#but i can just imagine the dread she feels at her obliviousness

[oilith]

Nora by @ito-itonomen. I sincerely hope i did her justice! She's such a fun character and what big claws is honestly one of my all time favorite fics.

[requiemforthepoets]

hii do you write for franco? if yes can i request a fic where reader is short and insecure about her height so she’s afraid their relationship won’t survive his “f1 career” cause of the lifestyle and all the girls he’s going to meet so despite really loving him she tries to breakup with him but he won’t let her?

tell me that you’re still mine, tell me that we’ll be just fine 𖦹 FC43

PAIRINGS: franco colapinto x female!reader

SUMMARY: when you found out that franco will be racing for williams racing, you were so proud of him. though at the back of your mind, you can’t help but overthink about your relationship with him now that he’s finally in f1.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hi! thank you so much for sending your request. it’s my first time writing for franco, but i really had fun. i hope you’ll like this one and it’s up to what you were expecting. enjoy! :)

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

WARNINGS: not proofread, typos, insecurities (mostly comparing self to others), cursing, low self esteem, overthinking, anxiety, and no use of y/n

As you stand in the Williams garage, you can clearly hear the hum of the whole circuit buzzing all around, and you can’t help but feel so proud. Franco had just achieved what he had been dreaming of since childhood—his first official race in Formula 1. It should have been one of the happiest moments of your life, watching him stand there, helmet in hand, chatting animatedly with the engineers, that wide grin plastered on his face. You knew how hard he worked for this, how many nights you spent listening to his dreams, encouraging him through the frustrations of karting, and celebrating every win, every milestone. You were there through it all, and here he was now—your Franco, living his dream.

However, alongside the pride that you were feeling, a bitter feeling also crept in. It had been lurking at the back of your mind for days now, only growing stronger with each passing moment. It was not about Franco’s career, but more about where you fit into his new world. The glitz and glamor, cameras that seemed to follow every move, the polished and perfect people that surrounded him—people you had never imagined yourself fitting in with.

Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, had been nothing but sweet to you all weekend. You bonded with her quickly, her kind words and warmth is a welcoming comfort amidst the chaos. Yet, as much as you liked her, being around someone so gorgeous and effortlessly poised had only made you feel even smaller. You weren’t tall or glamorous like her or the other WAGs, nor were you used to the attention, and you barely have a successful career. You were just…you. A university student trying to get by through her classes, someone who barely knew what to do when a camera pointed your way, and someone who couldn’t help but wonder if you were truly cut out for this kind of life.

When Franco finally made his way back to you, you could hardly breathe. He greeted you with that same wide smile and a soft tender kiss on the lips, his eyes still sparkling from the thrill of the race.

“Can you believe it?” He laughed, pulling you into a hug. “I can’t believe I just raced in F1. This is really insane.”

You smiled weakly, arms wrapped around him. Trying to steady your racing heart. “I’m so proud of you,” you murmured against his chest. But the words felt heavy, there was something you needed to say, something you dreaded.

After the media frenzy died down and the team began to clear out, you knew it was time. You asked Franco if the two of you can go to his driver’s room, away from the lights, cameras, and the noise. He nodded and led you towards his driver’s room, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside of you.

When you reached his driver’s room, he locked the room to give you two some privacy. Franco quickly sensed that something was off with you, immediately frowning.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, as your hands shook as you fumbled with the words. “Franco…I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” His voice is gentle but confused.

“This. All of this.” You gestured around vaguely. “I don’t belong in this kind of world. I don’t look like the other girls in this kind environment, I don’t act like them. I just feel like…I’m not cut out for this, you know. For you.”

He blinked at you, and then—he laughed. A soft incredulous sound that only made your chest tighten. “You’re joking, right?” But you just shook your head, throat tightening painfully. “I’m serious, Franco.”

His smile faltered, eyes searching your face, and then he grew serious. “You’re breaking up with me?” He sounded like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing at all.

You bit your lip, feeling your resolve crack under the weight of his words. “I think I have to.”

Franco stepped closer, shaking his head in disbelief. “No. No way. Hell no. You’re not doing this.” He grabbed your hands, holding them tightly. “Tell me why. What’s really going on?”

You stared at the ground, unable to meet his eyes. How could you even tell him? How could you put into words the overwhelming insecurities that you had been drowning in.

“I’m not enough for this life, for your life,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m just…me. You deserve someone who can handle all of this, someone who doesn’t feel like they are drowning every time the cameras turn their way. I’m scared that this will change us, that it will change you.”

Franco squeezed your hands tighter, forcing you to look at him. “You’re scared?” He asked softly. “Of what exactly? That I’ll stop loving you because I’m in F1 now?”

You nodded, chest tightening as tears began to fill your eyes. “I’m not like them, Franco. I don’t belong here.”

He pulled you into his arms, resting his chin on top of your head. “Listen to me, and you listen well,” he whispered. “You’ve been with me through everything, literally everything. Since my karting days. You’re the one I want with me, not some random model, not someone from this kind of environment. You.” He gently cupped your face, making sure that you were looking directly into his eyes. “I’m not breaking up with you. Not because of this, not because of anything. I love you so much. If this life makes you uncomfortable, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You shook your head, still overwhelmed with doubts. “But I don’t know how to—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted softly. “I don’t really care about any of that. All I care about is you. I’m not losing you just because you think that you’re not enough. You’ve always been more than enough for me.”

Tears finally spilled over, and Franco wiped them away with his thumb. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, okay?” He added.

You let out a choked laugh, burying your face in his chest. “Okay,” you whispered, feeling the weight of your fears slowly start to lift.

Franco kissed the top of your head as he kept you close, his voice soft but firm. “Look at me,” he said, lifting your chin so your eyes met his. “There’s no one else I see in my future but you. No one else who matters like you do. I don’t care about the noise or what other people say. Let them talk all they want, I don’t give a shit. You’re the most important person in my life.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket chasing away the chill of insecurity. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered, how much you wanted to believe him. “But people will judge, Franco. They already are.”

Franco shook his head, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I don’t care about them. They don’t know you like I do. I’ve seen you at your best and your worst, and I’ve loved you through it all. That’s what matters, not their opinions.”

You bit your lip, trying to push away the lingering doubts. “It’s just I don’t want to hold you back. You deserve someone who—”

“I already have someone I deserve,” he cut you off, voice unwavering. “You’ve been there for me through everything, you believed in me when no one else did, even when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself. I’m not letting you go because of some stupid insecurities about fitting in with this world. I don’t need someone from this world. All I need is you.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they weren’t from doubt or fear. They were from the overwhelming love you felt at that moment. “You’re sure?” You whispered, voice trembling. “You’re really sure?”

Franco smiled, the kind of smile that made everything else melt away. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You’re my future, not them. Not anything else. Just you.”

As you stood there in his arms, you let yourself believe it. Because the way he looked at you, the way he spoke, it left no room for any doubts. You were the one he wanted, and that was enough.

After a long moment of silence, just feeling the comfort of being in his arms, you finally pulled back, wiping the last of your tears and giving him a small and sweet smile. The tension that had been weighing on you had lifted, already been replaced by the familiar warmth you always felt around Franco.

You wrinkled your nose playfully, trying to lighten the mood. “Okay, as sweet as this moment is, you really need to freshen up. You stink.” You teased, giving him a playful nudge.

Franco let out a laugh, the sound light and easy. “What? No way, I smell like pure victory,” he grinned, pulling you back into his arms, purposely trying to rub his post-race sweat on you.

“Franco!” You squealed, trying to push him away. “Ew, Franco! You’re all sweaty!”

He laughed harder, his arms tightening around you for a second before he finally let you go, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll go and freshen up,” he said, his grin still wide. “But don’t think I didn’t notice how you were crying on me. If anything, you owe me for that.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, fine. I’ll owe you. Just go clean up before I regret taking you back,” you teased, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.

Franco winked at you before heading off to freshen up, not forgetting to steal a kiss from you. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ve got plans for us to celebrate.” He threw a playful look over his shoulder.

You shook your head with a laugh, feeling lighter than you had in days. The doubts that once felt overwhelming now seemed small in comparison to the love you shared. Franco was right—together, you could figure out everything, just like how you both always do.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: What started as a quest to prove Eddie's 'manhood' ended with a gesture that had you hurtling towards your future--ready or not. (5.4k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, parental conflict, poverty, lots of bees, mention of parental illness, brief mention of sex work, finally some actual physical contact between them, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter five: float like a butterfly

For the first time since you’d started working nights, you didn’t dread the sound of your alarm ringing. You’d always appreciated its stillness, with only city noises and the occasional guest puncturing the perfect silence. There were some nights where you didn’t speak a word for the full eight hours of your shift; you just read or wrote or daydreamed until the clock struck six.

Except for last night, of course, when you’d passed the time by talking with Eddie and minimally contributed to wallpaper removal. Your mind flickered back to the way he’d placed his hand on yours. The sensation of his palm, calloused but warm, lingering a beat longer than necessary. 

The whole moment could have been deemed unnecessary, in theory. Surely he could have modeled the action on his own and then handed you the tool so you could imitate him. Was it truly to show you how to scrape off glue, or did he have a more gratuitous intention?

Shaking your head, you eschewed the idea almost as quickly as you’d considered it. He was just being polite, a rarity among most of your male guests. Maybe that's why you were so hyper-focused on it; years of clipped conversations and crude comments had you mistaking kindness for something more flirtatious.

Speak of the Devil…

Eddie stood in the lobby, his guitar case slung across his back. He kept one elbow perched on the desk as he spoke to your mom. Whatever he said was making her laugh, a genuine one that brought a light to her eyes. She noticed you first, and when she waved you over, Eddie turned around to see what caught her attention. His smile shifted from open-mouth to close-lipped, more thoughtful and discreet without losing any of its charm.

Slinging your bag off of your shoulder next to the desk, you feigned a casual demeanor and asked, “What did I miss? Serenading my mom?” You nodded towards the guitar case, biting back a smile.

Eddie shook his head, his curls falling in his face. “Tried to make a couple bucks down at the subway station.” He shrugged, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Not enough for a ticket home, but it’s a start.”

Home. Obviously he was going home. New York had nothing for him, had chewed him up and spit him out like he left a bitter taste in its mouth. He had no reason to stay.

Oblivious to your disappointment, Mom laughed again. “Mr. Munson–”

“Eddie. Mr. Munson is my uncle.”

“Eddie,” Mom quickly amended, “was just telling me about the time he ripped his pants while he was on stage.” 

Rosy red seeped into Eddie’s cheeks, evidently not expecting your mom to share that information with you. “And that was the last time I wore leather pants,” he said. “Lesson learned.”

Deeming this conclusion insufficient, you inquired further. “How exactly does one rip leather pants?” You stifled a giggle, just imagining him feeling a sudden breeze mid-concert.

“Well, ya see,” he started, crossing his arms over his faded Metallica t-shirt and smirking, “I’m what’s known as an enthusiastic performer. And as such, one might find that leather can be quite restricting.”

“So…you got really sweaty and they ripped.”

Eddie hid his face behind a curtain of curls, all but confirming your suspicions. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Heiress,” he warned with a smile, cocking his pointer finger in your direction.

Mom took that as her cue to leave, quickly clasping your hand and excusing herself. Thick tension set in without her there as a buffer. Her presence prevented any conversation from dipping too deep into flirtation; now, there was nothing stopping it. 

Except, of course, the looming fact that he was a guest. And like all guests, he was a temporary fixture in your life. 

“The new wallpaper didn’t come in yet,” you blurted out. Dad had insisted on ordering it from a family friend, saving money but forgoing the promises of timely delivery afforded by bigger suppliers. 

Eddie shrugged, unbothered by the information. “I know.” He placed a cigarette between his lips and held out the pack in offering, but you shook your head. Without missing a beat, he put his own cigarette back and returned the box to his pocket. “Your mom was saying how excited she is for you to finish your classes and take over the motel.”

Panic flooded your lungs and constricted your breathing at the potential crisis he might have inadvertently caused. Did Mom seem upset? Her usual signs were noticeably absent: narrowed eyes, set jaw, lips painfully taut in a silent roar: we’ll discuss this later. 

There was none of that. She was laughing. Happy. Not a hint of disappointment. Yet anxiety still hooked its claws into your skin, a stinging reminder of the anvil dangling over your head. 

“You didn’t say—”

“Not a word.” Eddie waved away the thought. “Just smiled and nodded.”

Your chest went concave with relief, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out and pulling him into a hug. His arms held a surprising strength, as evidenced by his wallpaper removal abilities, and you wondered how they would feel wrapped around your waist. Did he hug tightly, not letting go until all of the air had been squeezed from your lungs? Or did he prefer a softer, lazier embrace, one with a hand free to stroke up and down your back?

Why did it matter?

“Is there a reason you haven’t told them?” he asked. The sound of his voice invaded your senses, pulling you back to reality in an instant. “I mean, they seem nice enough.”

Stooping down to grab your notebook, you nodded in agreement. “That’s part of the problem, I guess.” Your teeth scraped along your tongue as you considered your words. “If they were shitty, I wouldn’t feel so bad about letting them down.”

“Letting them down?”

You nodded, feeling that familiar pit that formed in your stomach whenever this subject arose. “Yeah. I can’t be a social worker and run the motel. And if I don’t stick around, they’ll have to close this place for good.”

Eddie breathes out with a low whistle. “Pretty high stakes.”

“You can say that again.” Resting your elbows on the desk, you buried your head in your hands. “How did your parents react when you told them you wanted to be a rockstar?” you asked, your voice slightly muffled. 

He took so long to respond that you looked up, wondering if he’d up and left while you weren’t watching. 

“My dad’s, um, not in the picture, and my mom died when I was a kid,” he finally said, using his left thumbnail to pick at the right. 

“I’m sorry.” And you were: for his loss and for prying into his history. Mortification bloomed and prickled sweat under your arms, and you clenched them to your sides in a feeble attempt to hide any forming stains.

“S’okay. I mean, you didn’t know, so…” his shoulders moved up and down, his mouth drawn into a forgiving half-smile, “now you know.”

Now you know. A little slice of him, presented to you like one of the cakes the local bakery kept locked behind a pane of refrigerated glass. The ones you admired as a kid, reveling in their perfectly smooth icing and intricately piped pastel flowers. They’d always seemed too delicate to touch, so you’d skipped over them in favor of sprinkle-laden cookies.

Logically, you know that the cakes were made for consumption. All you needed to do was ask for a taste. But you could never bring yourself to ruin their beauty. Not then, and not now.

And so, as always, you stepped away and chose the easier path instead.   

“Did you really rip your pants on stage?”

Eddie’s nose wrinkled at the sudden subject change, but he recovered quickly. “Sure did. Split right down the seam.” He puffed out a short laugh through his nose. “Poor Gareth got an eyeful that night.”

“Are you sure that isn’t the real reason you left the band?” Picking up the nearest pen, you poked the capped end into his forearm. 

He play-winced, rubbing the spot the cap touched, and shook his head. “Nah, this was my high school band. Corroded Coffin.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Oh, yeah. We were terrifying.” Eddie widened his eyes in mock-horror. “The backbone of Indiana’s satanic panic, actually.”

You raised your brows. “Impressive.”

“Mhm. We only broke up because our bassist went to college out of state. Princeton.” He lowered his voice at the name as though relaying confidential information. 

“Not the Ivy Leagues!” You pressed your hand to your heart, clutching metaphorical pearls. 

Eddie grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’ve heard Princeton is known for their demonic studies program, so that tracks.”

This is nice. This is easy. No mention of schoolwork, or the motel, or parents—or lack thereof. You could do this all night. 

A throat clearing followed by a hacking cough took you both by surprise. Peering over Eddie’s shoulder, you found Phyllis standing in the lobby doorway. 

“There’s a wasp nest outside my window,” she said, tugging up one drooping shirt sleeve. The odor of stale cigarettes grew stronger as she walked closer to you and Eddie; even if she quit smoking today, the pungency would always cling to her. 

Uncapping your pen, you reached into the desk drawer and grabbed the stack of Post-Its. “I’ll make a note to get some insecticide spray tomorrow,” you promised, poorly curbing your exasperation. 

If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. 

The older woman didn’t put up any argument, but Eddie was obviously displeased. “Like hell you will.” He glanced around, pent-up energy overflowing as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “You got a baseball bat around here?”

Your “Uh, no,” overlapped with Phyllis’s nonchalant, “Yeah, of course,” and she left to fetch it.

A sigh escaped you, hinting at your mounting irritation. “Eddie, absolutely not,” you insisted. “Just wait till I get the spray and you can do it then.”

He clicked his tongue with a note of condescension that you didn’t particularly appreciate. “Don’t worry about it, Heiress. I’m from the Midwest; our wasps are like your rats. This’ll be nothing.” When you remained unconvinced, he adopted a teasing grin. “I don’t tell you how to do your nerd stuff, do I? So leave me to my man stuff in peace.”

You nearly choked on your own saliva. “Your man stuff?”

“Yes. Very strong and burly.” He flexed a bicep for emphasis and you threw your hands up in defeat, trying to ignore the soft fluttering in your stomach at the vein bulging through his skin.

Phyllis returned with the bat, the wooden neck clenched between arthritic fingers. “It’s right around the side,” she told Eddie. “Just look for the giant nest. And don’t forget to give this back when you’re done; I’m working tonight.” She thrust the bat into Eddie’s hand and padded back to her room, slippers thwacking against the linoleum. 

Eddie twirled the bat, threading it through his fingers and catching it smoothly. He smiled, unable to camouflage his pride. “See? I got this.” His grasp was determined without a hint of tenderness, a stark contrast to the way he’d held your hand the night prior. Tucking it underneath a denim-clad arm, he took a deep breath and pushed through the front door like he was preparing for battle.

You watched him leave, shaking your head. Evidently, he had a point to prove, but you doubted the chances of his success. Part of you wished you could leave the desk to watch him in action. Another part was relieved that you had the excuse to avoid witnessing this disaster as it unfolded.

