#but it just dives into it and whirl them across the dance floor

[obstinaterixatrix]

the thing is, I think r&h cinderella works great as a one-act and I think expanding it to two acts with a kind of weird political subplot makes it more tedious, especially since the political subplot is. in my opinion. bad. the political subplot in slipper and rose is kind of fun because everyone’s on completely different pages and with completely different priorities and actually leads to some fun dramatic moments, like the prince resigning himself to a political marriage after his dad pays cinderella off to leave them alone forever otherwise a country might attack them—anyway the prince says “your royal house will live with you but die with me” which lmao nice love the drama. the music & lyrics of r&h is way better no contest tho. secret kingdom can’t hold a candle to 10 minutes ago. I really like how nowadays it’s done in a very dreamy way :)

[crowandmousewritingco]

Pairing: Ezra x trans!reader

Words: 850

Rating: M (nothing explicit but dynamics implied)

Author: Mod Mouse

Summary: You are the center of attention at Ezra's gathering.

Notes: Thanks to @jennaispunk for reading it over!

The candles burn low in the intimate room casting shadows on the walls behind you. But you didn’t notice. You were looking ahead just like you were instructed to do. All you saw were the sparkles that danced on the floor from the multitudes of stars that graced the wall. Your dom had jumped on the idea of a celestial themed night at the club. 

The guests for tonight filed in one by one, escorted to their assigned seats by the attendant. Wine was poured and chattered filled the space as slowly each spot was taken. A soft music from a string quartet wafted through the room, giving a high class feel to the space. 

Once the last guest sat at their plate, the lights switched off sending soft murmurs throughout the crowd. All except for the spotlight on your figure. You were the center of attention for tonight. Legs spread to shoulder width, arms braced behind your back, and nude as the day you were born. Goosebumps prickled your skin as you waited patiently for your duty. 

Soft footsteps ascended the raised dais to where you stood as a soft applause rippled through the crowd. You could feel the presence of your dom standing next to you, and your fluttering heart calmed. The soft fabric of his suits brushing against your chilled skin. How you ached to nuzzle into his side like you could in some scenes, but this wasn’t one of them. He had the ropes tonight, and you were the canvas. 

“Welcome esteemed patrons! Thank you for joining us this twilight. Tonight we have a beautiful array of presentations for you. But first we must prepare the highlight of this carnal evening. So let’s not waste a singular moment. My ropes please.” Ezra spoke as another pair of footsteps came closer. 

The attendant set the rope in Ezra’s outstretched hands. “Thank you. Now maestros, a melody.” 

Soft violin music drifted through the space filling the ears of the attendants. A gentle touch on your shoulder alerting you to his orientation, but you kept your head down. His gloved hands caressed down to your shoulder blades and you instinctively lifted your arms. 

“Such a stunning specimen.” Ezra praised as he slid the rope around your chest, mindful of your scars. Slowly he pulled the two sides of the rope to your back. 

“Mercury takes its place as the sovereign planet keeping close to the warmth of the center of our cosmic asylum ” Ezra recited as he pulled the rope around your chest once again securing the line with the first loop.  

“Venus the next sphere. Brightest amongst her peers shines as a point of lust and love in the darkest of skies.” He continued as he pulled the rope through all three loops containing your torso in the intricate ties. 

His hands never leave your body as he takes his time moving in front of you. You dared take a peak at him and your stomach flushed with heat. Ezra appeared diving in his dark blue suit that glittered in the light from the intricate celestial embroidered sleeves. How you wanted to kneel for him. 

“The mother Earth that houses our great inventions, and keeps us grounded.” He pulled the rope over one shoulder securing it to the front loop before repeating the step with the other shoulder. 

“Mars that brings vengeance and scarlet across the horizon, and yet hope for the future of our kind.” He brought the rope back behind your back making sure everything was secure. 

Ezra returned to your back as he attached another rope to the other ropes. “Jupiter whirls as the storm in his soul, and commands the legions of moons as the army of the skies.” He pulled your arms back, joining them to the knots in your back ties. 

“Saturn with the rings as rich as any royalty's jewelry spinning at such incomprehensible speeds ” Adding a rope around your thigh and the other on your ankles.

“Uranaus and Neptune, the blue giants that are as frigid as their outward appearance.” A steel ring descended from the ceiling. Carefully he joined all three ropes on the ring making sure they were all tight. He turned his head and slowly the circle ascended pulling your body up slowly.

Your head dipped as the meditative sway of suspension took over your psyche. Gently you hung as the art piece you were designed to be. With one knee in the air as if you were kneeling, you drifted as the ropes subtle twisted and turned with the air. 

“Ethereal!” Ezra exclaimed as applause rippled through the room “I present my solar system!” Colorful globes descended and surrounded your form representing the mentioned planets. Lazily they orbited you in slow rotation. You were his sun and he wanted everyone to know that. 

Your eyes gazed down to Ezra as he watched his muse above him. Only adoration for you graced his features, and your heart fluttered in your chest. You closed your eyes once more as you fulfilled your duty to the night: Ezra’s chandelier.

Credit: @inklore

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[inconvenient-stuff]

I have finally managed to put Dante on a Pole for some pole dancing! Very happy right now. Still need to figure out the rest of the story, though, and that's going to take a while. So have this snipped first.

It's sometime after DMC5

----

"Little help here, please?!" Nero snarks, shooting his way to a little break in the advancement of the horde.

"You want me to help with my own rescue?" Dante asks, waiting patiently while the pole slowly twirls him around until he is facing the front again and can point indignantly at the kid. "Rude nephew!"

"Oh my god, you lazy fucker."

Dante rotates back around. Hm. This is not optimal, now he can't watch his darling nephew's heroic rescue. Also can't call out any helpful pointers to make the kid go indignantly red either. Shame.

He unfolds from his shoulder mount, repositions his legs in a proper clamp further down, and lets one hand trail down to scrape gently over the floor, slowing his momentum to a stop facing the front again.

"On your left," he cries out cheerfully, catching sight of a Death Scissor preparing to dive down from one of the high balconies to decapitate the kid.

Nero curses, dispatches the Lust in front of his face with a nice centre shot of Blue Rose and barely whirls out of the way of the sharp blades.

"Why the fuck are they not going after you?!" Nero shouts back, nailing the demon in the head with a spectral claw and killing two more Slots in the same move.

Nice. He is getting really good with that trigger of his.

"Hm?" Dante arches into an awesome feeling backbend and looks at the kid upside down. "Oh. Ward."

"What?" Nero cries, jumping halfway across the room to skewer a Marionette.

Dante paddles his hands along the floor so he can keep him in his sight without having to twist weirdly. "Ward. You know, those magic things that keep demons in or out. Very cool stuff."

"By the saviour, I want to sock you so much right now."

"Don't hit the poor kidnapee, Nero. That's just bad form and counterproductive. You are supposed to help me, not hinder me."

"Kidnapee my ass. You could have walked out of here and been done with it hours ago. But instead I now have to deal with all this shit while you are lazy and do whatever it is you're doing over there."

"Aww, does the poor sheltered church boy not know what pole dancing is?"

"A what now?" Nero asks absently, reloading his gun.

Dante really needs to get him to stop using physical bullets. It's so unstylish having to reload all the time. Dante rightfully stopped doing that when he was seventeen and has never looked back. 

But that's all beside the rather more pressing point here.

"Wait," Dante asks and actually heaves himself up properly for this, clamping his tights and shins to the pole so he is sitting upright on it. "You actually don't know what this is?"

Nero doesn't even have the decency to look shamed by this tragic lack of knowledge. "No, Dante. I don't know why you are currently whirling around on a pole like a mad man. Please, feel free to enlighten me instead of actually helping me with this fucking fight!"

Dante blinks at him, floored. He knows that Nero hasn't had the most worldly upbringing, what with the churchy cult and all. But there is no way this hasn't come up in all the years he has known the kid, right? He and the ladies are all very happy visitors to the Love Planet, frequently spending their evening outings there. At least they did before Dante got distracted by Vergil coming back and getting to spend most of his evenings with his brother now.

Did they seriously never take the kid with them?

He does not doubt, of course, that Nero didn't go out of his way himself to get to know the more enjoyable parts of life, cloistered little church boy that he still is despite all of Dante's best efforts to the contrary. Got to him too late, sadly.

"What?!" Nero snaps angrily, when Dante just silently stares for too long.

Well now.

Should he really pop the poor boy's little bubble of innocence? It's so rare for a young man to preserve this much naiveté nowadays. It's precious, really.

He shouldn't. Really. He shouldn't.

Ah, who is Dante kidding. Torturing the kid it is.

"Well, dear nephew. When a man, or indeed anyone, wants to have themselves some fun time, they go to a thing called a strip club-"

Nero shrieks and then squawks loudly enough to drown out even the demon roars, his ears flushing a bright red. He whirls around to turn his back on Dante and demonstrably revs his motorbike sword to drown out Dante's voice.

Hah. Dante is not so easily dissuaded and also knows his nephew has just as sharp ears as his own. The kid will hear him just fine over any noise. He blithely continues on in his education of the joys of the nightlife.

"- and if they like what they see, they use money to buy themselves some nice services-"

When the sword is all revved out and therefore doesn't work as a cover anymore, Nero uses the loud bangs of his guns until he runs out of bullets again. After that, with a glowering look of rage in Dante's direction, he smashes demons around until they howl and growl.

"- and then everyone is indeed very, very happy," Dante ends, knowing exactly how much of that lecture the kid has heard against his will by the way he is now completely red in the face and twitching. Dante is sure he can see steam if he looks close enough.

"Also, nephew, please, stop using bullets. It's so terribly embarrassing."

"I have never in my life seen you embarrassed. You don't even know what shame is, you ass. Stop playing around. I like physical bullets and you know it."

"So unstylish," Dante laments, making a fan with his legs while he rolls his hips up the pole to get higher up again.

He keeps slipping while he sits despite his best efforts. Now that is actually truly embarrassing. He used to be much better at this. "This is Verge's influence, isn't it. He never liked guns and also refuses to use energy bullets if I don't force him. What a cruelly dull family I have."

"Oh shut up, you ass." Nero grouses, finally killing off the last demon with a too violent kick that chucks it straight through the big double doors in the back. Which does nicely take care of their exit, splintering the heavy wood apart. "And get off your stupid bean bole. I want to get home before Vergil eats all the lasagne Kyrie is making."

Dante freezes in the middle of a luxurious upside down split. "...Lasagne?"

"Yes, old man. Lasagne. Which she's making just for you, since she heard you got waylaid. Don't know why she is so nice to your annoying ass." Nero grumbles grumpily, fishing around the last few dissolving carcasses for orbs.

Dante's palette may have once only included pizza and sundaes, but he has been forced to expand on it with the sudden return of his twin into his life. Vergil is a curious mix of picky and undiscerning in matters of food and Dante, eating most his meals with him nowadays, bears the brunt of his experimenting in the kitchen. One such new inclusions is Kyrie's lasagne, though, which is divine and perfect and something that Vergil also rather likes a lot. Which is a problem, considering this means Dante has to fight for his fair share before his brother eats it all mercilessly.

He abruptly lets go of the pole, twists to land lightly on his feet and then trickster dashes to the door in two long slides. 

"Well, nephew? What are you waiting for? Chop chop! We need to get home."

Nero throws him an unimpressed glower. It makes him look very much like his father. Where that once was painful to look at now it only makes Dante want to laugh at them both.  But the kid does pick up his pace, anyway. After all, he too very much loves the lasagne and always eagerly joins the fray in the food hoarding fight they all engage in when it's on the table.

----

Here is the series this will eventually get posted to. Another story about Trish and Lady rescuing Dante coming up soon!

[hottakehoulihan]

In William Gibson's story Johnny Mnemonic, which was great in a way the movie wasn't (though I love the movie too), a yakuza assassin with a monofilament whip that can cut anything, ends up in a situation so chaotic and unpleasant to him he dies and …hell, lemme find it. Okay, here's the one sentence version. Longer behind the cut.

And at the end, just before he made his final cast with the filament, I saw something in his face, an expression that didn't seem to belong there. It wasn't fear and it wasn't anger. I think it was disbelief, stunned incomprehension mingled with pure aesthetic revulsion at what he was seeing, hearing--at what was happening to him.

...

"Partly, I think, he took the dive to buy himself a few seconds of the dignity of silence. She'd killed him with culture shock."

...He bowed, smiling, and stepped smoothly out of his sandals, leaving them side by side, perfectly aligned, and then he stepped down onto the Killing Floor. He came for me, across that shifting trampoline of scrap, as easily as any tourist padding across synthetic pile in any featureless hotel.

Molly hit the Floor, moving.

The Floor screamed.

It was miked and amplified, with pickups riding the four fat coil springs at the corners and contact mikes taped at random to rusting machine fragments. Somewhere the Lo Teks had an amp and a synthesizer, and now I made out the shapes of speakers overhead, above the cruel white floods.

A drumbeat began, electronic, like an amplified heart, steady as a metronome.

She'd removed her leather jacket and boots; her T-shirt was sleeveless, faint telltales of Chiba City circuitry traced along her thin arms. Her leather jeans gleamed under the floods. She began to dance.

