combs his hands through his hair then rubs his eyes. He looks down at you. He pushes his shoulder wide and steps back. He squats down to come level with you. You chew your lip and wiggle as your core thrums. 

“I saw your videos. Do you want to see mine?” He asks evenly. 

You blink, “videos?” 

He looks you up and down and his cheek ticks. He stands and strides away. Now that’s unexpected. 

He disappears. You glance at the door. You could go. You could make a run for it. You don’t want to. 

He returns with his phone in hand. He stands before you again as he flicks his finger over the screen. He turns it and extends it down to you. You strain to see it. 

Of course, with all the security, he has this whole place cammed up. You didn’t think to check. You figured hacking would be much more trouble than doing everything yourself. And riskier. None of that matters now. 

You watch the screen. You can tell exactly where the camera’s located. Bucky has you in the tub, working the hose between your legs as you growl and squirm. You can’t hear anything but you remember it all so clearly. You tilt your head then look up at Steve. 

He’s smiling. 

“You’re right, sweetheart. I can use you.” He blacks out the screen and puts the phone in his pocket. He bends and cups your chin, angling your head further back. “And I will.” 

[ceorl]

First of all let me just preface this by saying i still stand with what i said above. as a character i don't think Roland is a good person with good motivations. that being said!

I was very heated when i originally made this post and i feel like my intent did not at all come across. I'm not saying for everyone to pull out their pitchforks and light a fire to toss Roland on. and i'm especially not saying that Nora is a bad person for writing him as he is or his relationship with Andrew.

I'm saying that Rolands character is nuanced and needs to be treated as such. there's a lot to be said about Andrew's relationship with Roland and whether or not is had a positive or negative impact on him, or if it any impact at all. Personally, I don't think Andrew "takes shit care of himself" Minyard thought too hard on the matter.

I made this post specifically because i felt that as a fandom Roland gets egregiously mischaracterized and i think that is a disservice to both the character and Nora herself. Nora does an incredible job writing realistic and incredibly nuanced characters. Even the characters who are categorized as "good" do bad things and make mistakes throughout the series.

In conclusion: Roland is a complex character with complex motivations that we as readers can only infer at from what we get from the books and what i said in the original post is where i stand when it comes to his character. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

Things to remember about Roland:

- Andrew was 17 and Roland was 23 when they started hooking up

- couldn't keep to Andrews boundaries and needed to be cuffed

- willingly drugged customers

- when he saw Neil's fucked up scarred and bruised wrists he assumes Andrew did it

- until Neil made the deal about cracker dust Andrew was never sober when he was hooking up with Roland

He is not the cute and friendly bartender buddy you want him to be! I'm tired of seeing him portrayed as this fucking saint who has Andrews best interest at heart.

Roland is a predator who just happens to have a friendly persona

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 11: The Shadow to my Flame

Series masterlist

Masterlist

“That’s insane, Az,” Cassian was the first to speak.

As if Azriel didn’t already know that it was insane. He couldn’t be mated to a Vanserra.

Ashe Vanserra.

He only stood and waited for his brothers to continue the conversation. He felt speechless. He needed them to tell him that he was wrong. He was in total denial.

“Why do you think she’s a Vanserra?” Rhys was the next to speak. His voice was a lot calmer than Cassian’s. Hearing him call her a Vanserra made Azriel shiver.

“I have a few different theories.”

“Okay,” Rhys said with a few nods. “Let’s not jump to conclusion. Take a few deep breaths and explain.”

Azriel did what his brother suggested and started talking.

“First of all. I found this document,” he picked it up from his bag and gave it to his brother.

“You stole documents from Autumn?”

Azriel ignored the comment and continued speaking.

“It says that the Lady of Autumn had a still birth 160 years ago. Ashe is 160 years. Second of all, she got taught together with Lucian. Why else  would a servant get education with a High Lord’s son? And she’s good friends with Eris. He protects her. What if he does it because she is his…you know.”

He had to stop and take a few more breaths. This felt so wrong. He needed them to tell him that he was wrong. He couldn’t even say aloud that she was Eris’ sister.