As you predicted, not even half a minute had passed before you heard Eddie yelping, his footsteps thudding towards the motel’s entrance. He flung the door open with enough force that it smacked against the wall, scrambling to slam it shut behind him. His chest heaved under his jacket as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” He swatted around his head at some lingering wasps. “Son of a bitch!”  

Sucking your tongue to your front teeth, you bit back an I-told-you-so. “How’s your ‘manhood’ or whatever?” 

Maybe that wasn’t much better than outright gloating, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

Eddie made a closed fist with only his middle finger sticking up, and he winced almost immediately. “I think one of those little fuckers got me.” He cradled one hand in the other as you walked towards him for a closer inspection. 

Sure enough, a stinger was poking out from the side of his forefinger.

Phyllis came shuffling back from her room, pink lipsticked mouth pursed in concern. “Jesus, kid. Were you trying to piss them off?” The loose skin under her neck wobbled when she chortled. “You swung at that nest like you were Babe Ruth!”

Through a tense smile, you asked her to get a soapy washcloth so you could clean out the wound before it could spark an allergic reaction. “Unless, of course, that interferes with your man stuff,” you said to Eddie, all-too happy to throw his words back in his face.

“Fuck off.” A traitorous chuckle broke through his stoic exterior despite his very real pain. His eyes followed your movements as you grabbed the first aid kit.

You took his warm palm in yours, gently turning it to assess the afflicted finger. The stinger was lodged under his skin, already turning the surrounding area an angry red. 

“Oof, he really stung you good, huh?” Your tone was all sympathy; you figured he’d gotten enough jabs from the wasps. 

Eddie gritted his teeth as you gingerly scraped at the stinger with the edge of your notebook, taking care not to squeeze out any of the venom. You tightened your grip to keep his hand in place, feeling the soft but steady thrum of his heartbeat between his wrist and his thumb’s tendon. It had a melody of its own. 

Slowly, meticulously, you eased the stinger out from where it was wedged.

“Sorry,” you said softly, noting the way his eyes clamped shut as you drew out the stinger and brushed it onto the desk. 

“S’okay.” He managed a small smile, one you returned without hesitation.

The night was still for a moment before he spoke again, his voice soft but eager. 

“Tell me more about Izzy.”

Apparently, you weren’t the only one with a penchant for rapid subject changes. 

At once, your head was filled with memories of her: the pigtails held in place with thick rubber bands, the popsicle juice-stained pink t-shirt, the giggles that melted away your stress from a succession of ungrateful customers. He said something else, but you were too engrossed in your own thoughts for the words to register. 

“Hmm?”

“The little girl you helped.” Eddie cocked a quizzical brow, suddenly worried that he’d remembered incorrectly. “That was her name, right?”

You nodded. “She was only there that one day. I didn’t see her again.”

Her mother was probably too embarrassed to stay any longer and found another motel. If you could go back in time, you would have reassured her, maybe even offered to watch after Izzy while she worked. You might have informed her of programs where she could find a job that didn’t put her or Izzy in harm’s way. 

Eddie continued talking, for some reason persistent in his quest for answers. “But you said she talked to you while she was drawing. About her favorite stuff?”

Phyllis returned with cloth before you could answer him, and she rested it on the desk with a sigh. “I’m gonna head out,” she said, pointing at Eddie, “but my bat better be in my room before I get back, Yogi Berra.”

He nodded, absently massaging the nape of his neck. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” One burgundy-painted fingertip pointed at Eddie, then at you. “I like this kid.”

How do you even respond to that? An honest, ‘me, too’? An overly sarcastic, ‘he’s alright’? 

You opted for a small, unassuming smile and the reminder to be safe, which was absurd when you really thought about it. Phyllis had been doing this, as she put it, “since my tits were above my belly button,” yet you were telling her about safety. 

Bringing your attention back to the sting, you clutched the sopping wet washcloth. Phyllis apparently hadn’t wrung it out; water dripped down the side of your fingers and splashed onto the floor in an uneven plop-plop-plop. 

With an abundance of care, you swiped the cloth over the sting site. It was already starting to swell, the skin raised and angry. 

Eddie reflexively pulled away, the tension evident from the way his front teeth formed grooves in his lower lip. 

“Fuck, that hurts.” His free fist pounded into the desktop with so much force that, for a split second, you worried that he might leave a dent. 

“I know, but we have to clean it out,” you said. 

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath; you weren't sure you even wanted to know what he said. “Yeah, yeah.” He winced as the frayed fibers grazed him again. “So…Izzy?”

“There isn’t much to say,” you answer honestly. “I mean, she just told me she loved McDonalds french fries and Muppet Babies. Especially baby Fozzie Bear.”

“Anything else?”

You thought back for a moment. “Her favorite animal was dogs, but only the little ones. She said the big ones scared her because they barked too loud. Oh, and her favorite color was light purple.”

The memory is bittersweet, bathing you in both comfort and a dull ache. It was almost six years ago but the little girl had made herself at home in your mind. You thought about her on a daily basis, wondering if she and her mom were still bouncing from motel to motel, or if they’d found a permanent place to settle. Every ounce of optimism you possessed worked to help you believe that they were safe and that she didn’t remember when safety wasn’t guaranteed.

“I knew it.”

You looked up from applying calamine lotion, dabbing the pink-stained cotton ball over any excess dripping off of his finger. “Knew what?” 

“I knew you’d remember everything she told you.” His thumb relaxed and fluttered down until it rested on yours, the pad of his finger on your knuckle.

You reached for a Band-Aid before realizing that opening it required two hands. With more hesitation that you anticipated, you let go of him. “And what makes you say that?” You wrapped the bandage around his finger, careful not to press too tightly around the sting. “There. Good as new.”

Eddie smiled his appreciation. “I, um, had a similar experience when I was a kid.” He swallowed, picking at the Band-Aid until the adhesive side began to bunch up. When he allowed himself to glance at you, he saw you looking back at him, silently encouraging him to tell his story. 

“My mom got sick when I was in kindergarten. The treatment made her tired and nauseous, like, all the time; when she wasn’t sleeping, she was throwing up.” His eyes clouded over and his voice cracked slightly; he cleared his throat and continued. “I was at school one day, and the social worker asked me if I had anyone at home who washed my clothes for me. And when I told her no, she asked me to bring any clothes I needed cleaned with me the next day. So I did, and after school let out, she took me to the Laundromat.” 

If you told him that he didn’t have to keep talking, he'd stop. He’d wipe away any residual tears and excuse himself, and you’d once again spend your shift alone. And so you didn’t say anything, just stood there as his gears turned in recollection.

“She had this game: she’d hold up a piece of clothing and ask if it goes in the ‘lights’ or ‘darks’ pile, and she would get faster and faster until I was laughing too hard to answer.” Eddie exhaled a short laugh and swiped his tongue over his top teeth. “The whole time, I’m thinking that it’s all fun, that this is a normal thing that every kid did. I didn’t realize until years later that it was because my clothes smelled, y’know?” 

Sheepishness colored Eddie’s face in pink splotches as he shifted from man to boy and then back again. 

“Anyway, your story about Izzy kinda reminded me of that. And she might not remember your name or even what you talked about, but she’ll remember someone being there for her. Someone who didn’t act like she was a bother or a charity case. Just a kid who wanted to play.”

His words left you without any of your own. There was so much to digest; chiefly, your newfound glimpse into Eddie’s past. And though you’d only ever known him as an adult, you were still picturing him as a child. He sat atop a counter where others folded their clothes, his brown eyes–looking even bigger than they did presently, given his small stature–gazing up at the woman in wonderment as he giddily sorted his laundry. 

And then, of course, there was the delicately embedded compliment. The reassurance that you had been a positive force in Izzy’s life, even through one brief encounter. 

It was the only part that you could elaborate on without intruding on his privacy. He’d shared something so personal, and while you were desperate to learn more about him, you didn’t want to barge past the boundaries he had so carefully constructed.  

“Yeah, I…just wanted her to feel safe, I guess.” You’d devised a plan while you drew flowers and Care Bears in case no one showed up to find her. Everything had to be done so that she remained in the dark about the situation’s severity; you’d have Mom or Dad check the room, only calling the authorities if Izzy’s mom was unresponsive—or worse. 

In the end, there was no need for you to worry. Her mother was alert and Izzy herself was none the wiser that anything was wrong. You hadn’t even told your parents about the situation despite their potential involvement. Eddie, of all people, was the only other person who knew. 

He nodded and reached over, giving your hand a subtle, tender squeeze. 

“You did.”

Reassurance drifted through the air and clung to you like the sharp scent of tobacco on his jacket. Receiving compliments wasn’t your strongest suit, so you pivoted topics to avoid stretching the ensuing awkward silence any further. 

“The calamine lotion should help with the itching, but you can take some Benadryl if it’s still bad.” Rummaging through the first aid kit, you searched for the medication but only managed to scrounge up a bottle of expired ibuprofen. “There’s a pharmacy a few blocks down. They’ll have some there.” A little mom and pop shop that sold candy and cheap wine in addition to different over-the-counter medicines, it had been a community staple since before you were born.

The corners of Eddie’s eyes crinkled, lips turning upwards in amusement. “An heiress, a social worker, and a nurse? What can’t you do?”

That was a loaded question, and you were relieved that it was rhetorical so you wouldn’t have to list all of your shortcomings. You settled for flipping him off with an accompanying smile of your own.

“I should probably get that bat before she gets back,” he said, glancing towards the older woman’s room. He lowered his voice and continued. “She kinda scares me.”

“Oh, I definitely would not get on her bad side,” you agreed. “Phyllis’s wrath will make that wasp sting feel like a walk in the park.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” His laugh was music that stirred up a desire to dance, to be carried by the melody like a strong gust of wind, and then he was out the door.

Immediately, you were inclined to find something new to talk about when he walked back in. You’d had two days of companionship and had been spoiled by it; the thought of another night in solitude suddenly seemed lonely.

You couldn’t ask about his parents or the social worker who’d taken him to the Laundromat; that was too personal, too soon. Same with his old band. But music–his favorite songs, musicians, albums–that might be safe enough to explore.

The door opened and brought with it a cool evening breeze. Eddie returned much more confidently than he had the last time, Phyllis’s bat slung over his shoulder. 

“Apparently, I actually managed to knock the nest down,” he reported, sounding as surprised as you felt. 

He stifled a yawn, denim creasing at the elbow when he lifted his hand to cover his mouth. It was then that you noticed the way sleep tugged at his eyelids, dashing any remaining hope of having a conversational partner this evening. Asking him to stay awake for you was just selfish. 

“I’ll see you around, Heiress. Let me know if there’s any more man stuff you need from me.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice in quick succession and started towards his room. 

“Night, Eddie.”

Opportunity slipped through your fingers as he walked away, the sound of his footsteps eventually too muted to hear. You shoved your disappointment beneath the surface. Eddie wasn’t your friend; he was a guest who happened to be friendly. Asking him to stick around and chat would be unprofessional. 

If he happened to stop by the desk while you worked, you could make small talk. Otherwise, it would be business as usual. 

Minutes were hours and hours were days. Another trucker needed a room for the night, and you checked him in around four o’clock. 

You thought about the certainty in Eddie’s assurance that Izzy had felt safe with you. He didn’t know her; he barely knew you, and he wasn’t even there when it all happened. Yet his approval illuminated from the inside out and you replay it over and over. 

You did. You did. You did. 

Izzy was safe with you and she knew it. If you swallowed your fears and forged your own path, you could help other kids just like her. But it would come at a steep cost unless your parents could somehow miraculously afford to hire a new employee.

Your stomach turns just imagining the motel’s windows shuttered, a For Sale sign propped up in the door, ready to be snapped up by a major hotel chain for a mediocre sum that would barely pay off the overdue bills. It haunted you.

How long could you do this? How long could you push off your own dreams in favor of your parents’? At what point did you cross that fine line between selflessness and martyrdom?

Exhaustion crushed your body, strong enough to overpower the churning anxiety. Still, your sleep was fitful, and you woke up before your alarm feeling wholly unrested. Achiness radiated through your bones as you dragged yourself out of bed.

You knew what you had to do.

Dad noticed your earlier departure, so used to you leaving at 1:45 every day like clockwork. His brows pinched with perplexity as he determined whether he’d forgotten about a change in your schedule.

“Just running an errand before class.”

His confusion faded, replaced with a grin. “Thought I was losing my mind.” The way he stood under the lighting accentuated the gray flecks in his hair and mustache and solidified that he was, in fact, aging. His eventual retirement loomed closer, more of a when than an if with each passing day.

“Can’t lose what you never had,” you teased weakly. Dad met your joke with a wink; if he had picked up on the falter in your voice, he was gracious enough to ignore it.

You took a slight deviation from your usual route, walking past the bus stop and turning the corner until you reached the mailbox. It beckoned you, taunted you, sneered at your cowardice. The stamped envelope mocked you tenfold; innocuous on the surface but held the weight of betrayal.

It contained your admissions letter to NYU with the “accept” box marked and a deposit check that nearly drained your savings, ready to go.

The mailbox hinge creaked open so loudly that it seemed to echo. All you had to do was drop the envelope down the chute and pray that you made the right choice.

Regret surged through your veins the moment the envelope left your fingertips. You acted on instinct, shoving your hand back down the box to reclaim your letter, but you knew it was a fruitless effort before you’d even failed. It was already lost in a sea of bills and birthday cards. 

“Shit!” Yanking your arm out before someone accused you of mail theft, you tilted your head back in an attempt to stop the impending tears.

With one stupid decision, you’d heaved a shovel into the dirt and begun digging a grave for the family business.

What the hell were you thinking? 

As though it had a mind of its own, your foot swung out and smacked against the tin drum with all of your might. It took a beat for the pain to hit, the throbbing in your toes matching the reverberating metal.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You didn’t care who saw, who heard. Anger and self-loathing bubbled over like boiling water and scalded you in shame. Everything was so far out of your control, and you couldn’t rein it in. The world kept spinning fast, faster, too fast—

“Kicking it won’t make the mailman show up, y’know. ‘S not like rubbing a genie’s lamp.” 

Eddie stood on the other side of the mailbox. A plastic bag dangled from his hand, the box of drugstore brand antihistamine peeking through its translucence. His playfulness morphed into concern when he noted your dewy lashes. “Heiress? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” You swiped at your cheeks and sniffed back the mucus that collected in your nostrils. You probably should have been embarrassed that he’d caught you in such a state of distress; maybe you would be once the dust settled. 

He wrinkled his nose dubiously. You couldn’t blame him; why would he be convinced when you were assaulting mailboxes and swearing at the air?

“Seriously. Just having a bad day.” And it was going to get even worse if you missed your bus—again. “Thanks for asking, though.” You managed a grateful smile to prove your sincerity.

Grabbing your backpack from its spot on the ground, you zipped it back up and hoisted it over your shoulder before starting back towards the stop. 

“Hey, wait a sec.” Eddie called out to you, shuffling over until he was by your side. “You, uh, your makeup…” He trailed off bashfully, raising his thumb but stopping before it touched your skin. “May I?”

You nodded, breath hitching as the pad of his finger grazed just below your eye. He gently rubbed, tongue poking between his lips while he focused on removing the smudge without hurting you. 

He was close, almost too close for comfort. There was a small cut on his chin where he must have nicked himself shaving, and you forced yourself to stare at that instead of his wide eyes. 

“There…we…go.” He held up a mascara-stained thumb as evidence. Without thinking, you pressed your own thumb to it. The knuckles of your remaining four fingers slotted between his until you pulled away. 

Eddie laughed, apparently amused by the odd gesture. “I’ll take that as a thank you.” He wiped the residue on his shirt, not caring if it left a mark. “Don’t miss the bus; wouldn’t want you to be late for your nerd stuff again.”

“Mhm.”

You harnessed all of your strength to unglue your feet from the sidewalk. Your body operated on autopilot to its destination while your mind only thought of the heat that leapt from his thumb to yours, or maybe yours to his. 

It was cyclical, you surmised as the bus approached, with no clear beginning or end.

--

taglist (now closed ♥):

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @munson-mjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @munsonsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl @fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

[invisible-storyteller]

Everybody wants some (Stiles)

(Also on AO3.)

"Dare," Erica grinned after a moment of suspense.

Lydia rolled her eyes, having anticipated Erica's answer ever since the beta had presented her suggestion of a "fun" game to a very tipsy, and very bored group of college students. It had been the fourth pack night in a row after everyone had finally arrived for their summer break and there were only so many movies they could watch, plus it was still better than Scott's suggestion of spin the bottle. 

Speak of the devil.

"Everyone has chosen dare so far," Scott noted with the faintest pout on his lips, clearly disapproving of the humiliating tasks distributed so far.

Erica smacked her lips, giving Scott a taunting smile. "Fine. I changed my mind. Truth."

"Can she do that?" Isaac questioned but Scott only shrugged, not caring about the rules as long as no one else was forced to drink spoiled milk from a bowl like a puppy again.

"Okay, so..." Allison leaned forward, a foreboding shadow casting over her face that Erica met head-on, "If you weren't with Boyd, who would you fuck out of everyone in this room?"

Erica raised a single eyebrow, visibly unimpressed. "Stiles, duh."

It was almost superhuman how quickly Stiles straightened up in an instant, his mind having wandered off to fantasies of a certain socially inept alpha who had excused himself from his own living room as soon as the pack had settled down to play, and now getting jolted back into reality.

"That's boring. Everyone knows you had a crush on Stiles." Malia piped up from where she rested her head in Kira's lap, the kitsune's fingers carding through the locks of her hair absent-mindedly. 

"You say that like you wouldn't fuck him if you had the chance."

"Of course, I would," Malia shrugged like it was no big deal.

Stiles, on the other hand, nearly choked on his tongue.

"That's not a surprise, either, you actually dated him." Lydia pointed out, and Stiles could only snap his eyes back and forth between the two girls, trying to frantically grasp just when he had lost track of the conversation.

"You don't have to sound so condescending," Stiles mumbled out eventually, his eyes finally pausing on Lydia.

"Oh, honey, you can't be this oblivious."