She flexed her knees, white feet tensed on a flattened gas tank, and the Killing Floor began to heave in response. The sound it made was like a world ending, like the wires that hold heaven snapping and coiling across the sky.

He rode with it, for a few heartbeats, and then he moved, judging the movement of the Floor perfectly, like a man stepping from one flat stone to another in an ornamental garden.

He pulled the tip from his thumb with the grace of a man at ease with social gesture and flung it at her. Under the floods, the filament was a refracting thread of rainbow. She threw herself flat and rolled, jackknifing up as the molecule whipped past, steel claws snapping into the light in what must have been an automatic rictus of defense.

The drum pulse quickened, and she bounced with it, her dark hair wild about the blank silver lenses, her mouth thin, lips taut with concentration. The Killing Floor boomed and roared, and the Lo Teks were screaming their excitement.

He retracted the filament to a whirling meter-wide circle of ghostly polychrome and spun it in front of him, thumbless hand held level with his sternum. A shield.

And Molly seemed to let something go, something inside, and that was the real start of her mad-dog dance. She jumped, twisting, lunging sideways, landing with both feet on an alloy engine block wired directly to one of the coil springs. I cupped my hands over my ears and knelt in a vertigo of sound, thinking Floor and benches were on their way down, down to Nighttown, and I saw us tearing through the shanties, the wet wash, exploding on the tiles like rotten fruit. But the cables held, and the Killing Floor rose and fell like a crazy metal sea. And Molly danced on it.

And at the end, just before he made his final cast with the filament, I saw something in his face, an expression that didn't seem to belong there. It wasn't fear and it wasn't anger. I think it was disbelief, stunned incomprehension mingled with pure aesthetic revulsion at what he was seeing, hearing--at what was happening to him. He retracted the whirling filament, the ghost disk shrinking to the size of a dinner plate as he whipped his arm above his head and brought it down, the thumbtip curving out for Molly like a live thing.

The Floor carried her down, the molecule passing just above her head; the Floor whiplashed, lifting him into the path of the taut molecule. It should have passed harmlessly over his head and been withdrawn into its diamond-hard socket. It took his hand off just behind the wrist. There was a gap in the Floor in front of him, and he went through it like a diver, with a strange deliberate grace, a defeated kamikaze on his way down to Nighttown. Partly, I think, he took the dive to buy himself a few seconds of the dignity of silence. She'd killed him with culture shock.

never getting over how genuinely distressed tai lung looks when po does his shuffling trick. mid fight this man stops and panics because he cant figure out a childrens magic trick

[robobarbie]

almost every wattpad story has that one scene where a guy is bothering the mc so the main boy comes up and says GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER. SHE IS MINE. it is SO BAD and annoying... can i have that scenario with quest or xyx LMFAO

You're out dancing. Briefly left alone on the dance floor while your partner heads to the restroom, you shrug and keep on dancing. The music thrums in your chest and the bodies around you are a mess of color and noise as you move with them. You might have drank just a hair too much, but it's all right. Your boyfriend is here.

A hand slides around your waist and on instinct you lean back into it. "Babyyy..."

Stubble scratches your cheek and you freeze in place. Someone's unwelcome breath hits your ear as the person behind you laughs. "Who left you all alone, hm?" His voice is low and gravely and far too interested in you.

You try to shrug him off you but his hold remains firm, another arm coming to snake around you from the other side. You're now flush against him, and a pit of disgust forms in your stomach as you realize he's trying to sway with you to the loud music.

He shifts back with you and you stumble a little. "F-fuck off, let go!" You can barely manage that out through the panic beginning to restrict your throat.

He nuzzles your hair and kisses the crown of your head. "You know you don't want that."

He's pulling you somewhere, you realize. No, no, no, no!

Your vision goes fuzzy as you feel the first pinpricks of a panic attack. His hands shift on your body and a bubble of vomit threatens to emerge at the sensation. Wrong hands. Wrong hands.

Vaguely, you hear shouting a few feet away -- but you can't quite make it out through the loud music and your blood pumping in your ears. You realize he's pulled you just a few meters away from a back exit and in a panic you find the willpower to bend and bite at his hand.

"Fuck!" He shouts and rips his hand from your mouth, nearly slamming it against your throat and bringing his lips to your ear with a snarl. "Try that one more time and-"

Your bodies are ripped apart with a loud, sickly thud as something crashes into the man's face. You fall to the floor and someone leaps over you to dive on top of the large man. He starts pummeling the man with his fists, shouting something over and over that you can't quite make out.

A girl crouches next to you as a crowd forms. "You okay, sweetie?"

You shake your head, tears forming as the sound of fists meeting flesh seems to get louder and louder. Someone cuts the music and you hear security get called.

Only then can you hear what the person is saying, and realize who it is.

"Xyx!!!"

You leap to your feet to try pull him off the man, who by now is rather black and blue and trying to block Xyx's fevered punches.

"Piece of fucking shit, you fucking low life degenerate waste of air, touching my fucking partner--"

"Stop! Stop!"

You grab his arm and he whirls, ready to scream at whoever is trying to hold him back. You start -- there's blood red fury in his eyes and his expression is twisted up in an anger you haven't seen before.

At the sight of you, though, his face falls and he stands and yanks you away from the man. He hugs you close to his chest and murmurs absently. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Noise gets louder across the room as security approaches and the girl who helped you touches Xyx's arm and points to a side door. "Go. Don't worry about it."

Xyx lets go of you as if it pains him to do it before gripping your hand and rushing out the door. The moment it's shut behind him he yanks you back into that all-encompassing hug and buries his face in your hair.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Is he... crying? Your heart falls and you hug him close. You can't help a cry of your own escaping your lips, and the sound is glass in his ears. -------

author's note: this did not go as intended. anyway stream nobody like u reprise

[spookiifi]

Dancing with a Stranger

This is my first security breach self-insert, so go easy on me. Let’s start with an introduction and fluff 

You can find the ao3 link here

sun x fem!reader

–

You could say working at the pizza plex was an…interesting job. Describing it would appear as a fever dream.

Every animatronic at Freddy’s Pizza Plex had a maintenance worker, mostly to keep an eye on anything going wrong, save for the Bonnie incident. That poor bunny didn’t deserve that.

They were also in charge to keep things under control, and help when they needed it the most.

Freddy had his own quirky assistant, quick to clean off dust and shine between performances.

Monty scared the shit out of you after almost taking a chunk out of Moon’s eye.

Roxy was, well…Roxy.

And Chica got along with everyone.

Looking back there was a lot of suspicious activity here, but it seemed to disappear whenever you’d arrive for your shift in the daycare.

It wasn’t everyday that someone would work with a nine foot five animatronic sun in a daycare.

It was to you though.

And sometimes you forgot that Sun was an animatronic because of how human he seemed. Strange, but oddly comforting.

Sun would greet you like a joyful puppy, shouting ‘Good morning my sunlight!’ before diving headfirst into the ballpit from his perch. He’d emerge someplace near the edge and spin you into his arms.

Needless to say there was no coffee needed to wake you up. Sun was your caffeine and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

One night after a particular rough crowd, you swept the floors while Sun cleaned the craft corner.

But it was awfully quiet, and you realized Sun was nowhere to be found. Maybe he finished early and retired to his room? But he always said goodnight?

You shrugged it off, guessing that he was exhausted from the busy day.

One of your favorite disney songs started playing on your spotify, and you couldn’t help but hum along. Sweeping turned into dancing, and you set the broom aside. With your phone set on the table, you danced toward the pile of plushies, picking up a sun doll.

“You know, I’m really not supposed to talk to strangers.” you smiled and poked the faceplate. “But we’ve met before.”

From the balcony, Sun watched in curiosity as you sang and danced with the plush, almost like it was really him.

“I know you, I danced with you once upon a dream.”

Gosh you were such an adorable little thing. If heart eyes were possible for a robot, Sun’s would be full of them. Sun’s rays whirled as he rested his hands on his chin.

The now cleaned daycare was your stage, blissfully cascading across the floor with open arms. The sun plush was now abandoned while you sang.

“But if I know you, I know what you’ll do. You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream.”

You jumped back when a pair of hands met your wrists. Sun decided to join in your charade, finishing the song.

He gasped. “Oh goodness, I’m so sorry! Did I frighten you?!”

“Oh, no! Not at all, sunlight. You were just so quiet about it.”

“What a relief!” Sun knelt down to your height. “I’ve never heard you sing before! How come you’ve never told me?”

Your cheeks turned pink. “Stage fright, really…wait.”

Sun tilted his head, waiting for your reply.

“Sun, were you stalking me?” You smirked and crossed your arms.

His gears trembled. “I um- well yes but no! No! I wouldn’t call it stalking.” He stammered and laughed nervously. “Not at all! Just your voice and everything was-”

“Relax. I’m only teasing.” You held one of his hands, which was twice your size. “May I have this dance?”

--

Feedback is much appreciated!

[inkykeiji]

Many sad thoughts running through my head but I can imagine Dabi having trust issues as you and the other anon saying. Him being afraid of getting left behind. I feel like he would say “I didn’t mean to say I love you” at some point because that’s a type of vulnerable he doesn’t want to be but it’s just one of many thoughts

AHHHHHHHH anon anon why must u hurt me like this?????? pls my whole heart just broke at this and i uhhhhh wrote 1.7k words about it,,,

❅ cw: soft dabi, angst, rly sappy ❅

It seems to happen at the most random of times. It isn’t like the movies, isn’t ever after some profound incident or momentous occurrence shared between the two of you—no, it’s always right after the most mundane things; after he catches you brushing your teeth in a cute matching set of panties and a tank top, sticking out your tongue at him, mouth full of foamy white toothpaste; after he finds you curled up on the couch buried under a fluffy blanket, nothing more than a lump and a head as your eyes rapidly scan the pages of the book in front of you, entirely absorbed in whatever world it’s built for you; after he walks into the kitchen to see you by the sink washing a few dishes, hips swaying and head nodding as you hum along to whatever song is blasting through your headphones.

But God, does it hit him like a motherfucking bus every single time, punches him in the stomach without warning, knocks the breath straight out of him.

He’s usually good at keeping it to himself, usually able to swallow it back down when those three little words begin to creep up his throat, dancing on the back of his tongue and restricting his breathing.

But eventually, he messes up.

You had started it, right after you had finished sprinkling the pizza stone with some flour while he was rolling out the dough, wiping your powdery fingers down his t-shirt, then swiping a thumb across his cheekbone, leaving a streak of white flour painted in its path, a little mischievous smile on your face and glint in your eyes.

He retaliates immediately, grabbing a pinch of flour from the bag and flicking it right in your face.

“Dabi!” you gasp, but your shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as you wipe at your face, fingers only managing to leave more strokes of the substance instead of clearing it. Your hand dives into the bag, grasping a handful of flour, inhaling deeply—enough to expand your entire chest—before blowing air out of your mouth, casting tiny, thick explosions of white at him, speckling his shirt and dusting his inky hair.

“Oh, you little brat,”

And, fuck, you look so goddamn beautiful, giggles ringing out around the room, flour strewn in your messy, tousled hair, smears of it across your cheeks and neck, sprinkled on your clothes, eyes bright and breathing laboured with exhilaration as you daintily leap away from him.

They’re bubbling up in his chest, those three stupid little words, climbing up, up, up his throat to settle on his tongue, light and sweet, floating in his mouth like candy floss and melting on his tongue only to be resurrected by another one of your giggles, or playful yelps, or squeals of his name.

And he’s too preoccupied to remember to swallow them down, to chew and chomp on them until he’s crushed them into a thousand tiny pieces as he chases you around the kitchen while you throw clouds of flour at each other, too enraptured by the soft, cute, precious sounds he’s endlessly pulling from you, too hellbent on hearing more, a man possessed.

Because he hasn’t laughed like this in ages, isn’t sure he’s ever laughed like this in his entire life, and they just slip out, when he finally catches you, chest heaving a bit from the thrill of it all as large hands curl around your shoulders.

“God, I love you,”

They’re muttered softly, just a huff of breath, really, blanketed by his laughs and yours, and you nearly miss them.

Nearly.

And then, everything stops. Your laughs abruptly cut off, and he wishes he’d have missed the sharp intake of breath you inhale through your mouth, lips parted slightly, wide eyes staring at him as your body freezes up, going rigid in his grasp, feet fused to the floor.

He stops, too, lets go of you so quickly you’d think your skin burnt his palms through the thin material of your shirt, sapphire eyes growing wide—wider than you’ve ever seen them before—as his mind catches up with his mouth, stumbling a few steps back from you.

He wants to say something, anything, but his voice is caught in his chest, fading into pathetic squeaks of breath any time he tries to force a few words out. And it aches, heart pounding almost painfully against his ribcage, breathing shallow—almost ceased completely—as he stares unblinking at you, sharp, tingling anxiety flooding his veins.

And you—well, you’re staring at him with this look in your eyes, something that he can’t decipher, and it makes his stomach lurch. It’s a look he’s never seen before, your eyes shining as you gaze at him, almost glittering as you stare at him, unmoving, unbreathing, unexplainable. Are you upset? Angry? Disgusted? Stunned? A combination of all four? None at all?

The fact that he can’t tell, that he doesn’t know, when he prides himself on being able to read others so insanely well, ignites flames of anger that alight his entire body, right to the tips of his fingers and his toes, blazing straight through the anxiety and simmering in his chest, eyes hardening as they glare back at you.