His mate. He just wanted her to be as kind and lovely he had experienced her so far.

“Thirdly,” he then picked up the book he stole from Ashe and the red hair. “There is a law that says that all servants with red hair must colour their hair. If you look at the date of the law, it is from 160 years ago. I found this in Ashe’s cabin. She has red hair.”

And then came the reason that made him want to throw up. He hated to know that they had hurt his mate so badly, without reason.

“I told you guys about Thord, right? Well, the soldiers found out Thord got away and Samli, his mate, was going to be punished because of it. Ashe refused to see her friend get hurt because of something she did, so she volunteered to take the punishment.”

Azriel then picked up the last document and handed it to his brothers. He got an overwhelming feeling of anger as he continued.

“Samli was sentenced to ten lashes,” he struggled to continue talking. Both fear and anger took too much space. Why was he suddenly feeling so much? “Ashe had to drink faebane and got thirty-one lashes, where the last six was given by Beron himself. And he sat the whip on fire. He wants her dead, so we have to get her out.”

Azriel then sat down. Cauldron, he felt overwhelmed. Rhys and Cass were both visibly thinking. For a long time. They were as speechless as Azriel.

“Beron didn’t want us to see him beside her for such a long time,” Rhys muttered. “That’s why he made her leave during the dinner that day...”

Azriel only nodded. That was what made Azriel look into Ashe’s heritage in the first place.

“Well, I think you’re right,” Rhys said and Azriel’s heart sunk.

No!

He wasn’t supposed to be right. He was supposed to be insane. He wanted nothing more than to be insane.

Azriel struggled to breathe. He felt so terrified. His shadows engulfed him completely, and his brother’s voices muffled.

His sweet, kind and wonderful mate was the daughter of the most terrifying male in Prythian.

His head was spinning. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tightened. He was dying. He was sure of it. Terror spread through his body. His heartrate got so much quicker than it should. And then he felt immense pain on his back and legs.

Wait?

Why were his legs hurting?

 “Azriel?” he heard his brother’s voice a lot clearer.

Cauldron, he was burning. He was being set on fire. He was sure of it.

He abruptly stood up and had to look at his legs and over his shoulders. There was no fire.

Which only meant one thing.

“She’s burning,” he said aloud as he realized.

His brothers started asking him what he was talking about, but Azriel had already left.

He didn’t care. If his mate was a traitor, he would deal with it later. If she had known about her heritage all along and lied to him, he would deal with it when they got to the night court. He would not risk her being innocent in all of this and being hurt, again, because of it.

He felt himself praying. He needed her to be okay. Even tears pressed at his eyes. He couldn’t find out what was his feelings and what was hers.

He needed to get to his Ashe. And for the moment, he let himself forget about all the difficult dilemmas he had to figure out later. He was going to save his mate.

And no one.

No one, no matter what felony they had committed, deserved to be burned.

“Walk with me,” he said.

Ashe almost threw up from fear only at his command. She wore no shoes, and she was in her nightgown, but the High Lord didn’t care.

He stood tall with his hands on his back and started to walk slowly down the corridor.

Ashe wasn’t stupid. She knew that they knew. They must somehow have figured out that she was helping the night court. There was no other reason to why the High Lord would command her out off her room in the middle of the night.

She was getting killed.

Ashe was terrified, but at the same time, she was proud of her work. She had saved Thord. She was helped preventing one of the bigger attacks and she had helped the Night Court knowing what they would have to do to stop the High Lord.

And she had met a very wonderful male.

It was now getting her killed, but she had lived so much only in the last couple of weeks, so it was fine.

Ashe walked beside the High Lord until they reached the balcony. It was warm outside, but with a clod breeze. It was typical that the weather would be nice when Ashe was dying.

“Do you know why I have brought you here?”

His voice brought shivers down her back once more. She took a few deep breaths to at least not shake from her terror. She was going to stay strong, even in her last moments.

“I don’t, my lord.”

She most definitely did, but just in case she was wrong, she chose not to say anything.

“Some very important documents have disappeared from my office. I have a suspicion the Shadowsinger is the one that took them.”