And Stiles totally wasn't imagining the knowing looks on his packmates' faces. 

"About what?" He asked (damn his curiosity), feeling the usual trepidation that came with the whole 'being in a pack with not-so-mythical creatures' schtick.

Erica only snickered as she cuddled into Boyd's side, mischief dancing behind her thick eyelashes and promising no good. "About how everyone wants to breed you in this pack."

Okay, Stiles definitely choked this time (and Scott may have been a bit too enthusiastic with his back slaps) or maybe he fell asleep and was having the weirdest sexy dream without actual sex happening. Although, Lydia's offended yet conceding glance to the side looked pretty real.

"Wha-at?" Stiles wheezed out very eloquently between two consecutive coughs, and got immediately startled by the fact that Mason was the one to answer.

"Everyone in this pack has been attracted to you at one point," Mason clarified as if it was the most common knowledge in the world. Corey's agreeing nod did not help lift the fog in Stiles's mind at all.

"What."

"Say, Lydia, did you ever think of fucking Stiles?" Erica asked, a sadistic grin spreading wider on her firey red lips.

"Of course," Lydia replied, honest and simple, even flicking her hair for extra effect.

"Since when?" Stiles asked, a little outraged. He had spent many years pining after Lydia, so the fact that she hadn't shared this crucial piece of information with him was a bit of a punch into his teenage self's heart. Oh, and there was that tiny detail that Lydia had a boyfriend.

"Remember when we were hiding in the school from a rogue Peter?"

Stiles nodded, eyes squinting in suspicion as he recalled that dreadful night.

"You remember punching Jackson?"

And just like that, Stiles's jaw hit the ground, funny animation movie sound effects and all that. His chest subconsciously puffed out when he heard Jackson scoff indignantly, and continued to stare at Lydia, feeling like he was seeing her in a completely new light. "Wait, you liked that?! That turned you on?"

"Of course," Lydia parrotted with incongruous disinterest, "Still wouldn't have dated you. But I do enjoy a good display of dominance."

This had to be an alternate universe. Or a hyper-realistic dream, Stiles deduced.

"Okay, that makes... wow, three people who thought about getting all up on this," Stiles said in a daze with a half-aborted gesture to his body. Admittedly, the number was impressive (since he had always assumed it to be zero) but, at the same time, it was far from being the entire pack as Erica and Mason had so confidently claimed.

As if reading his mind, Lydia's sweet voice filled the loft once again. 

"Hey, Ally, didn't you consider dating Stiles at one point?" Lydia addressed the other girl out of nowhere, making Stiles turn towards his long-time friend with a look teetering someplace between pure shock and utter horror.

"Yeah?" Allison's uncertain response launched her into a pensive moment, probably rummaging through her memories before frowning in mild amusement. "That was actually your fault I think."

"Wha-" Stiles opened his mouth to say something along the lines of 'what the fuck' but Lydia beat him to it.

"It was before prom," Lydia reminisced with an honest-to-God smile, "You were insufferable and tried to convince me to go with Stiles. I told you that if you think he's such a great catch, maybe you should be the one going with him."

Allison snapped her fingers as if the memory had been at once revealed to her as well. "Oh yeah. I remember thinking that he would be a gentleman in bed."

"Ugh..." Honestly, at this point, Stiles's brain was officially out of order. Dial-up error noise, no signal sign, all that jazz. He seriously didn't think the night could get any more absurd, but then again, this was his life, with the constant motto being 'fuck Stiles's sanity', so what was he expecting, really?

"I would feel so grossed out right now if I didn't have fantasies about Stiles, too," Isaac revealed nonchalantly, and to that, Stiles had to make a face. "What? I just wanted to see if I can shut you up."

"With your mouth," Erica added with a conspiring smirk. Stiles really hated her right now. She was the one responsible for this whole avalanche collapsing onto poor unsuspecting Stiles in the first place. 

"I had the same thought," Boyd added, apparently joining in on the 'let's wreck Stiles's world' plan, "Although I was planning to shut your mouth with something else."

Stiles's mouth decided at that moment that it was just going to assume a permanent open position, gaping like a fish out of water (cause that was exactly how he felt), which didn't help his case, in hindsight.

"Stiles does have an oral fixation," Malia chimed in, everyone else nodding along like that wasn't news at all.

"Seriously, guys? This- okay, Scotty, help me out here," Stiles pleaded, unsure of how to feel about everything that had been spoken so far, but still solid in the faith for his quasi-brother, "You did not have sexual fantasies about me, right? We're best friends. Brothers from another mother."

Stiles really wished Scott wouldn't have pulled the world's most apologetic and guilt-ridden grimace at that.

"Remember when we went to that pool party in eighth grade?"

Stiles didn't like where this was going, but yes, he could sort of remember. That day marked the first time Stiles had drunk alcohol - some cheap booze their classmate's brother had stashed somewhere in his room. It was also the summer Stiles's body had finally gained some definition so he wasn't too shy about forgoing a shirt.

"You asked me to put sunscreen on your back?" Scott continued with hunched shoulders like he could hide from his own words, and Stiles's eyes popped open in realization.

"Dude."

"That's why I had to go to the bathroom," Scott scratched the back of his neck with flaming cheeks, "Twice."

"Twice?" Liam echoed, and Stiles imagined wrapping his hands around that little pup's throat and just squeezing.

"Stiles's swim shorts were very tight when he got out of the pool," Scott answered sheepishly, and much like a volcano, the pack burst into loud cheers. Stiles was seemingly alone in his mortification, mourning the loss of his innocence and feeling oddly betrayed.

"Since we're being honest," Oh God, why was Jackson talking?, "I did have some dreams about Stilinski, and in my defence, I was still in the closet back then and it was a small locker room, okay? I'm not responsible for my thoughts after seeing what he's packing."

"I did think about making out with him when we were on a stakeout," Theo added, a bit too eager to be part of the pack in Stiles's opinion.

This was all too much. Probably a bigger conceptual change than the discovery of the supernatural's existence. Stiles couldn't help it, therefore, in the following silence where everyone awaited his final reaction with baited breaths, he realized there was only one thing left to do: laugh.

"Okay, wow," Stiles breathed out between bouts of laughter, almost doubling over himself as he clutched his sides, "Nice joke, guys. Really. Prank of the year. Picking on the single pringle in the pack. Did you rehearse this?"

There was something unsettling in the look his packmates shared.

Malia looked around then with a neutral expression and exclaimed. Loudly. "Raise your hand if you ever thought about kissing or fucking Stiles."

Everybody's hands, without exception (Stiles checked), shot up high into the air like they were pulled by strings (Mason might have had to nudge Liam in the side but he, too, raised his hand with eyes downcast in shame), and it was the most out-of-left-field reaction at that moment, but Stiles suddenly felt a glimmer of hope that maybe... no. That was and had always been wishful thinking. Even if, apparently, Stiles was the epitome of bonability in his peers' eyes.

Right on cue, a deep rumble came from the bottom of the stairs, startling absolutely no one besides Stiles who was still momentarily lost in adjusting his worldview.

"What is happening?"

It was truly fascinating how reluctant everybody seemed to answer now in the face of that gruff voice. Stiles, for the most part, could only swallow past the sound of his own rabbiting heartbeat.

"Just playing some stupid game," Jackson deflected as his hands, in comical synchrony with all others', dropped to his sides.

"What game?" Derek pried, arms crossing across his chest and making the muscles bulge threateningly, not that Stiles noticed. 

"It's called... 'Who's thought about kissing Stiles'?" Kira replied with a tamer version of the truth, although Stiles had no doubt that Derek had heard the original statement if his 'what brain-dead moron do you take me for' frown was any indication.

Nervous laughter bubbled out of Stiles, and he clapped his hands for lack of a better idea on how to diffuse the situation. The pack was engaging in some creepy version of a stare-down with their alpha, and from Isaac's uncomfortable squirming, it was evident that the others had felt the uncanny chill of Derek's look, too. Even Stiles had the uncomfortable impression of a noose tangling around his neck, awaiting (perhaps) a sentence or an order, and he was eerily reminded of the early days of knowing Derek. Things had been better in recent years so the current tension in the room was all the more puzzling, especially since the pack rarely acted so unassertive around their alpha.

"Well, at least we know one person who hasn't, right?" Stiles joked weakly in the silence, his smile short-lived against the strangely intense leer on Derek's face.

If anything, their alpha's features hardened at the words, his (thankfully still normal) eyes blazing with a heat that Stiles had never seen outside the throes of battle. It was doing some very ill-timed things to Stiles.

Unsurprisingly, Lydia was the first to stand up, the light shake of her head accompanied by a soft "Oh, Stiles" before she made the smart move and left, rousing everyone else into action. Derek kept glaring at the pack until they dribbled out one by one, some sending Stiles encouragement (like Erica with her thumbs up) but ultimately abandoning him in the loft with a displeased alpha to handle. Stiles gaped after his traitorous friends, arms stretched open in disbelief and no clue about anything that had gone down so far. If there was a way to say "???" out loud, Stiles would have done that right then and there.

"Wha- guys?" Stiles asked just as the metal door violently slid shut. It was thunderous in the otherwise empty loft.

He whipped around swiftly and poked his thumb in the direction of the exit because that felt like the next logical thing to do when a murderous-looking werewolf began to move towards him.

"I guess that means pack night's over so I'll just... Umm..."

Stiles could have sworn that he heard a growl before Derek's eyes bled into ominous red, and it was a testament to how fucked up Stiles's self-preservation instincts had become over the years that those weren't the wolfish features that had Stiles's brain melting into syrupy goo. No, that achievement could only be attributed to the sharp fangs poking out from behind Derek's pink lips, and Stiles was like 95% sure that "How would those feel buried in my skin?" was not a normal thought to have in this kind of situation. 

"Has any of them touched you?"

Stiles shook his head - you know, once he had enough blood there to comprehend the question - and his hands came up unwittingly to put some barrier between him and Derek. "Hold on, what? No! It wasn't that kind of game- oh well, some of your pups were certainly touching in ways that I tried really hard to ignore- hey, you should talk to them about that! You know, privacy, I'm sure you heard... about... that..."

Derek's eyebrows gradually sank lower during his rant while Stiles's mouth slightly opened to help regulate his breathing (and why was that so hard all of a sudden?). Something in Derek's look made Stiles itchy to speak, like he had to defend himself for some reason. "It's not like any of them would actually want to fuck me- Hey, what's with the looming, dude?"

Derek's eyes narrowed wordlessly onto Stiles's chest where the human's heart rate spiked from feeling the solid surface of the door hit his back. He hadn't noticed how fast Derek was crowding in on him, and something about that fact made Stiles think of one of those National Geographic documentaries. You know, where the gazelle gets mauled.

"Dude, if you want me to leave, just say so. You don't gotta go all Michael Myers on me-"

"Would you let them?" Derek slurred around his fangs, eyes meandering like he was trying to catalogue all of Stiles's (very straightforward and very communicative) reactions, "Would you let anyone in the pack fuck you?"

Stiles shook his head so fast, he almost felt dizzy afterwards.

Derek's eyes faded back to green then, and he withdrew his body heat that Stiles hadn't even taken note of up until that point. With the proximity confiscated, Stiles felt a tinge of disappointment as well as a buttload (hah) of confusion - the same emotions somehow getting reflected back at him in Derek's eyes before the werewolf sculpted his face into his usual neutral look. 

Stiles had never had a more life-changing lightbulb moment before (previous truth or dare game included), and he felt the urge to facepalm at himself.

"I mean, it depends..." Stiles trailed off, Derek's hostile yet curious eyebrows making a reappearance. "I, um..."

Instead of bothering with words, Stiles licked his bottom lip as a test and delighted when Derek's eyes followed the movement with failing restraint. With a sudden burst of confidence, he pushed away from the door and violated Derek's personal space as much as he could get away with without actual touching. 

"Raise your hand if you have a crush on Derek Hale.

Derek frowned, his eyebrows doing some weird high jumps when Stiles sneaked a hand up into the air and wiggled his fingers for emphasis. This time, when the werewolf's eyes caught his, they were consumed by darkness instead of alpha red but were no less promising. And when Derek grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, literally tripping Stiles into a kiss, that was something Stiles was for once expecting and welcomed with an eager moan. 

As it turned out, nobody wanted Stiles as much as Derek Hale did.

And out of all the reveals that day, that was the only one that truly mattered to Stiles.

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

The development of Peeta as "the boy with the bread"

The fact that for Katniss, Peeta is the "boy with the bread" who she associates with dandelions, life and hope, speaks volumes to how her relationship with him goes beyond simple understandings of love and companionship.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. 

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. 

And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread. 

I fumble. I’m not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. 

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though . . . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. “One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.  I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go. 

Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I've lost.

I consider saying a final good-bye to Peeta, decide it would only be bad for both of us. But I do slip the pearl into the pocket of my uniform. A token of the boy with the bread.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

[celtigxr]

The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. vi: Aegon's Delight

Chapter Summary: Aegon's day just got better.

Word Count: 3104

Sneak Peak: “Valeana… Are you well?” Shyla, ever oblivious, tilted her head at her sister, and tried to take a step to her, but the blonde’s hand flew up to stop her.   “I’m fine!” “Are you sure? You’re sweating quite a bit…”

Warnings: A little SA , Aegon being Aegon.

T H E   R E D S

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Never in a million years would Valeana have imagined Aegon Targaryen under her skirts. Even if he was the last man alive, she would fling herself from the highest tower of the Keep before she let him near her privy parts. She has never had anyone under there other than her own curious hands, and she had hoped when a man that deserves her made it that far, it would be with her back on a mattress, not standing in front of her sister in the threshold of a servant’s closet. And Aegon definitely did not deserve her.

“Valeana!” Shyla jerked her head back in shock and confusion at the sight of her sister. Both of Val’s hands were firmly placed on the narrow walls on either side of her, her legs slightly parted, making the full form of her brown and ivory skirt fill as much space as possible to shield her shame. 

“What are you doing in a closet?”

“Uh-haAh!” Val’s spine straightened when she felt Aegon’s hand graze the back of her thigh. “Hiding! I’m hiding.”

Shyla tilted her head skeptically, and then her eyes flickered over to something or someone on her left, hidden behind the door she was holding. 

“Why in the world would you be hiding? Oh, are you playing a game?”

Aegon moved his fingers higher, grazing the bottom of her buttocks, “No!” She stomped her wooden foot on the ground, then cleared her throat, shaking her head. “No…No, not playing anything.”

“Then who are you hiding from?” 

Valeana’s mouth popped open to give her an answer – anything would do. Father, mother, Floris, the Septa… anyone. But that was when she felt Aegon’s tongue replace his fingers. The slick broad expanse of the muscle slid up the back of her thigh, all the way to the curve of her backside. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head. 

“AEG–” Val’s heel drove into Aegon’s hand that was planted on the floor, earning her a sharp:

“--MAH!”

“MON…d! Aegmond– I mean, Aemond!” Valeana announced loudly, then promptly cleared her throat and blew a stray piece of hair from her face, trying to appear calm and nonchalant. She failed, though, since her hands were gripping the walls as if they were threatening to fall on her. She could feel Aegon shift under her skirts, the sounds of his groans of pain stifled by the many layers of her dress. 

“You’re… hiding from Aemond?” Shyla’s eyes shift again, but Val does not notice. She was too preoccupied with a larger problem. 

“Mhm, yes, Aemond. That is who I am hiding from.” Her teeth buried into her bottom lip when she felt Aegon’s hands wrap around her thigh tenderly and give it a big wet kiss.

“And why would you be hiding from me?” To her horror, the devil himself sauntered around the door and stood next to Shyla. 

Valeana went as pale as a sheet. 

T H E  G R E E N S 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Aemond’s day began with an unpleasant conversation with his mother. A conversation about Valeana Celtigar and his progress with reconciling her. He recounted the one, short, and nasty conversation they had at supper the other day. 

“The best I can do for father is keep my distance and remain strangers, mother,” Aemond tried to reason with her. 

Alicent sighed, “He wishes to see the two of you as friends again, Aemond. It is what plagues his mind..”

Like how he wishes for Rhaenyra and I to be, she thought, biting the tip of her thumbnail.

“Why?” His question came out a little forcefully. He wanted her to say it, to confess the truth that he had known since he learned of this farce King Viserys was orchestrating. “It’s because he wishes to continue with our failed betrothal, isn’t it, mother?”

Alicent’s hand dropped from her mouth, then looked up at her son from her seat at the table, “Is that what you want?”

She could read her second son like a book. Aegon might be predictable, and Helaena seldom changed her ways, but it was Aemond that appeared like a mystery to the world. However, Alicent knew his mind, knew his heart, and she had spied his face down the table that night. While she had not known what was said at the time, it was clear whatever was spoken had affected him more than he would ever admit. 

Her dear boy held onto his regrets, and he mourned his friendship with the Celtigar girl. His pain, while hidden behind steel and iron walls and guarded by dragons, was something she, as his mother, could feel in her bones. 

Aemond’s jaw clicked, lips pursed, and his eye flickered away from his mother, “It does not matter what I want, mother.”

It wasn’t an answer, but Alicent didn’t prod anymore. 

She would be spending the afternoon with the Celtigars in the garden… perhaps a private conversation with Valeana may make this easier for her son. 

Aemond spent the rest of the day keeping busy. The other day he was in the skies with Vhagar to distance himself from the Keep as much as possible, but he desired to be more productive. The Prince spent the rest of the morning sparring with Ser Criston after he left his mother along with the rest of his breakfast. After, he bathed, changed, and rested in his bedchambers for a moment or two. 

It is time we unite Valyrian blood.

His father wanted to unite the houses… But perhaps the Celtigars were already tangled in the complex bloodline of the Targaryens. Perhaps he had a distant cousin, who married one generations ago. If he could find this evidence, would that prove to his father that his goal was redundant? Would it convince his father to let the notion go, and allow the Targaryens and Celtigars go their separate ways?

It was a flimsy assumption, but it was worth looking into. It was enough to get Aemond out of his bed and out the door.