A beat passes, your ears ringing from the thick, tense silence draped over the room, and then he’s pushing past you roughly with a choked snarl that sounds a little like a mix between a sob and a growl, and storming out of the kitchen.

He’s cut off all communication entirely, has been ignoring you for a few days now, only leaving his bedroom out of absolute necessity and refusing to answer any of your countless texts that have been collecting on his lockscreen, refusing to even touch his phone. He doesn’t want to see what you have to say, desperately tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care, that he isn’t scared of what your messages might reveal, isn’t terrified of that impending rejection he’s so sure is lurking on the horizon.

But there’s only so long he can keep avoiding you before you finally catch him in the kitchen, just past three in the morning, fixing himself a late-night snack.

“Oh, thank God,”

He whirls around at the sound of your voice, cobalt eyes gaping for a moment before narrowing into sharp slits an instant later.

“Dabi, listen—”

“No,” he growls, eyes flashing. “You listen, I don’t want to fucking talk about it, alright?”

Leaping in front of him, you block his path, prohibiting him from leaving the kitchen and speaking quickly. “Yeah? Well I do!”

“I don’t care,” he spits viciously, the ache throbbing deep in his chest—at the very core of his body—reminding him otherwise. “There’s nothing to talk about, anyway! It’s not like I meant them,”

And that—that gets you to stop, tripping a little over your own feet as you stumble back like he’s physically slapped you, a soft, hurt little whimper getting caught in the back of your throat as tears rapidly pool in your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Wh-What?”

He glares down at you, molars grinding together as his nose twitches.

I didn’t mean to say I love you.

What a pathetic fucking sentence—it’s almost laughable, the corners of his lips quirking up in a sardonic little grin. Your breath hitches, and his shoulders tense at the sound.

‘You aren’t supposed to know I love you’ is much more accurate, his mind sneers at him. Coward. Fucking coward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, though his voice is beginning to quiver, trembling hands curling into tight fists in an effort to stop it, short nails biting into the flesh of his palm as the skin stretched taut over his knuckles turns bone white.

“Didn’t mean what?” you whisper, glistening tears finally spilling over and streaming down your cheeks, leaving gleaming trails of salt water behind them. “Say it, Dabi,”

He’s got his eyes shut tightly as he shakes his head, knows if he opens them, if he looks at you, that he’ll break, shatter into a thousand pieces, split himself open at the very core of his body and bare his entire soul to you.

“Look at me,” you demand softly.

His jaw flexes once, slowly exhaling out his nose.

“Dabi, look at me,” a pause. “Please?”

“No.”

“W-Why?” the word escapes your lips in a little whine, broken up by your sniffles.

You know why.

But it’s those little half-sobs, the ones that keep catching painfully in your chest, that do it, interspersed with your soft whimpers as you plead with him—please, open your eyes, just look at me for a second, please!

Unable to stand it any longer, his lids finally rise, slowly revealing sparkling sapphire, glowering at you, his harsh gaze protected by a thin shield of water.

He hates this, hates not having control over his own fucking body, over his own fucking thoughts, hates the unfamiliarity of it all, of the unpleasant fluttering in his stomach and burning in his throat, swallowing thickly past the hard lump that’s formed, constricting his breathing.

Revolting, his inner voice snarls at him. You’re weak, letting some stupid little girl get to you like this, as if you even—

Your touch silences the voice, cutting it off midsentence, his whole body flinching at the soft, small hand resting so tenderly against the curve of his face, subconsciously nuzzling his cheek into your palm a second later, eyes slipping shut again.

“Dabi,” you begin, and something has changed. You no longer sound hurt, no longer sound wounded, your voice gentle and—

No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening to him right now. Panic grips his heart, puncturing it with its claws, sending blistering, sharp pain searing through his chest and slicing him open, raw and vulnerable.

“Please, don’t,” he whispers, words tumbling from his lips without his permission, voice frail, fragile, broken.

Don’t. He doesn’t want to hear them, doesn’t need to hear them, can’t bear to hear them—not if they’re false, fake, uttered out of misplaced pity and sympathy.

“I love you, too,”

A pathetic hiccup gets caught in his throat and he chokes on it, chest stuttering as he shakes his head, lids clenching tightly against the unfamiliar sting of tears, lips pressed together firmly to stifle the tiny distressed sounds that keep crawling up his throat, trying to escape.

There’s no way, she’s lying, how could she ever—

“Yes,” you whisper, thumb caressing his jaw. “I love you, too,”

[foli-vora]

counting stars

A/N: I apologise if this is a mess—I’ve just written this on my phone while camping in the middle of nowhere 😅 truly inspired by the outdoors hahah. Yes I’m sitting incredibly still in a spot that I found had cell service so I can upload this because I’m Impatient™️.

Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x f!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: depressive thoughts, insecurities, A SICKENING AMOUNT OF FLUFF

+++

The truck’s packed. That’s the first thing you notice when you pull into the driveway, eyeing the bags chucked neatly in the bed of the vehicle. The brief sharp stab of panic that impales your heart is drowned by a sickening twist of understanding. Of course he’d leave — why would he want you? Why would he waste time being with you when he could do so much better? You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t get in his way of leaving.

The sigh that leaves you as you exit your car is long and drawn out, each step towards the house drains the low level of energy you had leftover after your shift and you wonder if you’ll be in Frankie’s way if you take up the couch to sleep. Will he want to take the couch? He had bought it, after all. The bed, then. He wouldn’t leave you without a bed — maybe he’ll come back for it tomorrow.

Frankie’s coming down the stairs when you walk through the door, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder and Mena giggling in his arms. God you’re gonna miss those little giggles. He smiles when he sees you, dropping the bag next to a bright pink unicorn one on the floor before striding over to you.

You’re stumped when he slings an arm around your waist and brings you in close, hips bumping together, and Mena immediately dives in to press a wet kiss against your cheek. He kisses the other, sharing a little smile with his little girl before looking at you.

“You’ve got 10 minutes to pack some clothes.” He says, and you blink, stomach rolling.

Oh. Maybe he was packing your stuff.

Of course, it’s his house.

It’s in his truck because you couldn’t possibly fit everything in your car. He was helping you move out. He didn’t have to—you could have called a removal company or something. He shouldn’t have to go out of his way, especially with Mena.

You’re sullen as you answer, brushing past him with a quiet okay. The stairs are hard to climb, but eventually you reach your bedroom. You try not to look at the photos lining the walls—pictures of Mena, of her with Frankie or you, of all three of you, of you and Frankie snuggled together on various dates and trips, scribbles deemed masterpieces plastered proudly in expensive frames. Maybe you could ask for a few copies, or take the originals if he was just going to throw the ones of you away. Which he would, of course, why would he keep them?

He’s left a duffle on the bed for you—his old army one. He loves this one. He uses it for everything. You make a mental note to make sure to return it.

Tears choke your throat as you pack the bag, and it’s not until strong arms wind around your waist that they fall free. You won’t say no to a final hug. You try to memorise the tightness of his arms, the feel of his beard along your skin as he buries his face in your neck.

“You ready? Mena’s getting cranky,” you hear the chuckle in his voice and nod your head. He must feel the tension in your torso because immediately he’s turning you, frowning at the tears streaking your face. “What’s wrong, baby?” He’s gentle as he wipes them from your cheeks, the pinch between his brows deepening as your face crumbles in his hands.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit, sniffling quietly, “but I will if that’s what you want. You and Mena deserve better.”

“What?”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not.” Soon your face is pressed hard against his chest and he’s crushing you, hand tight on the back of your head as he holds you. “You’re not going anywhere, not without us, anyway. We’re going on a trip. All three of us—together.”

A trip? Your mind is a whirl as you try to catch up. He wasn’t leaving you? Or, more accurately, you weren’t moving out? Suddenly the packed bags, especially Mena’s unicorn one, and packed truck make a little more sense to your darkened mind, and you instantly relax in his arms.

He pulls back, dark eyes sad as he studies your face.

Frankie had watched you the last few days; watched your mood sour, watched the bags below your eyes deepen. You’d barely been sleeping — he could feel you toss and turn all night, could feel the shudder in your shoulders as you tried to keep your sobs quiet in fear of waking him. He’d seen the look of utter defeat wash your face when you accidentally spilt the milk trying to make a coffee yesterday, seen the immediate glaze of tears as he wiped the spill away. You were gone before he could even turn and comfort you, the door slamming as you all but ran to your car.

He knew what was happening—could recognise the signs a mile away after having to defeat his own monster lurking in the back of his mind telling him he wasn’t good enough, reminding him of all the awful things he’d done in his life, what he’d done to others. He’d gone straight to work, said he wouldn’t be able to do any shifts on the weekend, and had left at lunch to start packing.

“I love you.”

Your face falls, head shaking in automatic denial.

“I do,” his touch is gentle, brushing more tears away with his thumbs. “I know you’ve been struggling lately. I’m sorry for not saying anything—I should’ve made it clear when you came home. We’re going camping for the weekend, unless you don’t feel up to it which is fine. We can just order a pizza, cuddle up on the couch and watch movies if that sounds better.” He smiles warmly, reassuringly, and you know in your heart that he really truly doesn’t mind what you decide to do.

How you ever landed Francisco Morales, you’ll never know.

“No, I want to go.”

“Are you sure? Please don’t be scared to say no—”

“I want to go.”

For the first time for what feels like all week, you smile, and actually mean it.

His eyes flick across your face, searching for any signs of hesitation, and then he grins, your eyes automatically falling to admire the dimple creasing his cheek. You kiss it instinctively, relief washing through you as your mind and hearts calms. He stops you as you pull away, leaning in and letting his nose run along yours before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

He helps you put some clothes together, and with the two of you, you’re packed within a few minutes. He holds your hand on the way down the stairs, but stops to collect all the bags while you grab the little girl pulling at your legs. She babbles to you excitedly as you follow Frankie out of the house, her little fingers habitually pulling and fiddling with the chain around your neck.

You try to fend off the overwhelming feelings of unworthiness while you listen to Frankie talk animatedly back to Mena as you buckle her into her car seat, her little voice loud and bubbly as she claps her hands and bounces in her seat. You try to smile, try to reassure yourself that Frankie loves you, that Mena loves you, but you struggle truly believing it. How could they?

Music’s soon blaring throughout the cab of the truck as the familiar houses of your neighbourhood fly past, the Spotify playlist Frankie spent a good hour finding and adding songs to filling the quiet. He sings along, grinning at Mena’s attempts to sing along in her own little language, and when he looks at you, eyes shining with adoration, your chest feels tight and constricted.

You really didn’t deserve these two.

It takes a couple of hours to get to Frankie’s favourite spot—somewhere familiar to you from the many times he had taken you there. The small clearing is the same as it always has been, the large logs still situated around a small burnt patch of ground where leftover charred logs sat from previous campers. Frankie’s quick to erect the tent and organise the bedding inside, and soon he’s joining you and Mena at the edge of the wide lake glowing under the fading sun.

She’s dancing in the sand, little bare feet kicking up the grains as she twirls and twists and giggles when she goes too far and her toes touch the cool water. You sink to the ground and hug your legs, content to watch her enjoy the last bit of sunlight before it sinks beneath the horizon with a longing to feel as wild and carefree as she does.

“Papa!”

Frankie answers her call with a loud playful growl, and soon she’s squealing as he chases her across the sandbank. He catches her, throws her over his shoulder and spins, laughing at her wild screams of delight as he tickles her sides. Your chest warms, and the smile tugging at your lips is automatic as Mena runs on unsteady legs back to you, curls bouncing in her pigtails as she escapes Frankie’s arms and bolts to you for safety.

“Mama!” She climbs into your arms and your face drops in shock, wide eyes blinking up at Frankie who’s stopped dead behind her. The grin that widens his face practically blinds you, his eyes immediately shining with a sheen of tears as he drops beside you and smothers you both with a hug, pressing loud kisses to wherever he could reach. Mena giggles, pulling away to look between the pair of you with sparkling dark eyes. Little arms wind around both you and Frankie as she cuddles you close, her little head falling tiredly against your chest.

You catch Frankie looking at you, and return his fond gaze, smiling shyly under his admiration. The three of you snuggle together as the sun disappears, throwing bright hues of pink and orange across the cloudy sky, and finally, the tight feeling in your chest lessens under the pressure of two pairs of loving arms. Finally—you feel like you can breathe.

Frankie pipes up soon after the sun sets, “Who’s hungry?”

Mena’s head pops up instantly, the sleepiness that was just weighing her body down seemingly vanishing at the mention of food. She wiggles off your lap, and runs back to the campsite leaving you and Frankie chuckling quietly to yourselves as you follow. He and Mena sit together while he builds a fire, and you hear him talk through the process, Mena watching with curious eyes as he stacks the wood and lights it.

You all stay huddled together as the chill of the night drops over the camp site, sharing quiet laughs and keeping Mena entertained until her eyes start to drop. You stay mostly quiet, happy to just witness the two loves of your life share in each other’s affections.

Soon you and Frankie are left alone once Mena succumbs to sleep, and he brings two cups out with his phone playing quiet music, wiggling the bottle of whiskey he had hidden in his bag mischievously after putting her down in the tent. He pours a generous amount into both before sinking onto the log beside you, watching the flames dance in the dark before nudging you softly.