Yep, she was definitely dead.

“Maria told me something quite interesting recently. That when the Shadowsinger escaped from his cell, you were nowhere to be seen.”

Maria?

Maria had told on her? What? Maria was her friend! She wouldn’t have! Right?

“She also told me that you asked for a night leave at a very late time on the exact day your friend, the lesser one, got out of Autumn. And my spies tell me that he was delivered to the Shadowsinger. It would be a pitty for nobody to protect the mate of the lesser fae any longer.”

Oh no.

Cauldron no.

He was not going to hurt Samli.

“160 years,” he continued. “I have waited 160 years to have a reason to do this.”

Ashe froze. He had waited all her life to do it? To kill her? Why did he want to kill her? Ashe hadn’t even known he knew about her until recently.

She had almost no time to think before she felt the fire. She screamed her lunges out as it wrapped around her legs and up to her back.

She tried her best to use her own, safe fire to set herself on fire. To use her fire to stop his, but he was too strong. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blackened. It was so hot. It was burning her. She smelled her skin burning.

She fell to the ground and the coldness was comfortable for a few seconds before the fire again got hold of her.

She would wake everyone. Everyone in the Forest House would hear her die. That’s probably what he wanted. To make an example out of her one last time.

She no longer had enough breath to scream. She could only let out whimpers.

Ashe fought to keep her eyes open. She refused to give up.

Somehow, she had the hope that someone would save her. Someone would come and give her a second chance at life.

So she tried to breathe and think cold thoughts. She tried to keep her eyes open, but the heat soon made it harder and harder.

She screamed the last she could. That was is. She was dying, she was now gone and soon forgotten. She was-

“Get your hands off my daughter.”

The voice was close, but distant at the same time. But Ashe didn’t care. Relief. She felt so much relief as multiple buckets off water made the fire around and on her disappear.

Ashe heard a loud bang and then heard a body fall to the ground. She almost didn’t dare to move. Please say that was the High Lord falling to the ground and not her saviour.

“You need to leave, my dear,” the voice told her. Ashe felt hands on her back and shoulders and whimpered at the pain from the touch. “I’m so sorry, my little one. Please, you need to leave.”

It was first then that Ashe realized who was speaking.

The Lady of Autumn.

Ashe turned and saw the tears and burn-mark on the Lady’s face. She looked further and saw the High Lord knocked out, but stirring a little.

“You got to leave,” the Lady said again, now Ashe heard enough to notice the pain and sobs in her voice.

Get your hands off my daughter.

She must have heard wrong.

“Daughter?” she whispered with a whimper.

The Lady lifted her up on her feet and gave her the gentlest hug. Ashe just wanted to sink into her. The Lady’s hands held her head and brushed carefully through her burned hair.

“Yes, my dearest,” she answered and wrapped a thick blanket around Ashe. Her nightgown was burned, so she needed to wear something. “We don’t have time to explain, you have to get out.”

Ashe didn’t even have time to start her existential crisis before they heard another voice.

“Traitor.”

The High Lord suddenly stood right behind Ashe and the Lady. The Lady pushed Ashe inside and closed the door to the balcony. She stood like a human wall and tried to prevent the High Lord getting to Ashe.

Ashe had blisters everywhere and cried for every step she took, but she walked as fast as she could.

Get out, get out, get out, get out.

“There you are!”

Ashe didn’t even turn to see who had found her before she almost fell through the door of the closest cupboard.

Of course it was the one where Azriel had kissed her.

She tried to keep her hisses and whimpers of pain quiet as she waited for people to pass.

“I’ve got you now, princess.”

Ashe had to force herself to think about anything else. She could not think about what the Lady had revealed. She was just a normal servant.

Azriel.

She would think about Azriel.

His soft mouth and pretty eyes.

She heard the steps getting closer.

His comforting smell and cool shadows.

“You can’t get away this time.”

The small smile he wore when it was only the two of them.

How hot he looked in his suit.

“I’m got you-” the sentenced ended with gurgling. Ashe realized it was gurgling of blood. Someone had cut his throat.