His day took an interesting turn when he found Shyla wandering the corridors on his way towards the library. 

“Are you lost?” 

“Oh! Prince Aemond… I’m looking for Prince Aegon,” she sighed impatiently, her fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her peach dress. “I’ve been told by multiple people that they saw him in this area of the Keep, but I can’t find him.”

Aemond’s lips threatened to smirk. Oh, how he wished he knew exactly where Aegon was, because he would lead Shyla straight to him as he did the other day. He was always eager to torture his eldest brother where he could, much like how Aegon did when they were children. Much to the chagrin of the eldest,  the younger brother got the upper hand when he grew up taller, stronger, more intelligent. 

“I will help you find him,” Aemond offers, much to Shyla’s surprise. “Likely he went to go find wine to fill his empty cup.”

As they went down the corridor, opening doors and checking in to see if they could find a head of unruly white curls hiding behind a barrel, Shyla couldn’t stop herself from asking him questions, one after the other. 

“Will you be competing in the tourney, my Prince?”

“I have not decided,” he partially lied. He did not want to compete; it felt like a waste of good skill. Tourneys always end up killing good men, too. 

“Well,” she swung her arms around her sides like a child being coy. “If you did…and you won, who would you crown as the Queen of Love and Beauty?” 

Aemond slowed his pace to look at her, head tilted in curiosity.

She smiled innocently, now wringing her hands at her front, “What?”

“Why do you ask, Shyla?” 

“Curious.” 

“Hm,” he pursed his lips and looked up the corridor. Why must all conversations lead back to her?

“Well?” 

He held up a finger, “Hold on.” He stepped forward, turning his head so he could listen to the empty corridor. He could hear a muffled voice and some movement. With the same finger he gestured to Shyla to follow him, “I heard something, over here.”

The two walked over until they came to a narrow door made of wood, tucked in a corner that was easy to miss by passersby. Aemond nodded towards it, and Shyla looked between him and the door. 

“You say you heard it coming from here?”

Expecting Aegon to be in the closet, huddled behind buckets and mops, Aemond remained hidden behind the door to witness his reward. However, in a completely unexpected turn of events, it wasn’t, in fact, his brother with his tail tucked between his legs. It was–

“Valeana!”

Aemond stood in contemplative silence as the bizarre interaction between sisters unfurled. He couldn’t see the other Celtigar girl through the wooden door, but the way he stared at it was as if he could. The queer behaviour coming from Valeana made Aemond’s mind buzz with curiosities and questions. But then she evoked his name (in the strangest way possible), and he found that he couldn’t contain the slight smirk of intrigue.

“And why would you be hiding from me?”

Aemond revelled in the look in her eyes. No longer were those peridot eyes filled with indifference or venom, they were wide, vulnerable, embarrassed.

“I–” She struggled, making Aemond’s smirk grow and his head to tilt. “I-uh—” Suddenly her lips sucked into her mouth and one of her hands fell from the wall and went behind her back.

She is hiding something, Aemond concluded, narrowing his eye. Or someone. 

Aegon. 

Aemond raised his chin at his silent revelation, his eye becoming dark and his muscles tensing. He had his hands behind his back, hiding his tightened fists.

“We have not crossed paths since the day you arrived, Lady Valeana, so I see no conceivable reason for you to hide from me when I have no desire to find you.” 

Her face turned utterly pink. She blinked at him like a rabbit caught unawares. Aemond decided he liked her this way; shields down, defenceless, abashed. It made her an easier morsel to swallow; she was no longer a bitter, vindictive animal, stomping on his corpse, and spitting out reminders of misdeeds he’s done as a child. 

“Valeana… Are you well?” Shyla, ever oblivious, tilted her head at her sister, and tried to take a step to her, but the blonde’s hand flew up to stop her.  

“I’m fine!”

“Are you sure? You’re sweating quite a bit…”

Aemond started to grind his teeth. 

“I said, I’m fine,” she nearly hissed. 

“Are you…” Shyla looked at Aemond for a second, then back to her sister. She lowered her head in her direction, and said in a whisper that Aemond could still hear, “Are you bleeding?”

“Yes! Yes,” Val shook a finger at her sister and nodded, “That’s it. And I-uh, would like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“I believe she’s hiding something, your sister,” Aemond kept his eyes on Valeana as she radiated shame. 

“I’m not.”

“Prove it. Step out in the hall.” 

“No, no, I do not think I will.” 

Shyla gave a tentative, confused smile, “Why?”

Valeana looked at her sister, but she couldn’t hold it. Those green orbs flickered around as she quickly formulated an excuse. Aemond didn’t even try to hide his smile, very much amused by the witless display. 

The elder sister then gestured for the other to come closer, and Shyla immediately closed the distance. Cupping her hand over her ear, and then sending a final glare at Aemond, she started to whisper something. Aemond couldn’t make a word of it, but Shyla’s eyes bugged out and her hand went to her mouth in shock. When finally she pulled away, she immediately forgot her initial mission. 

“Oh gods. You just stay there, then, I’ll go get mother. Would you mind staying with her, my Prince.”

“It would be my–”

“No! No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Just…bring me what I told you, Shyla.”

Aemond looked at her up and down. It looked like she was bracing herself on either wall with how spread out her legs appeared to be. That observation coupled with Aemond’s speculation of who else was in that closet with her, made his blood boil. Then the mere fact that it bothered him at all angered him further.

“Oh, I don’t mind keeping you company until your sister returns, Lady Valeana,” his hands were no longer clasped behind his back, but resting on the pommel of his sword. 

Her eyes narrowed at him, like the glare of a green-eyed cat filled with suspicion, “I mind.”

The viper returned. 

With feet still rooted in place, she bent at the waist as she reached for the door handle. It took a few tries, but her fingers finally coiled around the loop, and she slowly started to shut the door. Before she did, Valeana had one last thing to say. 

“I don’t like you.” 

Then the door was slammed in his face. 

Shyla looked between him and the door, brown eyes wide and lips quivering in an attempt to contain a nervous smile. 

“Don’t–Don’t mind her, my Prince. She’s grouchy when she’s– Ahem, well, I should go find her that rag– Oh, I shouldn’t have said that,” her hands went to her mouth. “Uh, thank you for helping me, Prince Aemond,” she curtseyed before floundering off. 

Aemond had been staring at the wood silently, fumes emanating from his very skull. If only he was an actual dragon, because there would be a very scorched hole in the limestone walls right in front of him. 

“Hm,” was his only response, which came out nearly as a growl. He stepped away from the door, then turned on his heel and resumed his trek to the library.

“You don’t have to keep me company, y’know,” Aemond said from his perch on the weirwood tree. “I know you’d like to see the dragons fly. It should be quite a sight now they’re allowed to out of the pit to do it.” Valeana shrugged from the bench, her fingers never wavering from her embroidery. “I’d rather be here,” she offered him a small smile. “Why?”  She paused, biting her lip before braving her eyes up at him, “I like your company, stupid. I like you.” 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Aegon sunk into an armchair with a long groan. His hand clutched a cold piece of meat that he used to press on his right brow, cooling down the bump that was forming. He would get a fair amount of questions on the morrow, he knew. It would be the hardest bruise to hide, to be sure, but… 

He laughed to himself, “Worth it.” 

A week ago, had a seer told him he would be trapped under Valeana Celtigar’s skirt and enjoy it, he would’ve had his tongue cut out and fed it to Sunfyre. Alas, that was the truth of it. Aegon had quite the view, albeit obscured by the many annoying layers she wore, and the smallclothes that seemed more modest than he knew women’s undergarments would be. Though, he didn’t complain; the image of Valeana’s arse was forever burned into his memory, and he intended to recall it frequently when he was alone with a hard cock.

He just couldn’t resist himself. A caress, a lick, a kiss, a pinch, a little sniff…

It was worth the beating he got in the aftermath. 

After the door slammed shut, they had waited until the coast was clear before Valeana kicked it back open and wretched her skirt off of him. Still on his knees, Aegon couldn’t stop laughing.

“What a performance,” He clapped. “What a–” With both hands he mimed the curvature of her supple behind. “--a view.” 

That was when she had grabbed a broom from the closet, snapped it over her knee, and proceeded to beat him with it. Luckily, her shouting insults and threats (“I’ll rip your balls out and have you choke on them, you pile of dragonshit!”) had not alerted anyone in the Keep (which begs the question about the competency of the Keep’s security). It seemed like the Warrior was on her side… or perhaps the Stranger. 

She left him on the floor, sore, bruised, and laughing like a lunatic. 

“Thank you, my delicious crab cake!” 

He was still hard. It didn’t help that he kept on replaying what had happened, imagining other possibilities that could have happened in that closet. All in front of his beloved brother no less. The mere thought of that caused a toothy grin to transform Aegon’s face. His free hand fiddled with the laces of his breeches, but before he could even loosen the knot, his door practically flew off its hinges.

“Seven Hells,” he lurched forward, then groaned when he saw who it was. He slumped back into his chair and shut his eyes, “Do you not know how to knock?” 

“Where were you?” Aemond asked, his voice painfully controlled. 

Aegon opened one eye and peered at him, “Around.”

“Hm,” Aemond looked around the room and then settled back onto the dishevelled piece of work in the arm chair. “What the hells happened to you?”

“I fell,” Aegon replied lamely, adjusting his grip on the strip of meat. 

“You fell,” he echoed, his head tilting. “Interesting.”

They stared at each other for a long beat, until Aegon got impatient under his brother’s scrutiny, “Well?” He lifted his arms, and gestured restlessly with his hands, “What do you want?” 

“It has been a while since you last trained with Cole and I, brother,” Aemond’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “I fear you have become soft. With the tourney approaching, I suspect you do not wish to be humiliated in front of the entire Realm.”

“Who says I am going to participate in the tourney?”

“It is expected of us. Daeron, as I’ve heard from mother, plans on competing. It would not look good if his two eldest brothers do not compete as well.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, “You’re such a wet blanket, Aemond. Fine! But I absolutely refuse to wake up early for this. I have a splitting headache that I wish to sleep off.” 

Aemond pursed his lips, “Noon then.”

“Fine.” 

After another long moment of Aemond just standing there glowering at his brother, he hm’d his way out of the room.

“Finally,” with a sigh, Aegon resumed the unlacing of his breeches.

Notes: I apologize in behalf of Aegon. I will teach him to keep his hands and tongue to himself, don't worry. Also a tidbit of information: Undergarments, or smallclothes for women are quite different to what we wear today. There is no crotch to them at all. It's just pants, with a slit down the middle or a giant hole that exposed the pelvis, buttocks, and the thighs. The reason for this is for convenience -- it was easier for women to use the chamber pot when all they had to do was lift their skirts up and squat or sit, especially when they're wearing many layers of skirts, such as a petticoat or a hoop skirt. When it came to periods, women would make their own tampons by using cotton or wool wrapped around a twig. Wearing rags were difficult, because there was always a chance of a leak or a stain, and to keep it in place was impossible. Sometimes shorts were worn in place, but ultimately, women on their periods would wear red during those days. If there was a stain, no one would see it against the colour.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad '

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[monstersinthecosmos]

Vamptember Day 4 - Missing Scene

{fields of the nephilim - at the gates of silent memory}

The young ones need to hunt the next day, but Marius stays in. He even hears Armand outside the door of his room, and his fledging’s voice mumbling to him. Trying to be quiet, but he doesn’t understand how well blood drinkers can hear.

“What’s wrong?” he’s asking. 

Marius curls up in the dark, his face numb. His whole body feels so cold and heavy. 

He can see Armand, through the young one’s eyes. The way his hand is raised, like he was going to knock on the door, but hesitated and changed his mind. He turns to Daniel, his face flat. No affect in his voice as he says they should go hunt, and leaves without another word.

Something tragic about it, that Armand behaves this way. Marius claws at his collar bone in the dark, unsure how long the numbness of the past few days will protect him from spiraling. Unsure if he can endure seeing Armand like this.

What happened to you, Amadeo?

But they leave. Daniel is still so fresh-faced, barely dead. Can’t skip meals just yet. And Armand… weak around the edges, even at his age, after the ordeal they went through last night. A strange paternal part of Marius wants to tell Armand he needs to eat, too. 

His eyes open, in the pitch black. It aches in his head as he tries to see his surroundings. 

“I won’t endure this,” he whispers, in the dark, and imagines he’s buried under the ice again.

~~

Armand knows he’s walking too fast, and grinds his teeth in focus to control himself. Daniel might be able to keep up, but he doesn’t know any better just yet. He skips a step every few paces, even breathing heavily, too used to needing air. 

“This one,” Armand says, as he stops. His hands have been shoved into his jacket pockets, but he lifts one into the chilly air to point. Some young woman, waiting quietly on beneath the bus stop shelter. She’s smoking a cigarette and drawing patterns in the sand on the sidewalk, oblivious to their presence. 

Daniel is oblivious, too. Gawking at a streetlamp, with the puppy-drunk awe on his face. 

“Pay attention, lover,” Armand says. Too harshly, perhaps, and he feels the guilt immediately as Daniel starts.

“Why her?” he asks.

He tries not to think about Marius most of the time. Those early lessons on how to choose them. And how will Marius react, when he wakes, when they speak again? He’s waiting, back at the compound, for this to be over with. 

Is this what it’s like to have a toddler? Dread prickles all over Armand’s skin.

“Because---” the wounded look on Daniel’s chills him to the bone, and he tries to hear his thoughts. Old habit. The empty silence makes him want to cry. “Because I’ve asked you to.”

“But she’s so young…”

Armand should feed, too. Strange residual weakness from the incident last night, but he needs his composure too badly. Needs to stay with Daniel. 

A better maker would shepherd him through it. And what a waste, that it could be something they share. He could try harder, perhaps, if only so that Marius won’t be disappointed. 

He shivers all over, watching the way Daniel struggles, hearing his racing heart, wondering what he and Marius will be able to read from each other.

Daniel is trembling as the life leaves the girl’s body, and he drops her to the ground, into the little drawing she’d made with the toe of her boot. 

It shouldn’t be like this. Daniel shouldn’t feel so afraid. Armand watches him, quietly instructs him on cleaning up, and misses his innocence. 