“Talk to me, baby.”

Sighing, your finger traces the rim of the cup and you shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. I just... I haven’t been feeling like myself lately.”

He nods, “Has something happened?”

You purse your lips, thinking over the last few weeks. Nothing jumps out and you shrug again, frowning at the flames. “No. My head just... I don’t know. I’m happy with my life—I love you, more than anything, and Mena, too... my job is fine—everything’s fine, but... my head just...” you struggle to finish your sentence, frown deepening.

You’re not making any sense. You never make sense. How can you possibly turn the jumble of thoughts in your head into words and make him understand? You barely understood it all yourself. What did you have to be upset over? Your life was picture perfect. Perfect man, perfect daughter, perfect job, a home full of love... so many people had it worse. You shouldn’t feel the way you do.

You must’ve spoken aloud because the next minute Frankie is reaching for your hand, rubbing the skin soothingly.

“I get it.” He says quietly, shooting you a comforting smile when you blink up at him, tears filling your eyes. “Our minds can be cruel sometimes, but just because there are others out there who may have it worse doesn’t take away from how you feel. You matter, just as much as others.”

You don’t try to stop the tears that fall from your eyes, instead letting them fall down your cheeks in a heavy flow. He moves closer in response, moving the arm holding your hand around your shoulder and pulling you in close to his side. The warmth from his body seeps into yours and you take a shaky breath as the tears continue.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want to talk to someone? I know of a few good doctors around.”

Shaking your head, you lean your head on his shoulder and sigh deeply. “No, I think I’m alright for now, but if it gets worse...”

His arm tightens in response, and he nods quietly.

“I’m here for you, honey.” He murmurs, turning to kiss your forehead gently. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You smile through your tears, turning to gaze up at him gratefully. “Thank you, Frankie.”

Quiet conversation starts up once the flow of tears dies off, and soon he has you in fits of laughter, the whiskey loosening the last bits of tension from your frame as it warms your insides. When Frankie’s favourite song comes on, he’s up before you can even make a comment, holding a hand out to you with a wide grin once he throws back the last of his drink and tosses his cup aside without a care.

“What?” You ask, eyeing his open palm with a grin.

“Dance with me.”

How could you ever say no? You couldn’t. Not to him. Your grin turns shy as you take his hand, letting him pull you up and off the log and into his frame. He holds you close, arms winding securely around you as you sway softly. The stars catch your attention when you rest your head on his shoulder, and you feel a lump growing in the back of your throat when Frankie starts to softly sing in your ear. It’s not depressive thoughts that have you on the verge of tears this time. Instead, your heart is damn near bursting, the flood of love for this man so strong you have to stop yourself from squeezing him too tight.

Your eyes flick to watch a shooting star, but instead of making a wish, you tuck yourself impossibly closer to Frankie. You didn’t need a wish—you had everything you needed already.

+

Tags: @anu-simps @seasonschange-butpeopledont @withasideofmeg @you-got-me-starry-eyed

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Dras Leona Interlude

(A/N: Longer A/N at the end adressing some stuff from in the fic. Cheers! Remember the timeline changes!)

~~~

Her head was pounding.

Arya groaned, squinting her eyes against the bright lights that assaulted them. Waking up with a headache was always rough. Waking up with an apparent hangover in what seemed to be one of Farthen Dur’s stone cut gutters, face wet with drool, was exponentially worse. The added feeling of self-hatred for being so careless as to consume that much dwarven brewed alcohol didn’t help matters

As her eyes adjusted, the elf started to take in her current state through the fog of her migraine. She was curled up on a cold stone floor if the feeling against her cheek was anything to go by, and her wrists and shoulders must have been tucked behind her at an odd angle during the night. The muscles around her joints shrieked in quiet protest of movement, stopping her from changing position.

That’s when Arya realized she actually couldn’t change position…and her arms were locked behind her back, a set of shackles at her wrists and another clamped around her ankles.

Mind-twisting panic gave the elf enough strength to wrench her protesting body into a sitting position. The nauseating shock of pain forced her to bite down onto a knotted cloth firmly wedged between her teeth. The brief clarity the surge of adrenaline brought sliced through the haze to reveal not stone cut dwarven gutters but the circular room she and Eragon had dived into. The amethysts, humming and flaring bright with internal light, cast reflections that danced madly across the patterned floor in a sickening whirl.

Eragon. Arya couldn’t see him. Her alarm grew until, reaching back with her bound hands, the combat liaison’s fingers brushed against a similarly shackled pair. Arya craned her head back as best she could and caught a glimpse of chestnut brown streaked with honey just as she felt the rough hills of thick calluses. There you are. Good.

The relief was short-lived. If Eragon was here, he was captured as well. They, whoever they were, would hurt him in ways all too familiar to the elf. 

The thought brought a fresh rush of panic, a keening whine filling Arya’s ears and drowning out the low murmur that pervaded the room. This couldn’t be happening, not again. The room tilted, reality bending and sinking in on itself as the icy memory of Wyrden’s death sank into the elf’s bones. It was happening again, down to one of them dying in a wild chase. 

Her heart hammered against her ribs, chest aching as she fought to get her breathing under control. In a situation like this, with her history, panic wasn’t unheard of. Hell, it was expected. But as Arya struggled to pull her knees under her body, that ever present voice kept telling her that now. is not. the time. She ground her teeth into the sodden cloth in her mouth, fighting the urge to gag against its encroachment towards the back of her throat. Forced herself to take measured breaths through her nose, nails digging into her palms to ground herself in the present and not the past.

I’m not there. I’m not there. I’m not there. I’m in Dras Leona. I’m not in Gil’ead. I’m in Dras Leona. I’m not in Gil’ead. I’m in Dras Leona….

It helped. The deep ache in her sternum eased somewhat, the tightness receding enough for the elf to begin a blind attempt at slipping her cuffed wrists under her legs. That was step one, it was always step one. All the buried instincts were coming back, the little things one picked up only through experience. 

It took only seconds for the elf to realize the attempts were for naught. Not only were her hands cuffed, but their captors had used rope to tie her arms at the elbows as well. That didn’t stop her from working the loops against her back, trying with increasing desperation to rub the bindings down far enough to slip them off. She needed to get Eragon out of there, get him away from whatever hell awaited them. 

Every movement increased the burning in her wrists. It grew until, in a sudden rush and a sickening ripping sensation, Arya felt warmth begin oozing over her hands along with a blinding shock that bolted up her arms. Glenwing’s nagging rose in her fogged mind, his frequent warnings that her odd sense of pride in leaving her old scars could be dangerous. Only now did she grimly acknowledge he was right. 

She knew what she would find if the shackles at her wrists were removed. The bands of scar tissue left from Gil’ead, formerly faded to a purpled silver from their old angry red, would be raw. Blistered to the point of mirroring scalds. She could feel the fragile skin tearing every time she shifted her arms, sliding away  from the flesh beneath. 

Her bloodied fingers brushed against Eragon’s hand again. 

Arya bit down on the gag and wrenched her shoulders forward with renewed conviction. Eragon would not live with the same scars. 

The rope was finally beginning to move, rolling down her elbows in maddeningly small increments. Once it was off she could slip her hands to the front with a quick dislocation of her shoulder, and then she would be free to work on Eragon’s restraints.

The elf could feel the Rider’s even breathing at her back, still dead to their situation. She wanted it to stay that way. Didn’t want him to acquire that ingrained, stomach wrenching fear deep in his bones that reared up whenever something slipped around his wrists. Whenever someone else closed the door behind him without warning. 

The ropes were so tantalizingly close to falling away when a flicker to the left sent Arya’s mind reeling again. A cold hand suddenly seized her neck from the side, and with a half strangled yell the elf threw her weight behind her shoulder and slammed into the attacker. 

The murmuring in the room rose, amethysts blazing in response. Arya felt her body impact flesh for a brief moment, vision tilting, and then her head cracked against the polished floor. Spots flashed in the same pattern as the ring of crystals around them. Through the blind patches she saw, for the first time, the people arranged around the room, arms and stumps of missing limbs raised up to the ceiling. The amethysts pulsed in rhythm with their steady chanting, the ever-increasing glow absorbing the power of their words. 

The robed man the elf had collided with stepped forward and leaned down, hand outstretched. An instinctive growl from low in Arya’s chest ripped through her throat as he approached. That hand was painfully familiar in the ghostly light of the amethysts, pale and lined with angrily flexed tendons. 

But he wasn’t reaching for her. With a jolt Arya wrenched herself up again and knocked the man’s arm away with her shoulder. For a moment a dark thought, echoed in his mocking voice, of just how pathetic she must look flitted through her consciousness. Arms and ankles bound, shoulders hunched and knees spread for balance, snarling and snapping through a sodden gag like a chained wolf. 

But she would not let them touch him. Not Eragon. She would take whatever tortures they had in mind, but not him. He was her responsibility. He was...was…. 

Damn it. Why did thinking of Eragon being harmed send such a cold stab of frantic horror, of hurt, right into her chest? The flashbacks weren't like this. This was more painful, but oddly...welcome. Unlike the flashbacks, this fear sharpened her resolve instead of blinding her with panic. 

The man moved to reach for Eragon again, approaching from the side and wholly unperturbed by the maddened elf. Unable to move much more than a few inches, desperate, Arya dove into the magic of her blood and flung a mental spell towards the hooded wretch. Broken bones would slow him. 

Except the moment the spell slid from her thoughts, Arya felt her mind shatter. 

A broken yell tore through the gag. The destruction of her concentration and the oh-so-familiar pain crashed through what grip she had on the present, sending sights, sounds, sensations laced with the scent of blood all careening to the forefront of her mind’s eye. 

Struggling, clawing like a drowning soul against the flood of memories, Arya saw the man regard her with a cold, contemptuous stare. Then he turned, and began dragging Eragon’s slumped body away.

~~~

(Post A/N: So, a question that might come up is ‘why didn’t Arya try to use magic immediately?’ Several reasons! Through her time in the Varden’s squads and larger fights/battles, Arya has adopted a ‘magic is absolutely the last resort’ mentality. You won’t always have time to get your strength back and you don’t know the capabilities of whoever’s fighting you/posing a threat. It’s safest to keep magic in your back pocket until emergency healing and the most desperate times. She also wasn’t fully aware of who else could be in the room so didn’t want to attract attention, and the PTSD all wrapped up in this I think just assumed she wouldn’t be able to use magic until she thought Eragon was in immediate danger. 

So, yeah. That’s it. Cheers!)

[tracybirds]

I was very determined to finish something today :D Yo all knw I’m back in lockdown which like... bro every time I try to write a thing that seems to happen so I’m snowed under again......................... Anyway, decided to finish up the exhausted Virg fic I began on Friday the 13th of August and how has it nearly been a month of lockdown already?? anyway I’m reposting the first bit with this, but wanted to say thank you to everyone who left comments on that snippet and encouraged me!! And big thanks to @gumnut-logic who read the first, slightly sleep-deprived first version of this before it underwent edits

It’s 11:30pm, my brain is no longer functioning, anyways, enjoy <3

 --------------

Virgil drags his leaden feet across the floor, still pink from the hot water, barely acknowledging Scott and Alan, chatting lightly together as he walks past them.

He’s not ready to sleep, but he’s not much good for anything else either.

He’s tired from the ground up. The exhaustion is only in his feet, his calves, his thighs, but it reaches up into his mind all the same. His shoulders ache, but it’s from good work and kind deeds, a balm for any residual overthinking.

He did good today, he knows it, can feel it in every torn muscle fibre.

He’ll just rest for a moment or two. Debrief can wait. John’s probably already written up most of the report.

He collapses onto the nearest sofa, but it’s more muscle memory than aim that lands him safely amongst the cushions.

“Cannonball!” crows a voice from somewhere above him, followed by a sharp yell of “Gordon, no!” and a crash that reverberated through his skull.

Then it hits him, and he launches himself sideways.

Gordon dives onto the sofa, arms and smile wide, as though he hadn’t just come off the same seven-hour mission plus bonus two-hour administrative argument with the nearest hospital who had just had their landscaping done.

And now, incidentally, redone.

Virgil glares from the floor.

“How’s it going, V?” Gordon says, still grinning.

“Ow.”

“Did you fall off the couch? You’ve gotta be careful about these things, you know.”

Short, sharp, monosyllabic words might be enough to fend off some lower forms of life, but Gordon is rather like moss, clinging to hard rock. Virgil opts to ignore him instead as he picks himself up with a groan.

A strong, sure hand grasps his arm and he accepts the extra leverage gladly, hauling his stiff muscles upright and stretching them carefully. He can see the chair Scott had leapt from halfway across the room. Alan isn’t even pretending he’s not laughing, the jerk.

Gordon is nestling, smirking as he burrows down into his cushions.

“Let it go,” he mutters, his hand now resting on Scott’s shoulder. He can’t handle a shouting match now, jackhammering into his brain after a day filled with enough pain.

Scott settles for pulling the cushions from under Gordon’s head and he falls back onto the hard frame with a squawk.

Alan’s laughter erupts again and Virgil doesn’t bother to smother his own smile.

Gordon sits up and his eyes are shining.