“Ashe, we need to leave,” Eris told her. Ashe have never been so relived and at the same time furious at hearing his voice.

“How am I supposed to trust you after what I have just learned?”

Eris realized immediately what she was talking about.

“I don’t expect you to trust me, but I know you’re smart enough to know that if we don’t go now, you’ll be dead within the hour.”

Ashe hated that he was right. She opened the door, and Eris immediately grabbed her by the wrist.

One second, they stood in the Forest House, the next, they were on the border to Summer.

Ashe ripped her hand out of Eris’ grip.

“You have to leave,” Eris said. “As long as you’re over the border you’ll be safe. I’ll explain everything, I promise you Ashe, but for now, you need to leave.”

His eyes were big. He was terrified. Her brother…

Eris had done this before, Ashe remembered. He had gotten Lucian to Spring. And now, he was helping her to Summer.

“Please, Ashe,” he said and gave her a small push towards the border.

“I’m not leaving without Samli,” she answered and got almost confused at the sound of her voice. It was so weak, rough and shaky.

“Wait here,” Eris said with a slightly annoyed sigh.

Eris was done within a second.

Ashe stood and waited. She struggled to stand, so she eventually started to lean further and further backwards. Her feet followed, and she felt herself crash into a tree.

She was ready to fall down to the ground, when the arms of the tree caught her.

Wait, what?

“I got you.”

She burst out crying at his voice. The shadows spread all around her body to cool down her blisters and burn-marks.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

Ashe had no longer any energy to stay up by herself. All the adrenalines left the second he touched her.

He kissed her head and Ashe cried even more.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered again and kissed her forehead so tenderly.

“Wait,” was the only word Ashe managed to get out.

Azriel was going to ask her what they were waiting for, when Eris arrived back with Samli.

“Of course it’s you,” Eris said.

Samli was immediately over at Ashe’s side and helped holding her up.

“It’s over now,” she said and hearing her voice made Ashe cry even more.

It was too much. The pain, the thoughts, the feeling of safety. She was going to pass out.

And then she did.

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[enthusiasteditor]

One year ago, my mother discovered she had a bad autoimmune disease. This news sent her into a very serious depression, from which she struggled to emerge. She simply focused all her attention on the disease. She didn't think or talk about anything else. I love her with all my heart, she has done so much for me, she has always accepted me... I tried to stay close to her as much as possible and among the many things I did to try to distract her, I suggested she watch Good Omens, and a miracle happened. The story involved her a lot. I still remember exactly the moment when, on the phone, for the first time in months she never talked about her illness but talked for half an hour straight about how she hoped that the story of "the angel and the demon" would have continued. I was in the car while she was telling me the story, I had to pull over because I was crying. Of joy. It seems silly, but it was the spark that brought my mother out of the tunnel. She was so impressed by Good Omens that she then wanted me to buy her the book, but above all she decided to make two crochet puppets for me. She is elderly, her hands sometimes hurt... and yet... here they are. She designed the project herself (she doesn't know how to use a smartphone well, yet she found many images from the series on her own), she studied the colors, we spent hours choosing the right shade of red for Crowley's hair... we shared beautiful moments. They are two of the most precious things I own. For me they are perfect. I share them here with you because she deserves all the love in the world.

Happy birthday mum. I love you ❤️

... Yes, their little jackets can be taken off 😍

[unseenphil]

I will note that a lot of the basic psychometabolic powers date back to 1st edition AD&D, where you could have healing, the ability to form your body into weapons and armor, growth, shrinking, actual shapeshifting, and adapting your body to hostile environments on the list of random powers available to psionics, which in turn were taken from Eldritch Wizardry, a D&D sourcebook from 1976. So I don't think the Pliocene Exile is the place to look- the first book in the series coming out about five years after that.

Psionic healing and some of the rest might be better sourced to Kurtz's Deryni series, but it's possible that D&D is, as it often does, only referencing itself.

You know a lot about the cultural influences behind various aspects of D&D, so: do you know the origins of the thing in 3.5 where it seems like a main way they want you to play as a psionic warrior is to grow massive claws and get breath weapons? It's so specific and out of left field for a "warrior who uses the power of the mind" that I've always wondered.