Regret aches in Armand’s chest, but he hasn’t the courage to fix it. 

~~~

The girl’s fear echoes in Daniel’s head for the whole drive back. He leans against the passenger door, as if he can put more space between them, and keeps trying to pick the dirt from beneath his nails. 

Armand doesn’t speak, and he drives a little too fast up the mountain road. The fear that bubbles up almost feels like a hangover—a bad decision haunting him, leftover from another life. He tries to focus on something else—the smell of the forest, the stars in the sky, maybe he should turn the radio on—but everything is going by in too much of a blur.

“Come with me,” Armand says, after he parks and shuts the car off. And Daniel follows, unsure what else he’d do with himself if he didn’t. Up into the mansion again, then down into the cellar, past the dozens of store room doors. He stops at the one from earlier, where Daniel had found him after he’d woken up.

He looks over to Daniel, expressionless again, his face half-shadowed and only lit by the sickly yellow of a single bare lightbulb. Impossible to read him, even harder than it had been before, but Daniel suddenly understands.

Marius, he thinks. In this room. He’s not sure how he knows. 

Armand keeps eye contact as he knocks at the door, and Daniel’s stomach lurches as it opens on its own.

“Oh, Armand, please—” he begins to say, taking a step back. Too small in there, to be all closed in together with that one. 

He’d been perfectly kind to Daniel, through everything, if not impersonal. But his presence is too large, before Daniel can even see him. He can hear the ancient heartbeat, like a stone grinding from the darkness. 

Please, I don’t want to, he almost says, but as the door yawns open the words leave him.

  How long had Daniel wondered about Armand’s maker? And how many times had he asked, only for Armand to evade?

A candle glows to life, inside the little room, even though no one lit it. It bounces off the tin-lined walls, and the shape of him emerges as Daniel’s eyes adjust. It’s as if he just appears there, floating up out of the darkness, and it gives Daniel the chills. 

He’s sitting in the corner, his back to the wall. Legs stretched out in front of him, and his ankles crossed. Has he just been… sitting here? In the darkness?

“It’s all right,” he says, and Armand’s mouth twists into a little scowl. They both know he was talking to Daniel, don’t they? And the jealousy of it stiffens Armand’s shoulders immediately.

He grabs Daniel by the arm, though, fist bunching into his jacket sleeve, and pulls him into the room. Shuts the door behind them.

Daniel thinks he might not need to breathe. Vampires don’t, right? But there’s suddenly not enough air in the little room, and he squeezes his hands until his nails dig into his palms. Takes a step back, hitting the door, the knob digging into his hip.

Marius is so still. Ghastly like this, in the candlelight, his skin so unnatural. Almost like that woman, the Queen. 

His face is expressionless as he looks up at Daniel, eyes icy blue and unblinking. And they’d all slept in these little rooms, tucked into soft little nooks amongst Maharet’s relics, but something terrifying about Marius, now that Daniel looks at him. In this tiny room. A creature under the house.

Armand clears his throat. Daniel can’t recall him ever making this noise before. He manages to tear his eyes away from Marius, to study Armand, and he can see how the seams are starting to show as he struggles to keep his face neutral.

“Daniel and I are leaving,” he announces. His hand slips into Daniel’s as if to make sure he’s still there. “We have an island. We’ll be going home.”

“All right,” Marius says. The timbre of his voice vibrates in Daniel’s bones. He leans his head back against the wall, waiting for more information.

“You can come.”

He’s heard the Armand Deadpan plenty of times, and broken through it enough to know when it’s an act. Daniel squeezes his hand, afraid suddenly, unsure what he’s witnessing here, unsure why Armand is so tense. 

“I’d like you to come,” Armand amends, still speaking. “You and Lestat. And, whoever else might need to. It’s safe there. But you should come back with us.”

Daniel’s ears ring.

Marius folds his hands in his lap, tilts his head. Expressionless face, like father like son.

Sometimes, when things were at their worst, he’d imagined that being a vampire would make things clear and easy. He thought he wouldn’t feel fear anymore, wouldn’t feel the panic creep up beneath his skin. But it feels like the walls are closing in, and it’s cold, and he feels everything more, actually. His heart races, the same way it had when he was alive, the way it had when he killed that girl tonight. The way hers had, as she lost herself to terror and begged for her life.

He thought he wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

“Daniel, are you all right?” Marius asks. 

Armand lets go of his hand, turns to face him. His eyes glow for a moment, catching the candlelight just right, like a cat. Marius’s do, too, and Daniel wonders how many people they’ve killed.

“I’ll never see the sun again,” he blurts out.

He digs his palms into his eyes, right as he says it. Embarrassed. He wants to leave, but isn’t sure he can outrun them.

“Your fledgling is afraid of me,” Marius says gently. 

“He’s--” Armand’s mouth clicks shut. “Daniel, stop. You’re being foolish.”

“Amadeo,” Marius says. The sternness of his voice cuts through the small space. It squeezes inside Daniel’s brain, and he drops his hands, to look again.

It’s cut through the mask. Armand takes a step back towards the corner, his face soft now. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Marius shifts his body, sits cross-legged. It makes more space in the room, and Daniel catches his breath a little bit. 

“Daniel,” he says, and it’s so melodic. “Please don’t be frightened of me. Come sit with me.” 

His body obeys, before he realizes it. Stepping closer, sitting on the floor. Marius had slept on a pile of drop cloths, and Daniel thinks he looks like a statue, come to life from beneath the storage sheets.

Armand leans into the corner for another moment, his face conflicted. Daniel sits, though, heart racing. But it feels sort of good, to obey like this, once he does it. Less confusing. Marius beckons him, eyebrows knit in concern. 

“What happened tonight?” Marius asks. Armand looks so human, shrinking back. It takes a moment for Daniel to realize Marius was addressing him, and he he looks from Armand to Marius and back, back and forth, unsure what to say. Marius touches Daniel’s forearm, to trap his attention. “The hunt went badly?”

Daniel could cry. All the bad feelings hit him at once, cycling through. The hunger, the guilt, the claustrophobia. He finally nods.

“You’re still hungry,” Marius observes. 

“She was… too afraid. I didn’t want it.”

“I see.”

Maybe he’s catching his breath, or maybe Marius isn’t so scary up close. Everything about him radiates danger, but there’s something comforting about him. Armand never felt like this, even when he gave Daniel the fucking creeps. Never overcorrected like this.

I had so many questions about you, Daniel thinks, watching the face, the way the candle flickers in his eyes. Shiny eyes like a cat.

“It’s called tapetum lucidum,” Marius says. He offers a smile, to break the tension. “From Latin.”

“What?” Armand asks. 

Marius’s eyebrow raises as he glances over to Armand, then back to Daniel. “The part of your eye that shine likes a cat. It’s called tapetum lucidum.”

“Oh.”

Daniel wants to run again. Wonders if they’ll reach for him, icy hands like ghouls dragging him back into the dark. Marius watches him, as he thinks it, and it breaks through the mask for a moment. He just looks so fucking sad.

I could be like you. Sad forever. What if this never goes away?

Marius’s knuckles graze Daniel’s cheek. Please don’t be frightened, he says. He rolls up the sleeve of his sweater and holds out his forearm. Drink from me, you’re still hungry. You’re too young to be hungry. 

He likes the command behind it. Takes some of the pressure off. 

And it’s only been a few nights, hasn’t it, since he drank from Armand? He hasn’t felt that delirious pull towards it, ready to destroy him. It’s like he got the final fix. But it would be good, wouldn’t  it?

Marius, he thinks. He rolls the name around in his head.

All this time with Armand, and all the questions he’d dodged. He never even got a fucking name out of it. Armand’s Maker had been such an intimidating blank spot. He hadn’t really understood the gravity of Maker, anyway, could only think about the girl he’d fucked in high school whose father had been a fucking Marine. It’s that type of thing, except not at all. 

Reading Lestat’s book hadn’t really said it, either. 

He almost looks to Armand, one more time, for permission, but can’t worry about decoding him anymore. Enough for one night. His stomach flutters as he goes for the bite. 

The Blood is thick. 

Old. 

He’s not sure how his new body works, but thinks if he were human he may have come in his pants. 

He moans around it, and his eyes close. Not a tiny little room anymore, trapped underground, but he sees… colors. An old house, full of art. Painted walls, and huge windows opening onto the canal. Boys are laughing downstairs, and someone is playing a lute. He swallows, and the Blood fills him, and maybe he can endure if it can be like this. 

Beautiful and open, and the bed is soft, the fire is warm. And he sees Armand there. Crisp new clothes, striped shorts that show off the shape of his hose-clad thighs. So much color in his face. Alive, alight. Begging Marius, asking for it over and over, almost as bad as Daniel had been.

Daniel pulls away, opens his eyes. Looks for Armand in the corner, but realizes he’s not there. Hadn’t heard him move, too distracted by the blood rushing in his ears.

Hears the little whimper now, though. Marius draws his hand back, gently, and Daniel’s eyes follow as it settles on Armand’s hip, as he sweeps softly up and down Armand’s side, coaxing him through as Armand grinds their bodies together.

Daniel missed all of it, too absorbed. Hadn’t seen Armand cross the small room, crawl into Marius’s lap. His knees press into Marius’s waist, hands clawing at his shoulders as they kiss. Daniel can hear their hearts, and the wet noises of their mouths, hears the way Armand swallows each mouthful of Blood.

“Va ben,” Marius whispers, when they break apart. “Te vojo ben.”

Armand shakes, and he hiccups when he pulls away.

“Please come home with us,” he pleads, voice full of tears. 

He weeps softly onto Marius’s shoulder, and Daniel reaches out, awkwardly, laying a hand on Armand’s thigh to let him know he’s still here.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please come,” he whines, and the way he begs is just like the vision. 

[thiriann]

Ink - Chapter 1

You can also find me on AO3

A short smutty oneshot

Rating: Explicit

Words: 2.1k

Pairing: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character

Warnings: Named Tav , Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Divergence,Eventual Smut,Lawyer Astarion ,Astarion Being Astarion, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Smut in later Chapters

A prequel to my Eggplant Emoji adult mini comic

Summary:

She nods, her eyes skimming over the lists. "Oh, I'm sorry, could you have this translated? I'm afraid my Elvish isn't quite there yet."

“Elvish? That's all plain common.” he replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“All of it?” she repeats, incredulous.

Thiriann suppresses a sigh. She'll be in for a long night.

"Alright. And for which date do you want them delivered?”

"Oh,delivery won't be necessary. I'll have them tonight."

Thiriann's eyes widen. "Tonight?" she echoes, disbelief coloring her voice. The sheer volume of the order, coupled with the strange, almost archaic language, is overwhelming. And on top of that, the list is handwritten.

She tries to read a few of the items but can't make heads or tails of it, his handwriting, while graceful as all elven handwriting seems to be, is also nearly impossible to decipher. There's no doubt this man has a history in medicine.

Leaning on the mostly empty kitchen counter, Thiriann mixes her instant coffee with practiced boredom as Shadowheart regales her with yet another story about her three dogs. Or is it her cats that she is talking about this time?

"...and then he slapped him across the face only to pretend he never saw anything. Can you imagine?" Shadowheart laughs lost in her tale.

Thiriann offers a tired smile. "Adorable." Taking a sip, she frowns at the bitterness of the coffee and vows to bring her own tomorrow.

Her colleague Lae’zel has just gone into maternity leave and like an idiot Thiriann volunteered to cover her night shifts with the idea the pay would be higher and she'd have most of her days free. But the adjustment is unexpectedly hard, leaving her spending those said days mostly napping on the couch. Why would an office supplies company even have a nightshift is beyond her.

The long, dark nights were starting to wear on her, and the eerie quiet of the office was beginning to feel oppressive.  As she glances at the clock, she realizes she has a few more hours to endure.

“Isn’t it, though? I just wish they got along better.”

Shadowheart continues, energetic as ever, oblivious to the fact Thiriann missed a good 70% of their conversation. It is a pure mystery and somewhat infuriating how she can remain this upbeat during their dreadful graveyard shifts.

Thiriann sighs enviously when a sudden flash of white interrupts her thoughts. She blinks, her heart pounding as a figure, ethereal and almost otherworldly, emerges from the shadows.

The thought that she's finally lost it and is hallucinating crosses her mind when the figure, a man of striking beauty and piercing red eyes, approaches her desk. 

Clad in a gray suit, slightly bigger and longer than it should be, he moves with the grace and elegance befitting of a model or maybe an actor. His white hair is styled into delicate curls that shine as brightly as the sun under the neon light.

Thiriann is still very much transfixed when his voice, deep and resonant, cuts through the silence. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Her breath catches in her throat at the melodic sound. She barely notices as Shadowheart groans "Not him again."

Thiriann's gaze shifts to her colleague having momentarily forgotten she is next to her.  "Who is he?" she whispers.

 "Mr. Ancunin," Shadowheart replies, a hint of amusement in her voice. "A lawyer who works primarily with Lae'zel. Guess he's your problem now."

 She gives her a sadistic little smirk before walking away to her own desk.

As Thiriann turns back to the enigmatic stranger, a strange mix of curiosity and trepidation fills her.

 At a first glance he seems a little lost and timid, looking around nervously, trying to see if anyone was coming. She could understand that; working with Lae'zel would certainly do that to a person.

"I need some help," he says, his voice a low murmur.  A strange pull draws Thiriann closer, an inexplicable urge to assist him.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" she replies, her voice steady.

To her surprise, the look of helplessness vanishes, replaced by a cool, almost arrogant expression as he sees her.  He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, instead there is tension behind them as if bracing himself for something not particularly pleasant.

"Ah, I was so hoping for a friendly face. I usually work with Lae'zel. Could you fetch her for me?"

A surge of irritation rises within her at being treated like a secretary but she suppresses it and instead flashes one of her own smiles reserved for the worst of clients.

"Yes, well, she's out on maternity leave but I'm here to assist you with anything you need."

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a suggestive smirk. "Anything? Don't make promises you can't keep, darling."

The bold flirtation catches her off-guard but before she can respond, he continues, his tone shifting to a more businesslike manner. "Very well, this is my order."

 And just like that as if a switch has been flipped and the flirtatious persona falls away.

He hands her two sheets of paper filled with intricate script.

"The ones marked with a specific color I want only in that color. If you don't have them, don't suggest alternatives. I'll just wait until they're in stock."

She nods, her eyes skimming over the lists. "Oh, I'm sorry, could you have this translated? I'm afraid my Elvish isn't quite there yet."

“Elvish? That's plain common.” he replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“All of it?” she asks, incredulous.

Thiriann suppresses a sigh. She'll be in for a long night.

"Alright. And for which date do you want them delivered?”

"Oh, delivery won't be necessary. I'll have them tonight."

Thiriann's eyes widen. "Tonight?" she echoes, disbelief coloring her voice. The sheer volume of the order, coupled with the strange, almost archaic language, is overwhelming. And on top of that, the list is handwritten.

She tries to read a few of the items but can't make heads or tails of it, his handwriting, while graceful as all elven handwriting seems to be, is also nearly impossible to decipher. There's no doubt this man has a history in medicine.

Luckily, she has a set of prepared excuses for these situations.

"We don't normally take handwritten orders." This is technically true and mostly still followed.

"You don't? Lae'zel never mentioned anything about that," he says, his tone both casual and amused.

Thiriann doubts that very much considering how much of a stickler for rules Lae’zel is. But then again,  she can read Tir'su, maybe she could even handle his lists.

"Very well." Thiriann sighs resigned before standing up. "In order not to get the wrong items, please accompany me to the warehouse while I collect them."

"I thought outsiders weren't permitted there.” He says before shutting his mouth quickly.

Thiriann raises an eyebrow, curious how he knew about that.

“They aren't normally but I can make an exception.”

Now that gets his attention. A smile spreads on his face quick as a flash.

“Oh, you're such a sweetheart. Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. Very well, lead on." He perks up, almost as if allowed to view a forbidden treasury.

An awkward silence descends between them as they walk through the dimly lit corridor, broken only by the soft scuff of their footsteps, making the normally short distance seem endless. He is near silent as he walks behind her and a strange sense of unease washes over her, making her feel slightly on edge.

As they begin to search for the items, it quickly becomes clear that this is going to be a bigger challenge than she anticipated.  The man's demands are specific and his patience is thin. Every time she misreads a word or misinterprets a symbol, he sighs in frustration.

“So, you want the… pink pens by Nautiloid Inks?”

“Purple, darling. What use would I have for pink pens?”

She isn’t sure what use he’ll have of purple ones either but goes to look for them all the same.

“Alright, next is a book called “The art of infernal negotiations” by…” she pauses completely at a loss. By the gods is that even a word? Even the individual letters are unreadable.

“K'ha'ssji'trach'ash. The blighter is called K'ha'ssji'trach'ash.” he snaps annoyed.

“Right. I’ll go get it.”

At about the fifth item he sighs and stares at the cart.

“Wait, that's all we've got so far? Oh, it's going to take hours to collect them all.” He complains in a high-pitched whine and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

Now he is getting it. At least she won’t be alone in her misery.

“If you’ve changed your mind, I’m more than happy to write up your order to get delivered to your office.”

“No, this will do… I suppose. Some of the items I’ll need for tomorrow.”

"You know," she suggests, "it might be faster if you dictate the list. I can look for the items while you do that."

He considers her suggestion for a moment, before he shrugs. "That might work”.

As they work together, a strange camaraderie begins to form. They settle into an easy sort of rhythm, one following the other, and the initial tension between them starts to dissipate, replaced by a sense of shared purpose.

"Well, this is everything then," he says, surveying the cart full of items.

"Really? That was rather fast. We make a rather excellent team," Thiriann replies, a small smile playing on her lips.

"And it's only taken half an hour of overtime," she adds, a hint of amusement in her voice."Let's return upstairs, and I'll write you the invoice quickly.”

"You know, I don't think I've seen you here before," he remarks as they walk, his eyes lingering a moment too long. "I would have undoubtedly remembered such a beautiful face. Are you a new hire?"

 She rolls her eyes playfully . "I've worked here for four years, actually. Just new to the night shift."

"Oh? And how has that been going for you? Have you found your true calling as a nocturnal creature?" he asks, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Not at all. I have no idea how people do it," she admits, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"Ah, a night owl in the making then. The secret is simple, my dear : embrace the darkness, in time it will become as much part of you as the sun.” he pauses for a moment “That and copious amounts of caffeine.”

“Is that what worked for you? You seem…happy with this lifestyle.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I was a mess at first. But it does get easier.” He says with a surprisingly gentle and earnest look.

Maybe it is the exhaustion or sleep deprivation but the reassuring words of this stranger actually manage to bring her comfort.

“Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.” She says with a smile and Astarion can’t help but find it rather captivating.

After a few more minutes, they are back in the office and Thiriann quickly writes up the invoice before handing it to him.

"There you go, Mr. Ancunin. Pleasure working with you," she says and finds she actually means it to an extend.

 "Please, darling, just Astarion, now that we've acquainted ourselves," he corrects, a smirk playing on his lips.

Astarion she thinks, even his name is enchanting.

Suddenly, he thrust his phone into her hand.

"What is this for?" she asks, confused.

"For your number, darling. Obviously. I need to be able to reach you if I have an order, don't I?" he replies almost mockingly.

"Oh, you can just ring up the office number on the website. I'm sure someone will—" she begins before he interrupts her.