“Fine, fine, I deserved that,” he says, grinning up at Scott. “Now, get lost and put the large lump to bed, I checked the stats. There’s fifteen miles registered on his pedometer and he basically hauled three tons today.”

“Not all at once, Gordon, stop exaggerating.”

Gordon shrugs.

“I know the medical studies as well as you do. Sure, they might not think rescue work counts as overtraining, but science doesn’t lie.”

“But, people do,” Virgil says, scowling at him. Each word ripped more energy from his depleted stores. “And I was resting, thanks.”

Gordon lifts a finger, waggling it with a half-smile.

“A couch isn’t a substitute for a bed,” he says, dropping his voice to mimic Virgil’s own. “How many times did you say that to me?”

“When you had a broken back!”

“Right, that’s enough.” Scott steps forward between the bickering brothers. “Decompression time for you both.”

Virgil blinks, realising that he was stooping to an argument with Gordon. Gordon, who always fought dirty, twisting intent and laughing in a way he never could manage. He must be tired.

“Virgil, can you get up to your rooms alone?”

“Yeah,” he says, holding himself upright against the sudden wave of exhaustion. It was as though in remembering he was meant to be tired, his body had decided to lean into that realisation.

“And Gordon…” Scott pauses, eyeing Gordon who was still fairly vibrating with energy even after nine hours in the field. “Go watch a fish or something. Just stay away from each other.”

Virgil is already halfway out the door and his ears have been stoppered by weariness, the external world becoming fuzzy. He doesn’t hear Gordon’s quick reply.

He doesn’t hear Alan’s sharp cry either, doesn’t even register the way the world is tilting sideways.

He merely crumples on the floor in the hallway.

***

Virgil wakes slowly, awareness seeping into his bones and spreading outwards. His neck is propped up at an awkward angle; he’s resting on the pillows that he rearranges around him every night and they are much too high.

He moans a little as he shuffles, his neck creaking as it falls back in alignment with his spine.

The gulls call from outside his window, a high and keening cry. He can hear the light whistles of forest bird. The low murmur of voices unable to pierce the early fog of morning.

He doesn’t remember making it to his bed, but nor does he intend to rise from it.

 He wants to cling to slumber, doesn’t want to make conversation or move. But he’s already lost the game of sleep and settles for burrowing further into the light cotton comforter that had seen him through every summer of his life.

A rough hand on his shoulder greets him instead and he groans a warning as it flips him onto his back.

“Come on, Virgil, we know you’re awake.”

The voice floats down from above him. He grumbles deeply, unintelligibly, and turns his back on the inhumanity of it all.

A sharp poke pierces his clouded thoughts and Virgil growled as he opened one bleary eye.

“What?”

“Gentlemen, he lives,” crows Gordon, arms wide and ready to receive undying adoration for his proclamation.

“It’s been fourteen hours,” Scott says, grimly. “Time for a check-up.”

Virgil wonders at that. Fourteen hours of sleep, while rare in their home, was hardly reason for medical concern. He suspects though, that Scott already knows this, and doesn’t resist for fear that he’ll be forced to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed.

“The air’s stale in here,” he says instead. “I don’t sleep with my windows shut.”

“Arm,” orders Scott, and Virgil lifts it automatically, puzzling over his last memories which certainly don’t involve him shutting his windows. Or entering his room for that matter.

“I fell asleep?” he asks, suddenly.

“Right in the hall,” Gordon says, his eyes dancing with half checked laughter. “You went down like a ton of bricks.”

“It wasn’t funny.” Scott’s manner is terse, his shoulders tight and the deep crease between his eyes growing as he turns to glare at Gordon. “He could have seriously hurt himself.”

“He didn’t though.” He whips around to face Virgil. “And you’re welcome, by the way. I convinced Scott to let us put you here instead of the infirmary. Even woke John up to back me. I risked the wrath of John for you, he said you were physically fine otherwise you’d be waking in that cold infirmary and Scott would have a back spasm from sleeping in those terrible chairs. All for nothing too because you’re fine.”

Virgil stares at him.

He wants to argue with Gordon, the necessity of rules made for their safety niggling at the back of his brain. He wants to roll his eyes, tell him that the infirmary beds aren’t that painful, that the fluorescent lights that blink and buzz might be made for suturing and not sleeping but that they held their own kind of relief, of comfort.

He wants to thank him, for giving him this moment where he could wake slowly to the sounds of birdsong and crashing waves, unheard in the depths of the island. For that moment where he could lay still as the sun streamed in with warmth and good cheer.

He has a thesis of carefully memorised protocols warring with pure sensation of soft coziness and the luxury of a brother who loves him.

He isn’t sure which instinct is winning when he opens his mouth.

“You made me sleep on two pillows.”

The room blurs as the soft mound beneath his head is ripped away at lightning speed. Virgil hardly has time to hear the whirl of rushing air before the pillow connects with his head with a dull thud.

Gordon jabs at his arm.

“No appreciation, I tell you.”

��Gordon! Out!”

Virgil throws the offending pillow after him, chuckling at the sharp laughter that pierced the slammed door.

Scott isn’t smiling.

He pulls the sphygmomanometer tight around Virgil’s arm.

Virgil winces slightly, but says nothing. Not yet.

Scott’s movements are precise and ordered, with nothing to suggest he isn’t conducting a normal check-up at all.

But Virgil knows his brother.

“Hey,” he says softly, watching Scott stare at the dial. “I really am okay.”

Scott’s not listening to the blood pounding through his arteries, not even in pretence. Still, he ignores Virgil and pulls up a new medical report so he can stare intently at that in place of his brother’s gentle eyes.

“Scott,” says Virgil, leaning forward and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Scott shoves it away, his eyes snapping to Virgil’s.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“You were off duty.”

“I don’t mean me,” Scott growls. “I mean, I do, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat if you’d asked. But you didn’t, did you? Not even Alan. Not even John.”

“John was helping,” says Virgil, sharply. “Just because he wasn’t on the ground, doesn’t mean he wasn’t working that same stretch of time. Why do you think Gordon had to wake him?”

“Stop side-stepping my point,” snaps Scott. “We’re a team, Virgil, you can’t work yourself to the point of exhaustion like that.”

“What choice did I have?”

“I should’ve been there, I could’ve-” began Scott, but Virgil merely raised his own voice.

“You couldn’t, Scott. What you’re angry about, I could turn right around and parrot back, you know. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

He fell back against the headboard, wishing he hadn’t woken up. Or at least that he wasn’t having this argument, not here and now.

And he recognises those eyes, the burning frustration at one’s own limitations and the rising fear for a brother mixed with torn compassion and understanding.

He’s mirrored Scott all his life, and it’s startling to see his own familiar expression on Scott’s face.

“Please, Virgil.”

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t make that kind of promise to Scott any more than Scott could to him. Not without breaking it.

Scott smiles sadly as he stands, accepting the silence.

He knows.

“Don’t even think about moving from this room for the next twenty-four hours. Just... get some rest, will you, Virg?”

He thinks he will.

[potatowitch]

fenders: “pulling back just for a second to try to regain control before realizing they don’t want to be in control and diving back in” for a mutual who would prefer to remain anonymous. hope you enjoy! tags: pining, slight angst, panic attacks

Fenris isn't far from the clinic when he notices something is off.

Normally, Darktown is awash with a low drone of noise, no matter the hour or the season - the sounds of Kirkwall's destitute and desperate blending together into a persistent hum of misery that hits the second you step off the elevators. The only place down here that could be even remotely considered peaceful is right at the back of Anders' clinic, in the small living quarters cordoned off with a battered wooden door.

Which is why the skin on the back of Fenris' neck is standing up as he approaches the clinic. It is … quiet. Eerily quiet.

Fenris adjusts his grip on the box of supplies and food he carries under his arm - purchased of his own accord, with his own gold, and he tells himself it's for the benefit of Hawke's group as a whole that he ensures the mage remains well fed and well stocked - and he shifts his stance slightly, alert and ready to spring into action as he rounds the last corner.

The door to the clinic lies in splinters in the dirt, and Fenris chokes on his next inhale, throat constricting as he all but tosses the box to the ground and rushes forward. The clinic is in shambles - cots upturned and thrown about the room, legs broken off chairs, Anders' desk lying on its side with the drawers ripped out. Fragments of shattered glass glitter against the dusty floor where every potion bottle in the clinic appears to have been smashed, their contents forming a pattern of little multicoloured stains across the ground. Fenris' vision narrows to a few particularly reddish splotches, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he prays none of the stains are blood.

"Mage?" he calls out, ignoring the way his voice wavers. "Anders?"

He gets no reply. The clinic is still dead silent, save for Fenris' own soft footfalls as he approaches the back of the clinic, swallowing down the panic clawing its way up his esophagus. The door to the living quarters has been torn off its hinges, and the furniture within is just as destroyed as the rest of the clinic - but there is still no sign of Anders.

Fenris backs out of the room, turns, and sprints out of the clinic altogether. He navigates the winding tunnels of the undercity without thinking, and once he has ridden the lift back up to Lowtown, he doesn't stop running until his feet have carried him to Hawke's doorstep. His chest heaving and his ears ringing, he pounds on the door with both fists until it is opened by a very startled Bodahn.

"Messere?" Bodahn stammers. "Are you -"

"Where is Hawke?" Fenris asks as he pushes past into the foyer, storming into the living room. "Hawke, where are you?" he calls.

"Mistress Hawke isn't home, messere!"

"Where is she?" Fenris chokes out. "I need - I need her help, I'm -"

"Fenris?"

Fenris whirls around at his name. There, standing in the door to Hawke's study, hair loose from his tie and head tilted to the side in confusion, is Anders - alive, and from what Fenris can see, unharmed.

In an instant, all the tension drains out of Fenris' body, the panic gripping his chest lifting. "Anders," he breathes, and before he can question himself he rushes over, fisting his hands in Anders' coat and pressing their lips together.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated - their teeth clack together and Anders squeaks, freezing under Fenris' hands. For a moment, Fenris wonders if he's made a mistake, but then Anders' hands are on him, one clutching his hair and the other his waist, and he is turning his head to the side to deepen the kiss. Fenris' hands relax, letting go of Anders' coat to wrap his arms around his back, and he loses himself in the feeling of Anders' chapped lips moving against his own and the heat slowly building in his gut. He runs a hand upward, brushing through Anders' ridiculous feather pauldrons until he reaches his hair. Heedless of his gauntlets, Fenris revels in the feeling of the strands underneath his palm, closing his fist and giving an experimental tug.

Anders' resulting moan snaps Fenris back to reality. Pulling back, he lets go of Anders' hair and tries to organise his racing thoughts. He wants to say something - like how they should stop, how they should really talk about this - but Anders is still panting against him, looking up with his eyes dark and unfocused and his lips red and swollen, and something in Fenris' brain snaps.

He's tired of pretending. He's tired of dancing around this unspoken thing he feels. How it's not for the group's benefit that he brings Anders food and supplies. How Anders is infuriating and petty, foolish and abrasive, and somehow also kind and selfless and funny and idealistic and beautiful. Fenris wants to keep him here forever, warm and solid and safe in his arms where nobody can take him away. He runs his hand through Anders' hair again and pulls him back in at the waist. The kiss is softer this time, Fenris' desperation melting away into curiosity, gently taking Anders' bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. He's rewarded with a pleased hum, and he can feel Anders smiling against his lips.

This time when Fenris pulls away, he does so slowly, keeping his eyes closed as he rests his forehead against Anders'. He can feel long fingers carding through his hair, tucking it behind one of his ears, and the hand on his back gently rubbing up and down.

"Your clinic is a mess," he murmurs. "When I couldn't find you, I thought …"

"I'm alright," Anders says. "It's alright."

"It is not alright," Fenris sighs, moving to tuck his head under Anders' chin, burying his face against his neck. "I could have lost you, mage."

"But you didn't. Hey, look at me?"

Fenris opens his eyes, looking up to see Anders smiling softly at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he cups Fenris' cheek. "I'm okay," he whispers, and presses his lips to Fenris' forehead. They stay there for a moment, until the sound of a throat clearing startles them into pulling apart, though Fenris keeps one hand on Anders' waist.

Hawke is staring at them from the foyer.

"Uh," she manages.

Anders snorts, and Fenris lets out a long sigh.

"Eloquent, Hawke," he mutters, finally letting go of Anders and stepping back.

[sailorshadzter]

Hiii! Welcome back!!! If you are still taking requests, how about an one shot where Cersei kind of notices the tension between Jon and Sansa and comments on it? Maybe in a "We are not so different" way? Or she straight up encourages them bc she's a horrible person and thinks if there are rumors about the Starks, they'll forget about the Lannisters?

ANON. whew this has been in my ask box for a while! but i opened my inbox to find some inspiration to write and yours was the one that clicked first! so i hope you see this, anon, wherever you are, and know that i FINALLY got to your prompt request!!!

as always, you're always welcome to drop a prompt request in my inbox.

enjoy!

The ball is grand and glittering.

Cersei has ensured that this night would be perfect, putting far more coin into it than Robert ever would have allowed. But there is little else she can do, what with the trouble brewing all around them. She's lost one son already, she will not lose another- and so she has gone to great expense and trouble to make sure that this room was full of loyal nobles and fearsome knights. This wedding would not end the way the last one had, even if the bride was the same.