Much of 3E's handling of psionics closely follows material presented in the 2E supplement The Complete Psionics Handbook, which, contra later editions' habit of treating psionics as a variant of wizardly magic, presents psionics as a totally separate and mutually incompatible thing. One feature of this treatment is psionics having its own distinct set of "schools", or disciplines: clairsentience, psychokinesis, psychometabolism, psychoportation, telepathy, and metapsionics.

The 3E psionic warrior stuff is a more or less direct port of the discipline of psychometabolism; I can only presume that this is because it's the most "fightery" of the Psionics Handbook disciplines, though I can't back that guess up. Apart from your cited examples, other psychometabolic powers presented here include self-healing; energy absorption; turning into animals, objects, or living shadows; wuxia-style "lightfoot" techniques; camouflage; shrinking or expanding; stretching one's limbs Mister Fantastic style; and others.

Of course, that just kicks the can further down the road: if the 3E psionic warrior is a port of 2E's psychometabolism specialist, where the heck did 2E get the idea for the discipline of psychometabolism? The general idea of shape-shifting and fire-breathing and such being psychic powers that can be cultivated through mental discipline pops up in quite a few places, but we're looking for a specific constellation of tropes, not isolated instances of little bits and pieces of it.

The Complete Psionics Handbook helpfully includes a comprehensive bibliography of its inspirations (remember when Dungeons & Dragons used to have those?), though I'm unacquainted with most of the books it cites, so that's where my ability to help in this respect ends. I'll include a copy of that bibliography under the cut, though – maybe one of this blog's followers can point out which of its entries, if any, might be most directly informative.

Taken from page 113 ("Related Reading") of The Complete Psionics Handbook:

Fiction

Bester, Alfred; The Demolished Man, The Stars My Destination.

Bradley, Marion Zimmer; Darkover series: The Bloody Sun, Children of Hastur, Darkover Landfall, The Forbidden Tower, Hawkmistress!, The Heritage of Hastur, The Keeper's Price, The Planet Savers, Sharra's Exile, The Shattered Chain, The Spell Sword, Star of Danger, Stormqueen!, The Sword of Aldones, Thendara House, Two to Conquer, The Winds of Darkover, The World Wreckers.

Brunner, John; The Whole Man.

Del Rey, Lester; Pstalemate.

Henderson, Zenna; The People, The People: No Different, Holding Wonder.

Foster, Alan Dean; Flinx series.

King, Stephen; The Dead Zone.

Kurtz, Katherine; Deryni Rising, Deryni Checkmate, High Deryni.

May, Julian; Saga of the Pliocene Exile series: The Many-Colored Land, The Golden Torc, The Non-Born King, The Adversary.

Nourse, Alan E.; Psi High and Others.

Pohl, Frederik; Drunkard's Walk.

Russell, Eric Frank; The Mindwarpers.

Robinson. Frank M.; The Power.

Schmitz, James H.; The Universe Against Her, The Lion Game, stories.

Simmons, Dan; Carrion Comfort.

Sturgeon, Theodore; The Synthetic Man.

Tucker, Wilson; Wild Talent.

Van Vogt, A.E.; Slan.

Zelazny, Roger; Creatures of Light and Darkness, The Dream Master, Lord of Light, lsle of the Dead, This Immortal, To Die in ltalbar.

Nonfiction

Brookesmith, Peter (ed.); Strange Talents, from the series "The Unexplained: Mysteries of Mind, Space, and Time;" Orbis Publishing, London, 1983.

Index of Possibilities: Energy and Power; Pantheon Books/Random House, New York, New York, 1974.

Mind Over Matter, Powers of Healing, Psychic Powers, Psychic Voyages, from the series "Mysteries of the Unknown;" Time-Life Books, Alexandria, Virginia, 1987.

Puharich, Andrija; Beyond Telepathy; Anchor Press/Doubleday, Garden City, New York, 1973.

Rhine, J.B.; The Reach of the Mind; William Sloane Associates, New York, New York, 1947.