"But you are my personal provider, aren't you? What if whoever is on shift is not equipped to handle my very specific needs?" his tone is innocent but the look on his face is anything but.

He is making a bit of a stretch, but she has indeed exchange phone numbers with almost all of her clients. "Yes, I suppose you have a point. Here is my number," she says, quickly dialing the digits.

He effortlessly slings the enormous supply bag over his shoulder and glances down at the new contact before a sultry grin appears on his face.

 "It was a pleasure working with you, Thiriann," he says. Her name, spoken in his smooth voice, sends a shiver down her spine and a furious blush finds a way to her cheeks.

And with that, he strolls away, his hips swaying in a rather hypnotic manner.

[teawithnosugar]

All Alone

Cheater!Ellie x Mentally ill!Reader

CW: angst/no comfort, mentions of sex???, anxiety???, depression, suicide??? kinda???, self-harm, alcohol consumption, mentions of smoking WORDS: 1.2k SYNOPSIS: Ellie cheats on you and everything goes downhill. (Modern AU) SONG: Goth - Sidewalks and Skeletons

"My hollow heart finds it too hard to trust We're all alone until we turn back to dust"

AN: I wanted to make this way longer but I have other stuff I wanna finish so this is it ig :<

You loved too much, a flaw you were aware of since childhood. Always giving too much to people who took without giving anything in return. So when you fell in love with a green-eyed brunette who made you feel good in more ways than one, you best believe you poured your heart and soul into that relationship. You gave her everything.

You met when you moved into the apartment next door, fate seemingly leading you to her everyday. You were hired at the same cafe she worked at, invited to the same parties she was, and she had approached you one day, asking you if you were stalking her. The moment you giggled in response, everything clicked and the rest was history.

You never questioned the way she knew you like the back of her hand and the way you barely understood her. She knew how fragile you were, pacing back and forth the bridge of normality and emptiness. She knew she held your world within her grasp, but you remained oblivious to the amount of women she had at her disposal.

When you walked into her apartment using the spare keys she gave you and saw her in bed, sweaty and naked with another woman, shock enveloped your very being. Paralyzed, you witnessed her hurried attempts to dress, her lips moving in haste but you heard none of it, only the pounding of your heart in your ears. You just wordlessly walked back to your apartment, locking the door and never leaving ever again.

A week has passed, and throughout this time, your ears have been tormented by the filthy noises of different girls entering and leaving her apartment every night. If there was one thing you immediately understood about Ellie during your relationship, it was that sex was her best stress reliever. You wish you could say you were glad that your pain caused her so much stress, but, find yourself devoid of emotion.

You wondered how long this had been going on. You’ve only just heard the noises now that you started leaving the door of your small balcony open. Hers was right next to it and always open. You never opened yours though, dreading the thoughts that would assail your mind once you gazed down upon the perilous streets below. You weren’t afraid anymore though.

You sat on the pavement of your balcony, legs dangling in the air as they slotted between the metal of the railing. Your dark eyes stared into the sky, struggling against the city's light pollution, you squint, yearning to glimpse whatever celestial bodies remain visible. There was a lit blunt between your lips as you listened carefully to the voice of the woman Ellie was with. She sounded so alive, while here you were, barely eating, still in the same clothes as that fateful day, lost in visions of eternal darkness.

For hours, you linger in that space, even after the lewd voices next door faded, and the scorching sun rose and set, you sat there, staring downward at the streets below, questioning why you have yet to surrender to the void.

The sun had heated the metal railings of your balcony, scorching the skin of your thighs that now fitted so well between the small gaps. The smell of burning flesh may have been what attracted the footsteps that faded into your hearing. As the footsteps paused, a familiar shadow loomed over you from the side. As you turn your head to the side to meet those green eyes, , your body creaks with the strain of prolonged immobility..

One can only imagine the sight that befell her—eyebrows arching in shock, mouth agape, her guilt-ridden gaze scanning you as though you were a crime scene. Cigarette butts littered the small area of your balcony. Your frame has withered since her last encounter, excessively so. To the point where your legs slip effortlessly through the narrow gaps in the railing. The skin on your thighs a deep red and creamy white as the flesh started melting off. There were deep red gashes on your thin arms, flowing onto the concrete.

Remaining eerily still, you watch as she climbed from her balcony to yours. Gently yet swiftly, she guides you into your apartment, breath quickening as she felt how cold you were despite sitting in the sun for god knows how long. It didn’t take long for her to call an ambulance.

Lacking the strength to move, you acknowledge that you may be dying—be it from starvation or the loss of vital fluids—it didn’t matter. You had died days ago.

Your hollow heart found it hard to trust Ellie and her words. She laid you on her lap, and you stared blankly up at her. You tried to engrave her face into your mind, the tears flowing over her freckles from her wide green eyes and her trembling form.

It was sick but your heart swelled because she actually cared, and your mind found solace in the fact she’d suffer too.

First, your vision fades, and for the first time in a week, clarity pierces through the incessant ringing in your ears. Her trembling pleas and tearful apologies. Her words were unintelligible but for the first time in a year, you felt like you understood all the thoughts going through her head.

She shouldn’t have let you be

She should’ve tried talking to you right after

She shouldn’t have been so distant

She should’ve opened up

She shouldn’t have cheated

She should’ve went to you with her problems

You gave her a smile, and you knew that was the final nail driven into the coffin of your relationship, eliciting a slight flinch from her and a resounding sob.

As your remaining senses fade into oblivion, you embrace the darkness that welcomes you with open arms. Leaving her all alone like you had been for so long. .

She stood by your side, a radiant presence in the dimly lit kitchen of the bustling house party. The soft yellow lights illuminated her green eyes, while you sat on a barstool, seeking refuge in the shot glass cradled in your grasp. She stared at you for a while, her curious scrutiny enveloped you, tracing the contours of your being, looking you up and down, unable to resist the gravitational pull of curiosity before finally saying the words she had harbored within her mind for weeks that found their way to her lips.

“You stalking me or something?”

Her words possessed a rawness, unadorned and direct. You were so drunk out of your mind that laughter erupted from your depths, cascading forth like a bubbling spring. Your laugh visibly stirred something in her, her confident facade faltered, unveiling a light blush that bloomed upon her freckled skin, like a rose in bloom.

In that fleeting moment, both of you sensed it, an unspoken realization in that moment that you were both fucked.

Shaking your head as your laughter gradually subsided, you extended a hand toward her, an offering of connection.

“I’m Y/N” your voice a soft symphony that carried your essence.

The brunette, hesitant yet undeniably drawn to you accepted your hand, rough hands intertwining with yours. She gave you a small smile, a thin veil hiding all the troubles she’d eventually give you.

“I’m Ellie”

[storiesiwrite]

Set-up ☾ Chwe Hansol

Genre: fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining

Word count: 3864

Summary: In which Hansol gets set up by his friends (Jeonghan, mainly) on a movie-night date with you.

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

Hansol sets foot in your apartment, two pints of Ben and Jerry’s in his hands, with the genuine expectation that today is going to be a group hangout. 

After all, the plan has been to have a movie night at your place along with Wonwoo, Joshua, Jeonghan, and Minghao. But when an hour has passed and there are no signs of the others—only text messages from them, saying that they all suddenly have other pressing matters to attend to—Hansol begins feeling anxious. 

And when Hansol feels anxious, he can’t stay still.

You’re in the kitchen, fetching plates and putting them on the counter alongside the takeout you ordered earlier, oblivious to the way he’s walking back and forth in the living room. Realization dawns on him, slow and dreadful.

Have the others... have they set him up on a date with you?

Panic seizes him. He tries to remain calm, tries to convince himself that his thoughts can’t be any more wrong. But still, he remains unswayed. And so he proceeds to the restroom, locks the door, and dials the person he suspects orchestrated the whole thing.

It takes only one ring for Jeonghan to pick up the phone, as if he’s been waiting for the call.

“Hello?”

“What’s this?” Hansol hisses. “Has this been the plan all along?”

A chuckle from the other end. “Hello to you, too. Are you in the bathroom right now? You sound so... echoey.”

“What exactly did you mean you can’t come?” He asks, pacing back and forth yet again. “I was at your place literally this morning. You told me to go to her place first and that you’d catch up.”

“I just remembered I have to pick up some letters and deliveries I got over the weekend.”

Hansol stops moving. “It’s Sunday. Post offices are closed.”

A long silence. “Anyway... how is she?”

“Dude, don’t switch the subject.” Closing his eyes, Hansol rubs the bridge of his nose. He somehow has the feeling that Jeonghan’s also dissuaded everyone else from coming, because what are the odds that four people bail on a hangout that has been long planned? 

“Alright, alright,” Jeonghan concedes. “I simply told the others of my plan and they all agreed to it immediately. But shouldn’t you be thanking me, instead? Isn’t this the scenario that you’ve always imagined and wanted realized?” 

Yes, Hansol has to admit. This is the scenario, in which he gets to spend time with you after having maintained a crush on you so great that he feels embarrassed simply thinking about it. He can hear the smugness in his friend’s voice, can visualize the smirk that settles upon his features. 

At times like this, he feels like hurling a pillow at Jeonghan’s face.

He remains silent instead, leaning his head on the wall as Jeonghan continues, nonchalant. “You’ve once hinted that you want to ask her out, but you never know how. So consider this skipping a step.” 

Damn. He hates the way Jeonghan reads him and his feelings like an open book—feelings he tries so hard to hide behind that veneer of calm he always wears. But more than that, he hates the fact that Jeonghan is right.

Hansol isn’t one to be overly expressive of how he feels, but there’s no denying that he really, really likes you. 

He supposes he should feel grateful for ‘skipping a step,’ as Jeonghan put it. Skipping the mustering-the-courage-to-ask-you-out part and plunging straight into the going-on-a-date part. Though perhaps, a little warning would be nice.

Because if this were an actual date—that is to say, one you’d both actually planned beforehand—he would’ve brought along flowers. He remembers accompanying you as you swung by the local florist weeks ago and pointed out facts about the plants that were on display all over the small shop. Jasmine, he remembers, is your favorite kind, for its sweet scent and its white petals that are soft to the touch.

And if this were an actual date, he would’ve dressed up more appropriately. Before going to your place, he spent a long time deciding on what to wear, trying on one sweater just to change to another with a different color; the mess that is his apparels currently still lying strewn across his apartment floor is proof enough. He spent a long time staring at his own reflection in the mirror, worrying about the little flecks on his face that he doesn’t like. 

He wonders now what you think of them. He wonders what you think of him. 

“Is she aware of this?” is all Hansol can say.

“Nope,” Jeonghan replies. And, as if he can sense Hansol’s doubts, he adds, “don’t worry, Sol. You’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine. Say hi to her for me, would you?” Another voice he recognizes—Minghao’s. Hansol curses. I knew it. 

Jeonghan lets out a laugh. “Now, get out there before she thinks you’re bailing on her, too.”

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

“Hey,” you call out when Hansol saunters into the living room, your eyes glued to the tv, remote in one hand as you sift through some movies. “The food is ready. I’m thinking that maybe we can eat while watching.”

He doesn’t answer. When you turn back to look at him, your smile falls. “Is everything... is everything okay? You look slightly pale.”

An expression flickers across his face, so briefly you can’t gauge it. Then he gestures to his phone. “It’s just something from work that I need to get done. Nothing to worry about, really.” 

You can’t help the worry that makes its way to your voice. “You sure about that? I’d totally understand. I mean, I know this isn’t exactly what we planned in the group chat, what with the others not showing up.” A nervous laugh as you stand up from the couch where you’ve been sitting. “It’s completely okay if you wanna take a rain check.”

He shakes his head as he moves closer to you, sliding his phone in his back pocket. “No, no. No worries. I actually don’t mind. Do you?”

“Not at all,” you reply, though you can’t seem to drown out your nerves. The fact that you’re alone with Hansol...

If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t put too much thought into it. But this is Hansol, and it feels too much like a date. 

It’s stupid, really, the fact that you’ve been into him since the day you met him for the first time. He’s a neighbor who lives only a few streets away from you, but you hadn’t been properly introduced to each other all those months ago; you never had the chance.

That is, until the day you saw him in a supermarket just around your block and mustered the courage to strike up a conversation with him. He immediately recognized you, said you were the girl who always had her purple headphones on, and you’d laughed. 

You’d never been one to fall for someone so quickly, but you felt your heart flutter the way it never had before. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to care about the things you said, how he respectful he was. Or the way he seemed to notice and remember such a trivial thing about you even without knowing who you were.

That marked the beginning of everything. Through him, you met Jeonghan and Joshua, and you introduced him to your closest friends, Wonwoo and Minghao, too. An odd bunch, all of you, but everyone got along really well, and it wasn’t long before you all began keeping your Saturdays free for group get-togethers.

It certainly wasn’t long before this silly, little crush of yours developed into something more. 

You decided Hansol never had to find out. And he never would, if the others always tag along during the meet-ups. But then this happens, and you have the sinking feeling that Jeonghan is behind it. (After all, he was the person who figured out how you feel and asked you outright just to confirm his suspicions. He’s the kind of person who revels in the fact that he’s right, and as much as you hate to admit it, he always is.)

“Cool,” Hansol now says with a shrug, oblivious to what is running through your mind. A smile settles on his face, one so small and private that you can’t help the warmth that spreads across your cheeks as you look away.

Damn.

When you say nothing in return—because how can you, especially when he’s looking at you like that?—he takes it as a sign to continue. “I don’t know what to watch, though. I feel like I’ve seen too many things already. You have any ideas?”

“Um... what about Ghibli films?” You suggest, fiddling with the remote in your hands. “They’re your favorites, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but I was thinking of watching your favorites instead. Or something you’ve always wanted to watch but never got around to.”

You turn to him to answer, only to find that he’s standing mere paces away from you. Your breath catches a little, and as your eyes meet his, you hope Hansol doesn’t see through you. 

He’s so close. So close that for the briefest moment, you let yourself wonder how it would feel like to reach out and run your fingers through his dark brown hair. You wonder what his hands would feel like tied to your own, or against your cheeks—

Nope. It’s precisely thoughts like these that drive a friendship to ruin.

“So what do you have in mind?” Hansol prompts again in a quieter voice, that beautiful, timid smile of his never leaving his features.

“I’m... Well, I like rom-coms, which I know aren’t exactly your thing—”

“Hey, I do watch and enjoy rom-coms from time to time,” Hansol says, feigning offense, and you laugh. 

“Wait, wait. I change my mind. I’ve been wanting to watch this new Rian Johnson movie.” You plop down on the couch and, using the remote, click on the search button. “The sequel to ‘Knives Out’. I forgot what it’s called though...”

“Isn’t it called ‘Glass Onion’?” Hansol asks as he sits down right next to you. You try not to think about how close his body is to yours; even just the slightest shift and you’d graze him. You focus on the gleam in his eyes instead, the excitement that takes over him when he talks about movies.

“Yeah! Exactly.” 

“I watched the trailer yesterday,” he says. “It looked good. Let’s go with that one, then.”

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

It’s only been five minutes into the movie, and Hansol has finished devouring his Chinese takeout already.

“Whoa, slow down there,” you say, smiling. “Someone’s hungry.”

Hansol nods, setting down his takeout box on the table in front of him. “So hungry.”

“Did you not eat lunch?”

“Well... actually, I did.” He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Swung by McDonalds to grab two double-cheeseburgers and fries. Was that all? Oh yeah, and a vanilla milkshake, too. But my point still stands.”

And there it is, that infectious, broad grin he loves to see. “Hansol!”

“What? I can’t help it.” He leans back against the sofa and adds, in a murmur, “I eat quite a lot.”

“I know. That’s why I ordered extras for you.”

At that, Hansol smiles to himself. It does something to him, the fact that you care and pick up on trivial details like that. Such a small thing, really, but it makes him happy. You make him happy. 

The rest of the movie feels like a blur. At some point, Hansol loses track of its plot and no longer bothers trying to keep up. It’s hard, he realizes, to keep his eyes on the screen when you’re right there, beside him, so much more interesting than any film—or anything in general—can ever be. 

He watches as you make fun of the ridiculous accent that detective, Benoit Blanc, has, smiling as you try (and fail) to imitate it in between fits of laughter. How someone can be so lovely is beyond him.

It’s always been crystal clear to him, the fact that he’s fallen for you, but this—always finding new things about someone that make him fall for them over and over—is new. Foreign. 

And he’s in deep. 

So buried in his thoughts, it takes him a moment to realize you’ve turned to your side, looking at him like you just said something and you’re expecting him to reply. 

“Hm?” He asks.

“Are you okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

He’s quiet, trying to form a response. “I’ve been enjoying the movie.”

“But you always make some sort of commentary whenever you watch movies. I can tell something’s on your mind.” 

True, he wishes he could say. You’re constantly running through my mind, do you know that? 

Before he has the chance to deny it, you continue. “We can watch something else, or even stop watching altogether, if that’s what you prefer. I really don’t mind, Sol.” 

Putting the takeout box on the table, you grab the remote to change the channel. And Hansol, acting on impulse, quickly leans forward and lightly grabs your hand to stop you.

You turn your head, your gaze meeting his. Something inscrutable flickers across your face. He’s never seen it up close; he’s never been this close to you, in fact, and it takes everything in him to remain steady despite his heart beating like a frenzy. You’re so close he can see the beautiful, dark specks in your eyes, so, so close he can easily lean in to kiss you—

Chwe Hansol, you’re an idiot, he thinks, stopping himself in his track of mind. He can feel warmth creeping up his neck, unwelcome. This is highly inappropriate and too intimate for someone who only sees you as a friend. You’ve gone and made her uncomfortable, and now she’s going to think you’re being too forward. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And yet, you stay put, not letting go. He’d like to think that’s an invitation to stay where he is, but he knows better. So he retracts his hand from yours and retreats. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what I was thinking,” he apologizes profusely, panic throwing his thoughts into disarray. “I probably wasn’t even thinking, and I just grabbed your hand like that and I’m just so sorry—”

But then you reach out and grab his hand, in a move that silences and unravels him bit by bit. “It’s really okay.” 

“It is?”

Your smile is timid. You intertwine your fingers with his, slowly and hesitantly, like you’re not sure if this is what you should be doing. Adorable, how shy you’re being right now; he’s never imagined he would have that sort of effect on you. 

“Is this okay?” It’s your turn to ask. 

The grin on his face is the widest he’s ever had. “It’s more than okay.”

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

If you’re being honest, none of this turns out the way you expected it would. 

Earlier this evening, when you got texts from everyone else saying they were bailing, you thought the night would fizzle out quickly. You imagined Hansol would grow bored without the other boys and scour for a reason to immediately head home. 

And yet, here you are, watching a movie beside him while holding his hand. Holding his hand. 