From where she sits, she watches as the young Sansa Stark dances with her half brother, the bastard born Jon Snow. The young man had been intended for the Night's Watch, but Tyrion had developed a fondness for the boy during their visit North, and so, he'd come along with the Stark's. They are close together, the dance bringing them so, but the smile that lights up the redhead's face is one that Cersei swears she's worn herself, but when she looks upon Jaime. And the usually stoic Snow looks just as delighted to spin his sister out and back in, hands at her waist to lift her high into the air as the music swells. Cersei chuckles, wondering how's she's not noticed it ever before. The wheels in her brain are suddenly spinning, whirling several thoughts throughout that bring yet another smile to her face.

As if her thoughts have conjured him, she feels Jaime's presence at her elbow; he bows over his arm, ever the courtier, but she knows it's more for show than anything else. "What has you so cheery?" He asks, his green eyes scanning the dance floor, where sure enough his gaze falls upon the Stark siblings as they finish their dance among all the others, though it quite seems they've forgotten they aren't alone. "They make a handsome pair, do they not?" Turning back to face his lover, he sees he's right, for she's staring down at them with a look he's seen before. "What are you thinking?"

"That proud Ned Stark's children are falling in love right before our very eyes." They both knew what the world would say about two siblings, albeit half, falling in love. Was it not why they themselves took every precaution? Cersei shudders to think what would happen if the truth was ever discovered... The rumors were bad enough. But this... Two Stark children in love? It would cease the rumors about her and Jaime, that she was certain of. She watches as Sansa dips a quick curtsy to Jon before he offers her his arm, which she readily takes, and they disappear into the crowd.

"See that Lady Stark is brought to me tomorrow morning, won't you?" She says to the nearest lady, who nods, curtsying before she scurries away to do as she's been bid. Cersei turns back to face the dance floor, but it's suddenly become far less interesting.

And so she must wait until morning.

[ x x x ]

It's late, yet she cannot bring herself to leave his arms.

Jon holds fast to her, kissing the top of her head, her silk gown soft beneath his touch as his hands span the length of her spine. "I should go..." She whispers for the tenth time, though his grip does not relent, nor does she make any attempt to pull away. He smells of spice and smoke, comforting and strong; she buries her face deeper into his chest, wishing she could sink into him. "Jon..."

His name is soft on her lips.

Their gazes meet and he's lost, as he always is, in the depth of her blue eyes. "I know," is all he can say, knowing as well as she that it was best for her to go. They both knew where this moment would lead- after all, how many times had they been here before? But more than anything, they both knew what would happen if they were discovered in such an embrace. And yet... There's a part of him that doesn't care. There's a part of him that wishes with all of his might that they could be together in the way that they wanted. No more secret midnight rendezvous that only left them both feeling more strained than being without the other. "I'll walk you to your rooms..." He begins, but she shakes her head.

"Shae is waiting," she says softly, finally freeing herself from his grip. She feels cold without his touch and that is almost enough to send her back into his arms. "I will see you in the morning," she goes on, reaching out her hand to tenderly touch his. Jon nods, catching her hand so he might bring it to his lips to kiss. The brush of his lips to her knuckles steals the breath from her lungs and time is suspended as they stand there, the only sound in the room that of the fire burning in the hearth. "Until the morning..."

"Until the morning," he parrots back as he let's go of her hand. "Good night, Sansa."

The way he says her name sends shivers down her spine. "Good night, Jon." She says instead of every other thing she wants to say.

[ x x x ]

In the morning, a lady arrives at her door to inform her she's been summoned to see the queen.

Though no longer truly queen, Cersei Lannister runs the Seven Kingdoms through her youngest son, the now King Tommen. Just a boy, he's been married to Margaery Tyrell, who only several weeks before had instead been married to Joffrey. Poison had taken care of him, but Margaery and her family, ever the schemers, ensured that she would take her place as queen. Sansa was certain that it would not be long before a new power struggle would emerge. Soon, it would be Margaery and the Tyrell's fighting for control of poor, young Tommen.

Once she's dressed, Sansa, with Shae beside her, makes her way down to Cersei's office.

When she's been announced, she steps into the room, one which she has spent much time in over her years in King's Landing. Once she had been thrilled to be invited into this room, to spend private time with Queen Cersei... But things have changed. Though she dips her the curtsy due to her rank, Sansa does not return the smile offered to her by the golden haired woman behind her oak desk. "Lady Stark, tell me, how did you enjoy the ball last night?" Cersei asks, gesturing for Sansa to take the empty chair across from her. The young woman frowns, but does as she's bid, clearly surprised by the question. Cersei notices she wears a new gown of pale blue damask, made from a bolt of fabric she was given by Jon Snow a few short weeks ago; though it is fashioned in the Southern style, Cersei sees that the trailing sleeves are stitched with falling leaves, weirwood leaves, like those that grow in the North. Even her hair, which once she wore in styles that mirrored her own, is fastened into braids in a way that reminds Cersei of Catelyn Stark. It is Sansa's way of breaking with the Lannister's entirely; she is no longer theirs to control.

"It was wonderful, your grace," Sansa answers honestly, shifting slightly in the chair, brushing a lock of red hair across a shoulder before she accepts the goblet of wine being offered to her. "Very grand." She goes on, though she's no longer thinking of the ball, but of the last dance she and Jon had shared together.

"Your brother is quite the elegant dancer, I must say I'm surprised." Cersei's voice breaks into her thoughts and Sansa blinks in surprise. This certainly was not the topic of conversation she expected to have upon being summoned to this room. "The two of you make quite the couple." At this, Sansa chokes on the sip of wine she's just taken, her stare wild and frantic as it rises up to meet the queen. Inside, Cersei is laughing- she's been right there was Sansa was before, so many years ago. Back when her feelings for Jaime had first begun to grow into what they were now. She could recall their dance lessons, when a compliment on how well they fit together would leave her blushing and stammering, just as Sansa Stark was now. "You needn't hide it from me, Lady Stark," she goes on, taking advantage of the young woman's silence. "I see how you look at him... And how he looks at you."

Sansa's heart was beating fast within her chest, so fast she can barely catch her breath. Was she and Jon truly so obvious? They had painstakingly tried to keep what was brimming between them beneath the surface... But had last night been their very downfall? "I-I do not know what you mean, your grace," she says, adopting a cheery but confused tone, cursing herself for being a terrible liar. From the way Cersei is smiling, Sansa knows she does not believe her, not even for a moment.

"You know, Lady Stark, if there is one thing in my life I regret... It is not ever being with the one I truly loved." Cersei speaks from total honesty, saying aloud the words she's never spoken before to anyone. Not even to Jaime. She knows what it will take to sway proud Ned's child into something such as diving head first into an incestual relationship. But she knows the way to sway the young woman, for it was the same way she swayed herself all those years ago. "Someday you will be married to a man who you likely do not love," they are both reminded of a similar conversation, one they had shared before her marriage to Joffrey was to take place. "You should experience true love, even just once in your life." These words resonate with her and Cersei knows it. Her blue eyes widen and she opens her mouth as if she means to speak, but cannot find the words. "We cannot help who we love," Cersei says, though now she wonders if she's still speaking to Sansa, but rather to herself. "But if any love was so truly wrong, why would the Gods allow us to feel it in the first place?"

Sansa's heart beat has not ceased in it's pace, but a slow realization is dawning upon her as she listens to Cersei's words. There is meaning behind them and she knows, those words are not meant only for her. She recalls the rumors spread just before her father was beheaded, rumors about the truth of Joffrey and his siblings parentage. The truth about Cersei and her brother, Jaime. There is a part of her that worries this is just a trap, a set up to catch her and Jon in the act, something that would earn them the scorn and disgust of all of King's Landing and likely the North.

And yet...

You should experience true love, even just once in your life... Those are the words she's replaying in her brain, over and over again, knowing that Cersei was right. It would not be long before a marriage was made for her, one that would likely be loveless and political, one that would do nothing for her but everything for the Lannister's. Without her father or mother or even Robb to protect her from such a fate, she would be doomed to marry a man of Cersei's choosing.

When she's dismissed a few minutes later, Sansa wastes no time.

Shae, who has waited for her outside Cersei's room for her, rises up from where she sits on the windowsill. "Find Jon for me, won't you?" She asks in an undertone, to which her lady stares back at her for a long moment before she nods. If there was anyone she could trust with what she was about to do, it would be Shae.

Once she's back within her own chamber, she brings herself to stand before the looking glass, staring at her own reflection. She knows that doing what she's about to do will change everything, but she knows she cannot go on in life without knowing what it will feel like to be held by a man that truly loves her. If she can only taste his love this one time, then she will go willingly into any marriage presented to her, for Jon's love she will carry with her for the rest of her life.

A knock on the door comes.

By the time she's turned around, the door has opened and it's Jon standing there. He's staring at her, taking her in as he always does, those Stark colored eyes enough to bring her to her knees. "Sansa," he greets, feeling just as she does, the shift in what lays between them. She crosses the room as he does and so they meet at the center, a minimal distance between them. The blue damask gown suits her in a way he cannot describe and he's, as always, struck by her beauty. Somewhere behind them, Shae quietly ducks into the antechamber, out of sight, out of mind- but there all the same.

There's so many things she wants to say, so many things she needs for him to hear. But the words do not come, no matter how hard she wills them to. And so, instead, she does the only other thing that makes any sense; she kisses him. She kisses him with as much passion as she can muster and he falls into it, his arms winding around her only so he might pull her closer. When he breaks free moments later, it's to stare into her eyes, to ask her one single thing. "Are you certain?" She nods.

That's all he needs.

This time, he's the one to kiss her, leaning in to capture her mouth with his. One hand remains perched at the small of her back, though the other one slides into her hair, uncaring of the pins he knocks loose. She's kissing him back, meeting his tongue with her own, the sensations rushing through her body unlike anything she's ever felt before.

It does not take long before they stand at the side of her bed, the canopy hangings pushed aside so Jon might sit upon the edge. He beckons her closer and she comes to stand between his knees, allowing him to turn her around so her back instead faces him. Then, she feels his hands as they begin to loosen the laces of her blue gown until it begins to slip over her shoulders. That is when she turns back around to face him and she allows the gown to fall to the floor at her feet, all so she might stand there in nothing but her chemise.

And then, Jon draws her down into the bed, and into his arms.

[luxekook]

chapter seven.

⇥ pairing: ot7 x reader

⇥ genre: college au with fluff, smut & angst

⇥ summary: a series in which the reader meets (and falls for) seven members of the Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) fraternity

⇥ word count: 3.6k

⇥ warnings: 18+, lots of cursing, general chaotic energy, poly relationship, a short confrontation, mentions of slut-shaming, switch!reader, dom!joon, switch!jin, sub!jimin, library shenanigans, an abundance of coffee, punishments, spanking, bad puns (jin is in this chapter, DUH), many nerd references uwu

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

characters | prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine

Chapter Seven

Quinn Library – 3:54pm

The end of September passes in a blur of studying, partying, volunteering, and spending time with friends. The month’s conclusion also includes the increasing presence of seven boys in my everyday routine.

Since giving Taehyung the suck of his life in the bathroom of Hannigan’s, I have been basically fighting off the seven of them for a moment to breathe. But, sometimes breathing is overrated when being smothered by affection.

Going from being single to essentially dating seven people is quite the adjustment. I found myself growing attached to them – something that both excited and scared the shit out of me. We haven’t discussed labels or anything, but I figure it’s only a matter of time. The boys have apparently been planning an elaborate first date for this upcoming weekend, and I feel like they’ll probably ask to make it official then.

My stomach erupts in butterflies at the thought, and I take a calming breath. No need to overthink such things.

While it might be unconventional by some societal standards, polyamory is simply a way to love. Why should love come with confines? With binary expectations? The saying ‘love is love’ gets thrown around a lot, but I believe it bears repeating.

Jenni and Luna have been nothing but supportive to me over the past two weeks. They even came with me to volunteer this past weekend because they - and I quote - wanted to ‘check out our vibe’. But, I wholeheartedly expect that the real reason had actually been for them to feel out the boys’ intentions.

Why did I suspect this? Well, because Jungkook had come up to me within the first fifteen minutes at the worksite quivering in fear over how ‘scary my friends were’ and how ‘Jenni had cornered him to interrogate him while Luna hovered behind her, menacingly holding a nail-gun’.

I had never felt more loved and supported by my friends.

My phone dings, and I quickly hasten to put it on silent, shooting an embarrassed and apologetic look around the library. It seems like most people have headphones in, and I let out a sigh of relief. No one wants to be that one loud person in the library.

Checking my notifications, I smile when I see it’s a SnapChat from Hobi in the group chat the boys created a few weeks ago. My thumb swipes it open, and I barely contain myself from announcing to the whole library how vibrantly handsome one of my potential boyfriends is.

I quickly send a SnapChat back of me and my stack of books in the library with the caption ‘send help in the form of coffee’.

Immediately, Taehyung sends a flurry of heart eyes emojis in the chat, Jungkook sends a ‘noona is so cute’, and Yoongi sends back a picture of a black screen with the caption ‘come nap with me’.

God, I would love to nap with Yoongi right now… Alone time with the older boy is so elusively precious. One day last week at their house, I had mentioned wanting to learn piano. Yoongi had just grabbed my hand and tugged me to his room. We had spent a couple hours together in the small corner of his room playing on his keyboard.