It feels surreal, the sensation of his skin against yours. A part of you wishes to believe that this is real, that perhaps your feelings for him aren’t as unrequited as they seem. But another, greater part of you fears that this is just a friendly gesture. Friends hold hands, don’t they?

But not Hansol. You know for a fact that he never gets touchy when he’s with his female friends. He keeps his distance out of respect, allowing only the occasional hug and not much more. 

Perhaps this is a sign that he likes you, too. Or perhaps, this is just his way of saying that he sees you as a friend around whom he can be comfortable. Unfortunately for you, the latter seems more plausible.

Before you let yourself fall into an overanalyzing spiral, you stand up, rather abruptly, from the couch and turn to face him. You miss his touch the moment you let go. “I think it’s time we eat the ice cream. Don’t you?”

He blinks. His eyes flicker to the spot on his hand where yours was. “Uh, um. Yeah, sure.”

“Alright, I’ll be back real quick.” You dart away without waiting for his response.

The kitchen provides some sort of refuge, albeit temporary. Refuge against... whatever it was that led you both to holding hands. The situation feels like traversing across an unfamiliar territory, the lines between the old and the new blurring, and you’re not sure what to make of it.

Do you like the feeling of his touch on your hand? Of course. Does said feeling render you so nervous you feel like combusting at any moment? Absolutely.

Hence, the kitchen. Away from Hansol.

Your hands have gone all clammy. You wipe them on the rough surface of your jeans, trying to focus. What are you supposed to be doing in the kitchen, again? Ah, right. To take the Ben and Jerry’s out of the fridge. Right.

“I’ll grab the spoons.” Hansol’s voice. Soft, and yet you almost jump at the sound of it, the tension increasing tenfold at his presence. 

Perhaps he realizes what’s going on, because he’s looking at you and asks, “Did I startle you?”

He did startle you. Though not as much as this very moment, when he walks towards you and lightly grabs your hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he continues with an apologetic look. Your mind seems to register nothing else but his touch. His thumb, now tracing patterns across the back of your hand. “You alright?” 

All you can do is nod. Hansol stays silent, patiently waiting. He doesn’t seem all that convinced.

“I’m nervous, actually. I’ve never had a boy hold my hand before,” you finally confess with embarrassment.

He looks surprised. “Never?”

“Never. I’ve had crushes before, yes, but I’ve never acted upon them. I just… admire them from afar and wait until the feelings fade.”

“Really? I find that rather hard to believe, coming from someone as amazing as you.”

God. He really has no right saying things like that and expecting you not to blush. “What about you?”

“I think the first and only time I held someone’s hand was when I was in second grade,” Hansol says. “There was this girl who asked me to be her boyfriend. I didn’t know what it all meant, how a relationship worked. I was so clueless I just went with it when she grabbed my hand.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, imagining Hansol at the age of seven. You briefly wonder how he was back then, if much has changed. “Is that really the only time?”

“Yeah, it is.” He shakes his head and smiles at the memory. This is the first time he opens up about his dating life; you’ve only gleaned very few things from the others, but never directly from him. “I never dated anyone. It’s always been clear to me that I wanted time to myself before I start dating someone.”

A pause. “And now?”

He contemplates for a moment before saying, “That’s no longer what I want.”

“No?” 

"No,” he replies, not meeting your eyes. Both of you stay that way, wrapped in comfortable silence that stretches for a moment or two before it breaks.

“Thank you,” Hansol begins, moving closer. He never once lets go of your hand.

Your brow furrows in confusion. “For what?”

“For, um, for tonight.” He sounds so terribly shy, unlike his usual carefree self. “And for letting me hold your hand.”

Your heart warms at that. “Why wouldn’t I let you?”

He offers you a sheepish smile. “I guess… I guess I never thought you liked me like that.” “Like what?” You ask, though you damn well know the answer. And he damn well knows he doesn’t have to explain to you what he means. 

It’s written plainly all over you, in the way your gaze keeps searching for him in a room. In the way you become a nervous mess whenever he’s near, as much as you try to hide it under the semblance of calm and all those foolish, lighthearted jokes. In the way your heart is currently beating so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. 

And when he leans forward, his face a mere breath away from yours, your heart threatens to stop altogether.

“Like this,” Hansol murmurs, tipping your chin up with his fingers. And slowly, his lips meet yours in a kiss.

You’d be outright lying if you said you hadn’t envisioned this scenario many times before; this moment feels like visiting a recurring dream. But you never imagined he would kiss this way, tenderly and softly, his soft yet strong hand caressing your jaw. You’ve barely processed what’s happening when he draws away from you.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” he admits in a low voice, looking at your lips like he longs for them. 

You don’t know how or why; perhaps it’s his confession that drives you onward, gives you the courage to take a plunge and utter these next words. “What took you so long?”

He takes that as a sign to pull you in and kiss you once more, deeper this time. Closing your eyes, you kiss him back, cautiously at first, and then with an eagerness and yearning—the kind that leaves you and your emotions naked, exposed. It’s frightening, really, willingly giving your whole heart to someone who’s stolen fragments of it since the moment you met them.

Yet you’ll learn to realize, in the months to come, that it is in the best way possible, because it’s under Hansol’s touch that you feel safe and grounded. He has a way of making you laugh with his awkwardness and wits, lifting you up during the stormiest of days and the darkest of nights. And, above all else, he appreciates you, makes you feel heard and seen for who you truly are. Loved for who you truly are.

But for now, you try to bask in the feeling of his lips on yours. 

Your back hits the kitchen counter as you gently tug Hansol closer to you, and he snakes his hands behind you to rest them on the tabletop, framing you. Unlike the first time, he now kisses you like he can’t get enough of you, and you kiss him over and over until you’re both breathless.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. And then softly laughs. 

“What?” You ask him.

His voice is hoarse as he says, “I guess we have to thank Jeonghan for this.”

You can’t help grinning at that, your eyes closed. “I guess we do.”

[plinthpilled]

Hii! Can you do some headcanons about sejanus x covey|Fem reader please? 🫶🏻

ofc!! here you go <3 (sorry for not doing this sooner I was losing it 😭)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:

❀ story based headcanons ❀

- you two would have met during the first performance that Lucy gray was back from the games. you met his eye in the crowd but didn't think much of it. you definitely thought he was cute but he was a peacekeeper so you let the thought slip your mind.

- Lucy gray of course noticed it and thought A LOT of it. she just thought it'd be the cutest thing if you and sejanus and her and coryo could go on double dates. she planned yall's future together in a matter of seconds (she's adorable I love her)

- after the show she went up to you and basically dragged you over to the two men, telling you the plan of what was going to happen.

"you already know who Coriolanus is, right? " she asked. "yes, of course. you won't stop talking about him!" you giggle. she rolls her eyes jokingly. "well his little friend over there, sejanus, I caught him looking at you like you were just the most stunnin' thing he ever saw. so y'all are gonna talk and it's gonna be great, okay?" she said, still grabbing your hand and leading the way. you sigh and nod, knowing there was no way to talk her out of this. you weren't mad at the idea of getting to know him either way though.

- all of you talked and introduced yourselves and all that. you couldn't help but stare into his big brown doe eyes. he was ravishing. from the way he was looking at you, you guessed he thought the same about yourself.

- Lucy gray made a plan to bring the two peacekeepers up to the lake with the Covey. you tried to conceal your excitement about getting to see sejanus without a shirt and wet hair but apparently it wasn't hidden that well.

you felt a tap on your shoulder. "stop daydreaming about seeing him topless, y/n!" Lucy gray whispered into your ear and you flushed. you didn't know you were being that obvious. "why are you blushing?" sejanus asked. "uh- no reason!" you stammered.

- the day had finally arrived. you were dreading and also dreaming going up to the lake. it was a scary thing to you but the thought of getting to know the brown haired peacekeeper excited you. you put on a hand made bikini in your favorite color and a flowy dress on top. you met up with the two boys at the designated meeting spot then started walking.

- the covey and coryo walked ahead of you and sej. you were thankful for the space but it made you nervous. thankfully, sejanus was doing most of the talking.

"it's real beautiful up here." he said. "yeah, it is. the view gets even better by the lake, though" you reply. "my view right now is perfect." he stated. you were confused for a minute but then realized he was staring at you. you averted your gaze, feeling heat rise to your face. he chuckled, knowing he made you blush. he stepped closer and brushed his hand against yours.

- you got to the lake and sejanus' body was even better than you could've imagined. you tried not to stare but couldn't resist. I mean, who could? he was also drinking in your shape, unbeknownst to you though. you were a tad bit oblivious to anything that wasn't his looks right then. you eventually ran up to him and pushed him in the water, jumping after him. when you resurfaced, he grabbed you by the waist, holding you close. you took your chances and kissed him. his lips were chapped but somehow unbelievably soft. he didn't pull away so you knew he wanted this too. you heard cheering from the covey and broke the kiss. from then on, you and sejanus became a couple. he came to every show and essentially worshipped you. you did the same for him in every way that you could.

-Lucy gray's dreams of a double date came true!!

❀ misc. headcanons ❀

- sejanus would love for you to sing the covey's songs to help him go to sleep at night. even if you didn't sing at the shows, you knew the songs by heart and he thought your voice was the most angelic thing.

- he would never ever ever miss a single show you guys put on since the night y'all met. he loved seeing you in your element and thriving.

- he'd always try to come up to the lake with the covey whenever he could. he rarely missed the chance to see you in a bathing suit ;) wink wink. but he also just enjoyed spending time with you in such a beautiful and secluded area where he felt so safe in your arms (or with you in his arms)

- he would write to his Ma about you, talking about your music and how it was heavenly. he wrote about you like you were a deity sent from above. he loved every single thing about you and made sure that his Ma knew that.

- he started learning the words to the songs you performed. you would be playing your instrument and he'd sing along quietly without even realizing what he was doing. you thought it was the cutest thing ever and engraved those memories into your mind. he has a surprisingly amazing voice too but you wouldn't mind even if he didn't.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･

a/n: hope you enjoyed anon!! again I'm rlly sorry for not writing anything for a while, I was going thru a rlly hard breakup 😭😭 I'm feeling better now though!! I'm gonna be back on my author shit soon I pinkie promise!

[sicknessbysalem]

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Ten Substitution

@monthofsick | day ten: sick with an audience motion sickness

tw for emeto, anxiety, motion sickness, brief description of crime scenes at the beginning

Not many things bothered Vanessa McAllister.

Vanessa McAllister was an EMT. She was a police officer. She was a behavioral analyst. She saw blood, guts, and gore on a regular basis. She victims with heads bashed in or riddled with bullets. She'd been to highway wrecks. She had crawled in through smashed windows, she had come to murder scenes and domestic calls.

There were few things that bothered or scared Vanessa McAllister.

Except the family of Willow Atkinson. They scared her.

Well, scared maybe wasn't the right word. But when Willow had mentioned Vanessa meeting them someday, that scared her.

Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had been creeping up on her ever since Willow had first mentioned the trip to meet her family and attend her brother Walker's season opener race. She had tried to mask her anxiety with excitement, but now, as they drove down the winding roads toward the small town where Willow's family lived, Vanessa's stomach churned with nerves.

As they journeyed down the winding roads, Vanessa attempted to distract herself with one of her crime novels. She figured immersing herself in a world of fictional crimes and investigations would provide a welcome escape from her mounting anxiety, as weird as it may be. But, she always was fond of making fun of the poor executions in books. However, try as she might to focus on the words printed on the page, her mind kept drifting back to the impending meeting with Willow's family.

She couldn't help but replay scenarios in her head, imagining all the ways the encounter could go wrong. What if they didn't like her? What if she said or did something to embarrass herself in front of them? What if they saw through her tough exterior and realized just how nervous she really was?

Willow didn't talk much about her family. Vanessa was sure there was probably some strain on the relationship, there had to be. Vanessa lnew what relational strain with family looked like, she lived it, so she never pressed Willow on it. But, it was understood by both of them that Vanessa needed to meet Willow's parents at least once before the two were set to marry. Vanessa would, in time, introduce Willow to her dad. But, probably not her mom. She really didn't want to take Willow to a maximum security prison. Even though Vanessa knew she could protect her, and knew Willow could protect herself, the idea of her sweet and mostly innocent fiancee entering a maximum security facility was almost laughable.

Vanessa glanced over at Willow, fidgeting with her engagement band, who was humming along to the radio, seemingly oblivious to her partner's inner turmoil. How could someone be so calm and composed in the face of such a daunting prospect? Vanessa couldn't help but envy her fiancée's seemingly unshakeable confidence.

But try as she might to emulate Willow's cool demeanor, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her from within. The closer they got to their destination, the more her stomach roiled with nerves.

Suddenly, the car swerved around a particularly sharp bend in the road, jolting Vanessa out of her thoughts. She gripped the door handle tightly, her knuckles turning white as she fought back a wave of nausea.

"Shit, sorry," Willow said, "No clue what was in the road."

Vanessa shook her head, "No, no it's fine." He voice sounded tense.

"Hey, you okay?" Willow asked, casting a concerned glance in her direction.

Vanessa forced a tight smile. "Yeah, just… not a fan of these winding roads, I guess."

Willow reached over and squeezed her free hand reassuringly. "We're almost there, Nessie. Just a few more hours. Do you want me to stop at the next exit? We could fill up the car and you can take a breather, maybe get some water or something? I think the next one is like, five miles out?"

"Sure," Vanessa said, nodding, "I can run in and get us something to drink?"

Willow nodded, "Yeah, that sounds good."

As they approached the next exit, Willow guided the car smoothly off the highway and into the gas station parking lot. Vanessa felt a wave of relief wash over her at the prospect of a brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of the car.

"Here we are," Willow said, pulling up to one of the gas pumps. "I'll fill up the tank. You go ahead and grab us something, okay?"

Vanessa nodded gratefully, eager to escape the confines of the car for a few moments. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the crisp air, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

Inside the gas station, Vanessa decided to take a moment. She felt sick, but maybe if she just splashed some cold water on her face or soemthing, then it might calm her stomach down a bit. She pushed open the door and stumbled inside, collapsing against the sink as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Closing her eyes, Vanessa took slow, deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. But despite her efforts, the feeling of nausea persisted, gnawing at her from the inside out.

With a frustrated sigh, Vanessa splashed some cold water on her face and forced herself to look in the mirror. She could do this. She had to do this, for Willow's sake if not her own. She didn't want to make the trip any harder for herself or Willow by getting sick..

Feeling slightly more composed, Vanessa made her way back to the front of the store, grabbing a few drinks and a snack for Willow before heading back out to the car.

Willow was just finishing up at the pump as Vanessa approached, a concerned frown on her face. "Hey, you okay? You were in there for a while."

Vanessa nodded, offering her fiancée a weak smile. "Yeah, just needed to use the bathroom. Here, I got you a drink and some snacks."

Willow's expression softened as she took the items from Vanessa's outstretched hand. "Thanks, Nessie. You didn't have to do that."

Vanessa shrugged, trying to play off her earlier panic. "No problem. Just trying to be a good partner, you know?"

Willow smiled, reaching out to squeeze Vanessa's hand. "You're the best partner I could ask for, Nessie. Let's get back on the road, yeah?"

With Willow's hand clasped firmly in hers, Vanessa felt a surge of determination coursing through her veins. She could do this. She could face whatever challenges lay ahead, as long as she had Willow by her side.

"So what is your brother doing?" Vanessa asked, hoping that maybe, possibly, talking would help her feel better. Or at least distract her from feeling so bad.

"Season opener race," Willow said, "He does motocross professionally. This is the start of the season. Like Novak, when he plays his first game of the season."

Vanessa nodded, "Yeah. Okay, makes sense."

"Yeah, our parents didn't exactly like it," Willow said, "But he loves it. So, I'm happy for him."

"But it stresses you out," Vanessa commented.

Willow nodded, "Of course it does. I work in an emergency room. But, he lives his life how he wants, I live mine. And my parents will feel whatever they want about it."

Despite the conversation, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom that hung over her like a dark cloud. And as they continued their journey, the sense of dread only intensified, until it felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move away from plunging into the abyss below.

Willow glanced over at her, concern etched into her features. "Hey, Nessie, you okay?"

Vanessa forced a weak smile. "Yeah, just a little queasy. Must be the winding roads."

Willow reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We're almost there. Just hang in there a little longer, okay?"

"Wills, pull over," Vanessa forced out, "Please."

As they rounded another bend, Vanessa felt the nausea intensify. She pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself to hold it together. But it was no use. Willow pulled over immediately. With a groan, she pushed open the car door and leaned out, retching onto the side of the road.

Willow reached over, rubbing Vanessa's back carefully.

"Ah, okay, yeah, there it is," Willow murmured softly, her heart aching for her fiancée.

Vanessa moaned softly, tears stinging her eyes as she struggled to regain control of her rebellious stomach. "I… I don't want…"

"Better out than in, Nessie," Willow said, her voice gentle but firm. She knew Vanessa hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of her. But she also knew that sometimes, it was necessary to let it out.

Vanessa tried to comply, but her body seemed to have other plans. Wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, leaving her weak and trembling.

"Good girl, get it out," Willow murmured, offering words of encouragement as Vanessa continued to retch. She wanted to wrap her fiancée in a comforting hug, but she knew better than to risk getting too close in Vanessa's current state.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the waves of nausea began to subside. Vanessa slumped back in her seat, panting heavily, her face pale and sweaty.

Willow handed her a bottle of water and a pack of tissues, her eyes full of concern. "You okay, baby?"

Vanessa nodded weakly, accepting the water and tissues with a grateful smile. "Yeah, I think so. Just… nerves, I guess."

Willow squeezed her hand gently. "We don't have to do this if you're not up for it. Your health comes first."

But Vanessa shook her head stubbornly. "No, I'll be okay. I want to meet your family. And I wouldn't miss Walker's race for anything."

Willow smiled, her heart swelling with love for the strong, brave woman sitting beside her. "Okay then. But if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

Vanessa nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Okay. Let's do this."

[hueynomure]

WIP Reblog Game

Thank you @coffeebanana for the tag! I'm not one for very long fics and/or starting posting plotty stuff if I don't already have most of the fic written out (too high of a chance of having to correct/retcon shit) so I'm adding fics that only live in my WIP folder lol

List the titles your top five priorities for WIP updates (link your fics for new readers!)

An upcoming scene, event, or detail in each fic that you’re looking forward to writing

Bonus: make a poll for your followers to vote on which top 5 WIP they are most excited to see an update on!

Then tag 10 writer friends!