Well, he had been playing; I had been fumbling around like a buffoon - half uncoordinated in general and half flustered by how good Yoongi looked playing. His hands had been so nimble as they flew over the keys, crafting melodies I could only assume he had composed. His focus had been so fucking hot as he nodded slightly along to the tempo in his head, his eyes shooting over to look at me every once in a while.

My hand kink? Activated.

My willpower to not kiss the shit out of Yoongi? Nonexistent.

When Yoongi had paused in between songs, I may or may not have grabbed him by his shirt collar and kissed him. His blushing attempt to dodge me had been so cute; and when I had stopped trying to kiss him, he had pouted and then kissed me instead.

What a cutie…

A giggle draws my attention from my reminiscing. At first, I pay it no mind, taking it as a directive to dive back into my studies. But then, the whispering starts.

“I heard she’s fucking her way through the whole house.”

“Isn’t there a term for that?”

“Yeah, a frat rat.”

I slam my 500-page textbook closed and stand, leveling the duo of gossiping girls with a glare that could make grown men cry. It had before when I had to properly eviscerate my uncle in defense of feminism at our last family gathering. What a time that had been.

“Is there a problem?” I force the question through gritted teeth, stalking over towards their nearby table. I relish in the way they gape at me, eyes wide and pupils quivering, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid my complaint jar is at capacity. Please don’t try again later.”

The girl on the right gulps, “No-nope, there’s no problem! We were just leaving. Right, Janika?”

“No,” The girl who had called me a ‘frat rat’ just moments before crosses her arms and stands, “I do, like, have a problem.”

“Janika,” The other girl tugs on the sleeve of the one standing, “Don’t.”

“Yeah, Janika,” I smile, “Don’t.”

I can see the moment she snaps.

“You’re, like, such a fucking bitch! I don’t know what they all see in you. Oh wait, yes I do. You’re fucking easy.”

I consider myself to be a patient person, but having to endure this type of rant against my character - and against women’s sexual freedom in general - has pushed me well past my limits.

“Now, listen here, Janika,” I take another step forward, “You can keep talking your shit. I really don’t give a flying fuck what you think about me. But I really advise you to google ‘how to stop slut-shaming for dummies’ because it seems like you need a crash course.”

Janika’s face darkens, “Whatever. They’ll get tired of you anyway.”

“Yeah,” I let out an amused laugh, “I’m sure they’ll get real tired of me choking on their dicks every night.”

Letting out a gasp, Janika whirls back around to face her silent friend, “Let’s go. I don’t want to, like, be around her any longer.”

“Buh-bye now,”I wiggle my fingers in their direction as they shuffle out of the library.

Smiling in satisfaction, I head back towards my table. Without hesitation, I gather my books and belongings and head upstairs to the quiet floor. Any more distractions or confrontations would probably make my blood pressure pop off the charts.

The quiet floor, as one of my safe havens, is home to several small private study rooms. Peering into each, I start to lose hope that any would be available. Finally, the very last room proves me wrong, and I swing open the door and almost in tears over the sweet, sweet solitude.

This particular study room is tucked away in the very far corner of the library’s second floor. Not many people are aware of its location, and it seems that paid off for me today. Plopping my things down across the table in the center of the tiny room, I follow suit and drop down into one of the two chairs adjoining the table.

What a clusterfuck of an afternoon… This sadly isn’t the first time I’ve heard some comments being made about my association with the BTS boys, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. Yet, part of me knew all along that this would be the trade-off.

After all, what are a few irrelevant opinions to seven gorgeous and loyal partners? Inconsequential - in my opinion. That is the reason why I haven’t breathed a word of the backlash to anyone.

Sighing, I flip open my textbook to where I had been before being rudely interrupted.

The amygdala plays a key role in emotion and behavior…

“Noona?”

I jump a half-mile out of my chair, slapping a hand over my pounding heart. Jimin had somehow managed to enter the room without my knowledge. Had he fucking teleported?

Holding a giant iced coffee in one hand and a cinnamon bun in the other, Jimin beams at me and ignores the fact he just scared the living shit out of me. “Hi, noona! I saw your SnapChat while I was in class, and I came here as soon as I could.”

I stare dumbfounded at the angel before me. Jimin is slightly out of breath with reddened cheeks and a sweaty brow. His black track-pants are slung low on his hips, his long-sleeve white t-shirt clings to his torso, his black duffle bag thrown carelessly over one shoulder. He must have run over straight from dance class.

Standing abruptly, I stalk over to where Jimin is still posted up by the doorway to the study room. Toe to toe with him, I blurt out while still half in a daze, “You really brought me coffee and food?”

He eyes me warily like I might suddenly jump on him at any moment. Shifting his weight back and forth, Jimin hesitantly replies, “Um, yes?"

I take the coffee and cinnamon bun from his hands, place them on the table, and then tackle him with the biggest hug. "You absolute sweetheart!" I murmur into the crook of his neck, "This made my day. Thank you, Jimin-ie."

His hands tentatively wrap around me, pulling me closer. "You're welcome, noona. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Well, I really appreciate it, baby,” My lips brush over the crevice of his collarbone and relish in his shudder. Bringing my head up to face his, I smile widely at him, “Can I kiss you, Jimin-ie?”

“Yes,” He sighs out, eyes already closing in anticipation. I press my lips to his, still smiling softly against his mouth. His lips are plush under mine, velvety soft. My tongue swipes across his bottom lip and— Is that coffee I taste?

I pull back, “Jimin, did you sip my coffee on your way here?”

The boy looks rightfully alarmed, “I– y-yes. But only a little, noona!”

Cute.

“Hmm,” I trail my fingers down his chest, “I guess I’ll make an exception for you this time since you were the one to bring it for me.”

Jimin relaxes slightly, but his expression is strangely disappointed. I stare at him quizzically, and he blushes.

“What is it?” I lean against the table, facing him.

He clears his throat, staring intensely at the ground, “You can still punish me if you want, (y/n)-noona.”

My eyebrows shoot upwards at his offer, and then I let out a slight chuckle, “Oh, Jimin… That would be a favor to you, wouldn’t it? My baby boy wants to be punished, hm? Did dance practice make you all hot and bothered? Jungkook tells me that has been happening to you lately.”

Jimin’s face explodes in color as he mutters, “That little bitch will pay for this.”

Suddenly, the door swings open with a resounding thud, nearly clipping Jimin in the shoulder.

“Your savior has arrived!” Kim Seokjin announces loudly in spite of the studiously silent atmosphere of the quiet floor. His hands hold two steaming hot travel mugs, which I can only guess are filled with the elixir of the gods (aka coffee).

Seokjin’s eyes glance around the room as he takes in the fact that I’m not alone as he obviously had expected. “Wait, Jimin-ie? What are you doing here?” Jin’s eyes flick down to the coffee and cinnamon roll that lay on the table. “Goddamn it!”

“You were too slow, hyung,” Jimin smirks happily as he takes a seat in the chair I had previously vacated. He slouches smugly as he stares up at the fuming older boy.

“Too slow?!” Jin roars.

“Jin,” I chastise, circumventing around him to shut the door.

“Sorry, babe,” Seokjin says while still glaring daggers at the all-too-pleased Jimin. Suddenly, his expression changes into a sneaky look that makes me both want to run and jump his bones. “Well,” He waves the two coffee mugs around in the air, “I made these myself - with love. I didn’t buy that generic shit; I brewed it, baby.”

It’s Jimin’s turn again to look disgruntled, and I can’t help but laugh at their antics.

“Any and all coffee is appreciated and loved by me – the more the merrier. So, thank you both,” You say, taking one of the travel mugs from Seokjin. Kissing his cheek, you turn back to sit opposite Jimin at the table.

“She kissed me on the lips!” Jimin bursts.

“Park Jimin!” I cry as Jin splutters some sort of incoherent rant about fairness and equality.

Jimin holds eye contact with me, still leaning back in his chair like he’s the king of the fucking universe. But, he’s not; I am.

My chair hits the wall behind me with a bang as I stand, planting my hands on the table to loom over Jimin. “Do you think it’s fun to push your hyung, Jimin? Does it amuse you to be a little shit?”

I can see the moment that Jimin decides to be a brat. His eyes heat up in a challenge, and he firmly answers, “Yes, noona.”

“Get up.” The change in my tone is apparent. Jimin gulps. Getting to his feet, he stares back at me expectantly.

“Jin,” I address the older boy while still maintaining eye contact with Jimin, “What kind of punishment do you think I should give our Jimin here?”

Seokjin rounds my other side, grinning, “Well, (y/n) darling, I believe he should get spanked.”

“Interesting choice,” I murmur, turning to face Jin, “That’s what you’re going to get then.”

“What?” Jin squawks, arms waving rapidly around in the air, “But I didn’t do anything!”

“Nothing is what you should have done, Jin,” I push him against the wall, “You know better than to let Jimin rile you up like this.”

Those plump lips of his pout dramatically as he whines, “But, (y/n)…”

“But nothing,” I say and then whirl around to face the other boy. He’s still standing where I left him with his eyes glued to the pair of us. “Jimin,” I hold his gaze, “You’re going to watch. You’re not going to touch yourself, your hyung isn’t going to touch you, and I’m not going to touch you.”

His eyes widen comically, “No! That’s not fair!”

“Do you want to be gagged, too, baby boy?” I ask, cocking my head slightly. Seeing his emphatic head shakes, I grin. “That’s what I thought. Now, stay.”

Turning back to Jin, I smirk slightly as I ask, “Punishment now or later?”

Seokjin’s eyes scrunch cutely in confusion, “What?”

“You see,” I move closer to him, my body brushes his, “I think you earned a punishment, but I think you also earned helping me punish Jimin.”

A wide grin crosses Jin’s face as he glances back at the corner Jimin is stewing in. “I would be honored to help you punish him, babe.”

“That’s what I figured,” I smile briefly at him before slowly sliding my hands up his chest to rest on the nape of his neck. Holding them there, I press the lightest of kisses to the corner of his lips.

Jin’s breath hitches in his throat.

I run my tongue against the seam of his mouth, taking my time and savoring the sweet taste of him. His lips part to let me in, my tongue sliding across his. I grind against him as we kiss, moving my hips in such a way that makes him groan and lean back harder against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

Ripping my mouth from Jin’s, I turn to face the newcomer.

Namjoon stands in the doorway holding yet another cup of coffee, his face thunderous. "What do the three of you think you're doing? This is the goddamn library, you heathens!”

Seokjin jumps out of his skin in fright, pushing me away faster than I can anticipate. Stumbling back, I crash into Jimin – who apparently had ventured out of his assigned corner. Brat.

“The shades were open!” Namjoon continues to rant as he flicks the aforementioned item down to cover the door’s window, “Did you want people to see you?”

He reads the expression on my face correctly, “Oh, but you did, didn’t you, (y/n)?” Namjoon approaches where I’m still captured in Jimin’s embrace. Glaring down at me, he taunts, “So quick to stake your claim; but, make no mistake, they were mine first.”

Shaking out of Jimin’s hold, I straighten, raising my chin to meet Namjoon’s gaze full-on, “That’s interesting. I didn’t realize you were so lenient with your partners.”

Jimin makes a choking noise behind me. Jin stands behind Namjoon, waving a hand in front of his throat to clearly tell me to stop talking. I keep going, “Perhaps I need to teach you how to discipline.”

Namjoon flips me around, shoves Jimin out of the way, and bends me facedown across the table.

“Jin,” He says, his voice growly, “Stand in the hall and let me know if you can hear us.”

The sound of the door opening and closing alerts me that Jin followed Namjoon’s instructions without a word.

“Jimin,” He continues, “Hold (y/n)’s hands out in front of her.” Jimin ascquieces, staring apologetically down at me as he tugs my hands towards him.

“This is cute,” I say, “I always love holding Jimin-ie’s hands.”

Thwack. The stinging imprint of Namjoon’s palm on my ass burns deliciously. I arch my back, looking over my shoulder at him with a half-smile. “Do it harder, daddy.”

A breath sucks in between his lips as I utter the word I know will get him feeling as hot as me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby girl,” Namjoon grits out, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Oh, daddy,” I say, “Don’t you remember? I’m the fucking Queen.”

“Was that a chess pun? Nice.” A muffled voice followed by a squeaky laugh sounds through the door.

“Seokjin,” Namjoon seethes, flying over to open the door and drag the older boy back inside, “I thought I told you to let me know if you could hear us.”

I tug out of Jimin’s gentle hold, straighten back up, and then situate myself into a sitting position on the table.

I watch amusedly as Jin shimmies his way out of Joon’s grasp, “Yah! It’s not my fault I get intense FOMO. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Besides, I only heard you because I had my ear pressed to the door.”

Jimin stifles a giggle. I let out a full-on laugh. Namjoon mumbles what sounds like a plea to some higher power under his breath.

“See what I have to deal with?” Namjoon turns to me, shaking his head. “Are you sure you want to sign up for this?”

“That depends,” I swing my legs back and forth as I stay perched on the table, “Are you going to keep spanking me?”

The boy who had just unhesitatingly bent me over to punish me now blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, probably? You have quite a mouth on you, baby.”