WIP TITLES

Are Hexagon Square Dances a Thing?: Born as a LoveyWeek entry, I got stuck on the very last chapter fml

Uncovering, Unraveling (working title): Imagine Marinette had accidentally outed her Loveybug identity (as in Woven In) to Cat Walker in the (Un)Suited plotline... basically Farewell Gifts but make it smut lol

The Merits of Bagging a Hero (working title): Adrien and Marinette are invited at Alya's and Nino's place for their usual wine&dine night. Everything is going fine, Mari being flustered and Adrien being oblivious as usual - until Alya brings out the topic of hero-specific free passes and the two become inexplicably passionate about who would be the best hero lay between Ladybug and Chat Noir...

Poker Face: Loveybug AU, Cat Walker angst

Heart(s) on Her Sleeve: Companion piece for Poker Face, Loveybug's side of the angst

UPCOMING

Tbqh the biggest motivation for getting this done is getting it over with, which is probably why I've been having so much trouble tackling it lol. I'll just say that I initially intended it to end with platonic Mariwalker buuuuut there may be some smooching hehe

Turns out I'm a SUCKER for scenarios where Cat Walker learns Marinette is Loveybug lol I will have a lot of fun writing the surprise conversation (won't go too much into details bc spoilers) they'll have about his feelings... with Adrien still inside Marinette, both of them deliberately avoiding addressing the fact or doing anything at all abt it lol

This will be 200% crack and I will have SO MUCH FUN writing the most batshit stuff I can come up with. Alya, ever the shit-stirrer, figures out Adrien is Chat Noir halfway through the conversation and spends the rest of the fic basically eating popcorn and fanning that trashfire of a debate lol

Chat Noir is a necessary outlet for Adrien. When Cat Walker has to pick up Loveybug's slack, his energies and enthusiasm are slowly but surely drain until the only reason he dons his mask, the only reason he gets out of bed, is Loveybug's unrestrained and unconditional affection. This can't last - and yet, it's his duty to carry the weight and not let anything show. I'm gonna enjoy writing the pressure building >:3c

There's one phrase to describe Loveybug!Marinette: bracing for punishment. She's too raw with all the Loveybug intensity, she just CAN'T turn into Ladybug, so she just keeps pouring her heart out knowing that at some point, somehow, she will be horrifically punished for it. Just like with Kim. Just like every time she tried to confess to Adrien. But as a hero, the consequences of her mistakes could be... she doesn't want to think about it. She keeps her head low and prepares for the worst, dreading and longing the moment when she'll be forced to wear Loveybug's lovestruck smile again.

Anyone I would have thought to tag Kayla has already tagged, with the excellent exception of @asukiess, so I won't be tagging anybody else! Feel free to join in the fun and consider this a soft tag if you (yes YOU reading this rn) want to tho :3

[multyfandoms-imagines]

If it's alright with you, may I ask for some fluff and angst headcanons/imagines about the LC Traffic Light OT3 that is Ayin, Benjamin, and Carmen? They have a lot of good potential for both fluff and angst that are rarely explored together.

Thank you in advance if you do! The LC fandom appreciates all of the numerous and interesting imagines and headcanons you create, especially the sheer volume you have that it necesittes seperating the thoughts into seperate masterlists.

Oh, my motivation for writing is as wavy as Beat Saber's Player's arms after playing Camellia song on Expert. So sorry that i got like that

In any way, thanks for being patient with me. So, i'll try to add some things into this request as well

Under cut for spoilers. HEAVY STORY SPOILERS

TW: death (alot)

Ayin, Benjamin and Carmen headcanons

•okay, im like 90% sure that majority of newcomers to this universe only played LoR as LC is mostly overlooked due to the gameplay, and likely see Ayin as a terrible, irredimable guy

•he was not like that when his head was alright. Ayin was an introverted, silent guy of the 3, even if he was very smart

•Carmen is the "too much energy" extrovert friend that just does not shut up. But while some may see her as an evil woman, her pity for the people living in the city was real. Living there aint the best thing you know?

•Benjamin was a 3rd wheel, but funny enough, a mix of Ayin and Carmen's personalities. He is shy, but can be vocal about his ideas and opinion on what do these guys do

•Carmen is oblivious, Ayin loves Carmen, Benjamin loves Ayin, there, i said it. You can leave xd

•okay, but their relationship didnt start on the first sight. There were months and years even of these 3 being together

•Carmen was the one to invite majority of the Sephirahs into LC (including Benjamin) and encouraged Ayin to get to know them better. And Ayin, being an introvert, did so after some nudges from Carmen

•turns out he also liked their company alot

•Enoch and Lisa (Tiphereths) were unofficially adopted by Ayin and Carmen when they rescued the kids

•these 3 were living fine lives in Lobotomy Corporation before it all went downhill ....

•this is were you should stop scrolling cus it will be bad

-ok u good? Good? Ok-

•yeah, people die during accidents, and, trust me, they were upset when it happened

•but experiments failed and caused people to die, including some dear friends like Elijah, Enoch. Garion raided their facility, killed whoever she spotted.... You know how the Sephirahs died by now, dont you?

•in the end when Carmen took her own life... Ayin broke down. He didnt care if people died. He promised Carmen to finish what they had started... Regardless of how much more sinful acts he must commit. Going as far as to make that dreadful perfect scenario that didn't help his mental health

•a part of him tried to make himself feel better by making Angela, but that too, failed. But now Ayin didnt even have a slight motivation to either deactivate Angela or to let her live how she wanted. So, she just became another tool for the scenario to do

•it got so bad that Benjamin/Hokma had to erase Ayin's memories, calling him X. And politely asked Angela to watch over Ayin in case he starts going insane again

•Ayin, now X, is pretty oblivious to the relationships he had before now. Not that he minds it

•.... He still feels lonely in his room, X does not know what is he missing to feel like that

[sea-owl]

Oh my gosh I love the sibling au! I feel like Felicity will be like Jo from Little Women in the way she dreads her siblings being taken away. Hyacinth slyly asking if Penelope has misplaced a glove recently and Felicity fuming when she hears that Colin has it and has kept it in his pocket all this time. Or how Philip's handkerchief ended up in Eloise's possession. Her sweet naive older siblings, who have no idea of the wolves waiting to devour them. For god's sake her sister explained how babies are made and yet is oblivious to the fact that every time Colin Bridgerton looks at her, he always looks like he is thinking about ways to get her sweet sister with child!

Felicity has never been so happy that her siblings can be so oblivious and so socially awkward. She has also have never been happier that everyone in London seems to think they are married rather than siblings. 

But given that thought, why the hell do these Bridgertons seem so hell bent to come between a married couple? That brat Hyacinth keeps purposefully asking questions to make Phillip and Penelope blush while they are in direct eyesight of Hyacinth’s rakeish siblings. Also are they breaking into their house? Felicity could see no other explaination as to how Colin and Eloise Bridgerton seem to have come in possession of so much of her siblings’ stuff. Felicity will have to devise some traps with the twins later. 

Gods Felicity could not imagine if her siblings did marry those infuriating Bridgertons. Eloise Bridgerton is too loud and too bossy; Phillip will not be able to handle that. He has the backbone of an eclair! No, best to just keep Penelope as the acting lady of Romney Hall. 

Speaking of eclairs, Felicity shuddered. Colin Bridgerton constantly looks at Penelope like she is one and he wants to eat her up or out. Felicity has heard the stories, the man is rarely home, and never contributing to what he spends. A fortune hunter if Felicity has ever seen one. No, Penelope must protect her earnings, if she is to be tied to a man through either marriage or relation Felicity rather it be their brother who would never take her well earned money from her. 

Now what Felicity doesn’t know is that after that first meeting Violet privately asked Portia if Phillip and Penelope were together Portia immediately denied it saying she is the one who married the previous Sir Crane. Phillip and Penelope were nothing more than siblings. The two mamas have been scheming together ever since. 

[envy-of-the-apple]

Hey, just stumbled across your page and wanted to drop an askfor yandere Connor if your still open.

What about Connar with a regular darling, they're no cop or detective but came to the station to help out a friend. Lets say Gavin, they've been friends for years and while the reader is oblivious to Gavin's advances Connor is not. Which leads to him snapping, insue yandere activites.

If possible gn nutrual pronouns please, also I'm a sucker for soft Gavin and hardcore hc hes a "I hate everyone in the world but you" type of person

bestie ngl I hate gavin. I caNNOT write him to be a half decent person. Will you accept acquaintance Gavin who is kinda worried for your safety but really just wants you to get out of his hair so he can go back to doing nothing?

Lingerie is gender neutral, right? I think it is. Everyone deserves to feel sexy. 

oh wow i literally deviated from this ask so much im so sorry bestie let me know if you want me to redo it 

DBH Yandere!Connor x reader

(Warnings: stalking, yandere, non-con touching, implied non-con, incompetent police work lmao)

Despite past prejudges, Connor had quickly risen up to become a star detective.

He was extremely efficient, almost everyone he worked with could only sing high praises of him. His partner, Anderson, was quick to respond to his new place by his side, and there were talks of him becoming the first police android to ever be promoted.

You were happy for him. You really were. 

You just wished you would've been told of his staring problem.

Or maybe you were overreacting? Maybe he does this to everyone? You shuffle with your feet, awkwardly fumbling with your hands, trying to pretend the android wasn't raking his eyes over you, analyzing every nook, every feature, every secret you ever thought you could hide.

"Tin Can, the fuck are you looking at?" Gavin suddenly barked.

Connor only blinked, his LED whirrs yellow, before he turned back to his desk. Gavin glanced back at you. 

“Yeah,” He said, “What’d you say again?” 

You winced at his tone. It was condescending, bored. You honestly couldn’t blame him. You barely even knew the guy. He was an ex of a friend, the only thing you two knew of eachother were your names. He really didn’t have to care. 

You bit your lip. 

“Well,” You said, “It started a month ago. I-I don’t really know how to explain it but...I feel like I’m being watched all the time.” 

The grocery store, your workplace, even your goddamn bed at times. You constantly felt these eyes on you, watching you went, scrutinizing everything you did, recording every action you made. 

Gavin looks unimpressed. You quickly move on before he can interrupt and not-so-gently suggest paranoia and hypothetical drug use. 

“And-and I brushed if off at the time, but then I started finding things missing...” 

Now that caught Gavin’s attention. He rose a brow, looking at you with a flicker of interest. 

“Missing?” 

You nodded, “Like a few weeks ago I couldn’t find my hairbrush. And now it’s becoming bigger things, like: photos, books, clothing,” 

You decide against telling him of the more personal item that were taken. Like your red-laced underwear, swiped from your drawers. 

“I have security cameras, but whenever I try to look through the tapes, chunks of time are cut out. Like they’ve been messed with,” That or there’d be static covering the screen, interfering with anything that you could see. 

“Also...” You hesitate this time, your voice growing smaller, “Apparently my neighbor saw someone leave my apartment, just last night. She said it was a man.” 

Your boyfriend, you remembered your neighbor cheerfully telling you when you got back home yesterday. Your boyfriend had left your apartment. She looked too happy, too excited for your perceived romantic relationship. You didn’t have the heart to tell her you were single and you lived alone. 

Despite the dread you felt oddly relieved. You finally finally had proof. Something tangible. You weren’t imagining this. This wasn’t all in your head. 

Gavin nodded, propping back in his seat, “Did she anything about what he looked like? Any physical features. Does she know if he was an android or a human?” 

You faltered, “She-she said he was tall, dressed in a suit. Brown hair. She didn’t say he was an android. She wasn’t able to get a good look.”

Gavin hummed, he glanced over at his computer. 

Then, he sighs.

“Listen,” He finally said, “I know this sucks to hear...but we really can’t do anything with so little evidence.” 

At least he had the decency to look kind of apologetic. You felt angry, burning. You barely managed to squash it down, trapping it so you could hear him speak. 

“The most we can do right now is have an officer come by to check the place out. You can bring your cameras over and we’ll see if someone’s been tampering with them. But...again, that’s really all what we can do.” 

You told yourself to not expect much. The police weren’t known for their stellar service. But...was this really all what they could do? You had evidence. A witness. 

You briefly contemplate on really getting angry. Showing it. Screaming. 

But you were never that type of person, so instead you duck your head, pretending there isn’t a pit growing in your stomach. 

“Okay,” You finally said, “Thanks anyway.” 

He gives you a look of pity, showing a little more concern this time.  

“Hey uh,” Gavin reaches up to rub his neck, “If you don’t mind waiting. I could take you home. You-you okay with that?” 

You managed to smile, “I would really appreciate that. Thank you.” 

He nods, now much more relaxed, “Yeah-uh. Let me-let me go talk to the Captain. Just wait here.” 

He pulls himself from his seat, and you watch him disappear into a glass office.  Reed was a detective, years of high stress situations scrapping away the softness, leaving hard callouses. Despite it all, you appreciated the effort he put in to come across as kind of gentle to you. Like he was actually approachable.

He didn’t have to offer you a ride home. He didn’t have to offer you the comfort of talking to someone you knew, rather than another cop. He just did and you appreciated it. 

Still, the relief you wouldn’t be going home alone didn’t brush away the fear you felt. You were still alone in this fight. Gavin, the police, they couldn’t-no they didn’t- do shit. Was coming here a mistake? Did your stalker know that you’d even gone to the police? Would they get angry? Would they retaliate? 

You drew in a shaky breath. It was too much, this was too much. Maybe you should stay with someone else for a few days. Maybe you should move back in with your parents again. Some company might not shake the creep off but...but at least you’d feel safe. 

You were so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t see the figure hovering. A hand tapped on your shoulder. You jumped. An apologetic smile greeted you. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor tilted his head, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

You shook your head, “No, no it’s fine, I-” You gave a breathy laugh. “I’ve just been a little jumpy lately, Detective.” 

Connor nods. He looks so alive right now. Filled to the brim with feelings. Its different than the looks he gave you when you first arrived to the precinct. Calculating. Emotionless. 

Guilt surges through you and you throw the rude thoughts away.

“Pardon me,” He says politely, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Detective Reed,” Of course he had, “ He said he was planning on accompanying you home, correct?” 

You give a nod, “Yeah...Is...is there a problem?” 

Connor seems to hesitate, “No, it’s just...The Detective has a lot of cases pending. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to assist you, at the moment.” 

For a second, you’re torn between feeling guilty for taking Gavin’s time, and indignant. In the end, politeness wins and you’re getting ready to ask Connor if he could tell Gavin you left already when he quickly rushes through his next words. 

“Instead, I am more than willing to take you home,” You look at him, “If, of course, you’re comfortable with it.” 

Connor definitely had a way of making you feel breathless. You weren’t expecting the sudden offer; it effectively caught you off guard. Relief flushes through your body and you give a smile. 

“Thank you,” You turn to look at the office Gavin disappeared in, “No really, I appreciate it.” 

Connor returns the smile. It’s a little more awkward, like he’s used to mirroring emotions rather than expressing them. He bends down to grab your stuff, politely handing them to you in with tentative hands, before ushering you out the precinct. 

Detroit winters aren’t kind, and a cold wind greets you from the door. The chill is enough to not make you care about the taxi waiting right by the sidewalk. You feel grateful to just slide into the warmed up seats, the detective close behind. Connor watches you type in your address with frigid fingers. He doesn’t speak until the car starts rolling. 

“You’re dehydrated,” He says. 

You look at him, confused. He gently taps the LED on his temple and you laugh. Right, it was an android thing. 

“I’m not really surprised,” You muttered, “I haven’t really been focusing on my health recently. Not with all the stress.” 

“So I’ve heard.” He glances at your hands. “Are you comfortable with talking about it?” 

His blunt curiosity is a breath of fresh air. You prefer it over the tiptoeing other people do, their looks of pity. It made you feel like you were some charity case.

 “No, I don’t really mind,” You’re sighing and the sudden exhaustion of the past few weeks is finally catching up to you. You feel your head droop a little, eyes a little less focused. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“You’re thoughts, mostly,” He says, “How you feel about this...stalker.” 

You flinch. You’ve never used the word before. Usually you say ‘follow’, or something else that made this seem less serious than it actually was. Stalker, made things real. 

He’s noticing your sudden stillness, you wave off any attempts of reconciliation.

“No, no, it’s okay,” You’re laughing weakly, “It’s kind of what it is, though. Right?” 

“I guess, a part of me was kinda’ hoping this would all be over by now,” You say, “I’ve had some friend’s who’ve had obsessive ex’s. They usually followed them around, threatened whoever they were currently dating, but they’d eventually leave them alone.” 

You glance out the window, “I thought this would be the same, but...it isn’t.” 

“I’m angry, I guess,” You admit honestly, “Or at least, I try to be angry. I don’t know how but I...can just tell this person isn’t doing this out of malice. It’s-it’s just curiosity, for them.” 

It’s not out of revenge, nor out of any past issues you’ve had with others. And that’s the thing that really gets you. This isn’t out of any sort of feeling that you initiated. This was a person who was simply doing this, because they could. 

“You’re scared.” Connor states, something you’re reluctantly agreeing too. 

“Terrified,” You correct, “I-I just don’t know what they want from me, much less who they are. Lately I’ve been sleeping less that feels so vulnerable to be asleep when someone could be right out my window. It’s...it’s too much, I guess.” 

It felt good, to finally vent out your frustrations that you’d been holding in for weeks. You didn’t have to pretend that everything was okay. It levitates the dread of your chest, and you’re turning to look at Connor. He’s fallen silent, and for a moment you wonder if he hasn’t truly deviated because his eyes look so emotionless. Like he’s a machine. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor suddenly says. 

You’re turning to him, about to tell him not to apologize, that it’s not like he’s the one who’s torturing you, when you realize you have no idea where you are...and the car was slowing down. 

The car comes to a complete stop in an empty field, miles away from the city. When had you started derailing from the route? When had you stopped paying attention where you were going? What was he going to do-

“It was never my intention to scare you,” Connor said, casually reaching to put a hand on the controls. You watch his skin peel back. 

 “I was simply trying to document some things. Recon, if you will.” 

A bright Error appears on the screen. You hear the happy click of a car lock. 

“Though I may have miscalculated a few things,” Connor continues. You can barely hear him over the sound of your heartbeat, “Your neighbor, for instance. A small anomaly, yet it cost so much.” 

He sighed, like he was disappointed. 

“Would you like some water?” He suddenly asked, “I also have some food if you get hungry. We may be here awhile.” 

That hurled you off the edge. You immediately broke out into tears, desperately trying to squish yourself against the window. 

“I’m sorry-I’m sorry-I’m-I’m so so sorry,” You blubbered, “I don’t know what I did to you for this just please don’t hurt me just-” 

Connor reaches out to place a hand on your trembling thigh, cornering you. His touch appears to be out of comfort, but its too firm, too sensual to be anything but hunger. 

You flinch but you don’t fight back. You’re too scared to. The fear of what he might do if you make him angry tramples out any desire to fight. 

He hushes you and you can see a semblance of feeling has returned in his eyes. Its too dark to resemblance fondness. There’s a slight smile on his lips. 

“Don’t cry,” He kindly says, “I won’t hurt you but.” He tilts his head. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting impatient.” 

Your hands are over your mouth, and you’re staring at him with silent horror as he starts to pull out something familiar. 

Red and laced. 

“I haven’t seen you wear this, yet,” Connor muses, “It must be for a special occasion.” 

He leans forward, tone sickeningly polite. 

“Would you mind putting it on, just for me?”