Hopping off the table, I laugh, “Good answer. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Woo!” Jin cheers, “Nice job on the House Points, Joon-ie!”

“I am in love with idiots,” Jimin sighs.

Grabbing my phone from my backpack, I let out a slight yell as I read the time. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” I scramble to shove all of my textbooks back into my bag.

“What is it, noona?” Jimin worries, appearing next to me. “Are you late for class?”

“No,” I cry, “It’s so much worse. I’m late for my weekly Animal Crossing discord chat! Heath is gonna kill me…”

“Heath?” Jin scowls, “Who is this Heath you speak of?”

“Chill, fam,” I shrug my backpack onto my shoulders and stare contemplatively down at the three different coffees. “You can’t get jealous every time I mention a new person. What’s next? You’re gonna come for Tom Nook?”

Namjoon - who must play Animal Crossing - stifles a laugh as Jin pouts. “She has a point, Jin.”

“And so does a pencil. Big whoop,” Jin scowls with his arms folded.

“Aw, Seokjin-ie,” I coo, reaching over to pinch his cheek, “Don’t be mad. You’ll get to spend all day with me on Saturday after volunteering! What are we doing, anyways?” I level Joon with my best side-eye as I ask that question, knowing he is more likely than not the mastermind behind our planned date.

“It’s going to be great, noona!” Jimin pipes up, hugging me from the side, “You’re going to love it…You’re going to love us.” He murmurs the last part, probably not meaning for me to hear; but, I do.

God, I do.

“We’ll pick you up before volunteering,” Joon says, “Just bring yourself and a change of clothes.”

“What?” I decide - fuck it - and attempt to grab all three coffees, “No overnight bag?”

Jin, who had just taken a sip of his own coffee, spews it everywhere. “Pack one,” He gasps out in between coughs.

Laughing, I walk to the door, which Jimin kindly opens for me. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Ah, I’m so late. Jimin and Jin, I’ll punish you at a later time. Joon, you can try to punish me at a later time.” Living for their astonished expressions, I wave as best I can with three coffees in hand, “Bye, babes! Text me-e-e.”

As I make my way out of the library, it hits me that I only have one more day to prepare for this date. Fucking hell…

a/n: this is such a filler of a chap with a tinge of drama mixed in, hehe. the next one is gonna be that date tho uwu stay tuuuuuuned and thanks 4 reading

taglist: @catsandstrawberries @h5naaa @meowmeowyoongles @leftflowerprunedonut @rjsmochii @athletes-of-god @karissassirak @cage7241​ @weallhavesecretsinthebestway @cvbachacbitch @honeyspillings @valiantcollectorofsandwiches @fivesecondsofsarang @oii-f-eli-x2 @joonsroses @theevilyouknow @jooniescupcakes @expensive-grl @i-dont-even-know-fck @doingmybestalltheftime @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh @laced-brds @breeeeh17 @lpayne612 @peachyharmoney @rilakoya @chulchuchi @tabula-rasa0 @guccishookv @nomimits7 @i-like-puppy-mg @s-noir @anna-sorel @im-a-space-child @yeontanismypresident @drowning-in-oxygen @team-wang-puppy @lvvegood @anongirl007 @may114 @r-e-d-i-s-h @unatempesta-dipensieri @dragon-rider-with-a-book​ @blueberrygeniejam @wondrsblog @vi-hoshi @kirbykook​ @katemwatson​ @kawaiikpoplover268​ @amsteramyy​ @sami4life @a-feeling-of-euphoria​ @the-jackals​ @bubbletae7​ @platinum-grenade​ @bunnyboyenthusiast @brightly-byun @oofmeintheheadpls​ @sadboibts @lidda​ @goldenwidow3​ @t-mel19​ @lmkjimin​ @psiphidragon​ @jeon-joker​ @sathom013​ @lustremyg @ggsmashgg​ @justyouraveragerando​ @shadowstark​ @our-little-meow-meow @baby-hobii @toddsgirl27​ @mythicalmeep​ @asifetch7​ @kassandravictoria​ @eltrain80 @briannasthings​ @bumblekey93​ @ohmwreckr @beach-bitch-bitch-beach​ @softchimmee​ @kookoo-kachoo​ @lenuminous​ @ass-hole-in-one​ @peaches-422​ @spacejooon​ @sleepyje0n​ @uxwi​ @tellmeyoulovemepls​ @yady24​ @lovesick-heart0​ @redirect-min​ @hopetookourvibe​ @noonaduck​ @mini-coop25​ @multifandomgirl29​ @rhd31​ @yoongixvevo​ @sweetnspicy93​ @kuppyjiminie​ @love-and-other-possibilities​ @fuckyouandtheboatyoucamein @rvnchr4nd4​ @geminidrawsstuff​ @livorna​ @naajix​ @minjoonhome​

another a/n: if u asked to be added to the taglist and u did not get tagged, u might be one of the couple ppl that i couldn’t tag [check ur settings, fam!]

[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

Lets go to the dance floor!

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You want to go to the Dance Floor!

Logan is too tired for such activity, so he stays at the bar with Ian. 

Everyone else follows you towards the tunes!

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      One of the dancers that was already on the floor retires to sit at the hearth when they approach, already exhausted from the dancing he had done before they arrived. While Roman and Patton do their own thing -- Roman much more smoothly than Patton, who looks a bit like a ‘fun uncle’ that got lost after a bar dive -- Virgil and Ainsliee spin around in a curious seven-pointed star-like pattern, linking and unlinking their arms as they twirl around each other, performing a whirl they both know by heart.

      Roman and Patton pause to watch the two for a moment, entranced by them even without the enchanting charm that usually would have come from two cavorting Fae. Annie is elated, shrieking with laughter and grinning from ear to ear as Virgil swings her across the floor. She’s clearly in her element, doing this, and it looks like she hasn’t gotten the chance in a long time. Virgil looks much the same; the smile on his face is small but breathtakingly sincere, and his shoulders are even more relaxed now then they have been when he sleeps. Knowing Annie is honestly and truly happy in this moment, at least momentarily forgetting about the recent, abrupt loss of her family, forces him to put aside his worry about being watched and just let her thrive for a few minutes...  

      A few minutes becomes twenty, as the two fairy folk lose track of time in their revelry, and now Roman and Patton have just kinda been standing there for...way too long. 

      The Elven women Virgil seems to be friends with recognize the star-shaped dance, and take pity on them. They break from each other and smile as they approach the Aasimar and Halfling. They grab the boys by their arms, and lead them into the same dance, slowly showing them the steps.

      The six of them dance in that way, switching partners every so often until they’ve all gotten to dance with each other, changing steps with the changing songs (though it always seems to be some Elven tune the others have to lead Patton and Roman into). After another ten minutes, a collection of slower songs begin to play, and they all introduce themselves.

      The Elven women are Zarilleth, the dark-skinned woman with long box braids, and Joylnn, her raven-haired girlfriend -- both Wild Elven seamstresses who live in town. They have met “Angel” at this bar many times, and are friendly with him.

      As a gentle waltz really starts to pick up, Joylnn and Zarilleth move to the hearth to rest, and the remaining four of them settle into pairs: Ainsliee with Patton, (who is very excited to have a mock father-daughter dance with someone who is actually shorter than him,) and Roman with Virgil. Virgil clearly wants to complain about the slower pace, but he also would feel bad if he left Roman without a partner, and figures this is as good of an opportunity as any to quietly ask Roman what’s been weighing on him all afternoon…

      And, of course, he is too afraid to ask.

      Instead, Virgil just keeps close to him. He lingers closer and closer to Roman’s chest until he’s pressed cozily against him, letting Roman lead as he lays his head on Roman’s shoulder. His concern for Roman outweighs his irritation at the sluggish music, and he just hopes -- as he always does, when he’s not confident enough in his words -- that his actions speak the reassurances he cannot. 

      You don’t know if Roman is really getting what Virgil is trying to show him, but he seems very pleased with the situation, at least. He smiles at the gesture, though Virgil can’t see it from his position, and keeps them moving in tight circles so Virgil doesn’t overstep and crush his toes. 

      Keeping the hand grasping Virgil’s out to the side where it is, Roman lets the hand gently pressed against Virgil’s waist slip down to the small of his back, while Virgil’s matching arm winds around his shoulders. They’re basically just hugging and swaying now, one arm each stuck awkwardly out to the side to keep up the pretense of a waltz, but neither one of them wants to be the first to call it out...

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Ask 80   (( @marvelfangeek09 , @amazonprimebox ))

Previous

Next

Game Start

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Rules

Most Recent Recap, in case you feel like you missed something!

Available for questions: Logan, Roman, Patton, Virgil “Angel?”, Ainsliee, and Ian!

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EXPLORE: THE FROSTY FLAGON

The Locations are

The Bar

The Dance Floor

The Hearth

The Lounge (also has a hearth)

The Notice Board

A Bathroom

Upstairs (where their sleeping rooms are)

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In dancing, making new friends, and dancing again, an hour has been spent!

You have two hours left.

…So.

Where would you like to go next?

[liminal-storage]

#3: Star-Shaped Room

For the FFXIVWrite 2021 Challenge, day 3: Scale.

Cw: Body horror. Specifically eyeball-related trauma as presented in dream imagery. AKA Ritz making perfectly innocent prompts into horror things again.

Each night, little Cygni Marlowe dreams of a star-shaped room.

It sits in the highest portion of a black tower balanced on spindly pillars, unreachable save for via a winding spiral staircase. Not unlike the one in her mother's home, which often sees itself decorated with streamers and flowers and the smeared handprints of strangers.

They come once a moon, dressed in layers of crepe and silk, yalm upon yalm of expensive fabrics weighing down painted ladies and masked gentlemen. They join her mother in revelry and celebration of her wealth, twirling in dance. Colorful skirts and scarves fan out like the wings of tropical birds. Green and orange, plum and crimson and blue cascades whirling in a dizzying storm.

Such colors feel ever present in her dreams, too. Vibrant and striking in the dark of that star-shaped room. How they spiral, how they dance, how they titter about. Little folded-paper birds flying like their living counterparts, shrieking a nauseating cacophony of song while they wait for her to ascend the steps to join them.

Cygni always hates the next part of the dreams.

As soon as she reaches that room, the birds dive, swooping and spiraling--not towards her but towards the inhabitant of the room.

In the middle of the floor there sits an ornate black chair with strange, frightening shapes carved into its polished surface. Looking at them makes her feel sick to her stomach, and the chair itself looks just like the one her mama keeps in her parlor room. She'd spilled orange juice on it once and gotten such an intense scolding that she'd gone to bed shaking.

"That's Mister Shayl's chair," her mama tells her all the time. "And we aren't to touch it. Understand?"

Cygni never did touch it after that. Not after the dreams started up one night after she'd finally settled in her bed. She'd walked past the room and swore she saw someone in the chair who wasn't supposed to be there.

Mama never sits in the chair, but sometimes she sees a white owl with cloudy eyes perched on its back, swiveling its entire head towards her when she walks past the room.

But in her dreams, the chair is always occupied. There sits a thing with long, long limbs, twice the length of any reasonable, normal person's. The thing wears velvet gloves and a charcoal suit of finest silk, lace cuffs dangling loose to drape across its lap. The thing has shining brooches and chains and ribbons and a big, puffy turquoise colored cravat, like someone stole the clothing of a dandy.

The thing has no face.

Instead of features there lies a flat plane, a shape that only vaguely resembles a man's head. Black and white squares like mama's chessboard cover that shape, and within each square an eye swivels erratically. Each one has a different shape and color, no two matching even remotely.

Some are gouged, bloody holes. Some have things dangling, writhing, dripping from their sockets. Some continue to blink though they look like they've been shredded to scraps of flesh.

All of them turn to watch her, a voice whispers, and inevitably she wakes screaming.

Even as her breath eventually evens out and her vision adjusts to the darkness of her bedroom, she feels those mutilated eyes watching her. Every night that she scales that staircase, that insistent stare meets her.

And the thing in the star-shaped room waits with infinite patience.

[fascination-street-writing]

Be With Me Tonight | Guido Mista x F!Reader

Regret is a sickening temptation - and you have ruined everything.

Content Warnings: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content (Oral & Implied), Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Potentially Dubious Consent, & Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics (Past & Present)

You said you would do your own makeup. And yet, here you sit on a thrifted barstool – never mind the tweed upholstery that digs into the underside of your skirt-clad thighs, when you paid less for the stool than you would a loaf of bread – and flinch as your sister nearly prods your iris with the mascara wand clutched in her tremoring hand. She smells of hair spray and counterfeit perfume. You look to the mirror that hangs above the vanity.

“You really should change before we go,” she tells you while returning the wand to its tube. Fingers toil through your hair: she scrutinizes your appearance as though you are a porcelain doll and she your maker. You suppose that, in a way, she is. “You won’t catch anyone’s attention dressed like that.”

The reflection of your cherry-red lips mimics the frown upon your face. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘catch anyone’s attention,’” you retort. “I’m not even ready to start dating again.”

She groans. “You’re not still caught up on that perdente, are you?”

You do not have to bite back a quip because you do not have one. Instead, you bite your stained lips and look away. Though the relationship with your most recent ex had ended on mutual terms, the separation stings nonetheless.

“You know, you’ve always had bad taste in men,” your sister continues. Varnish to a wall, she rubs powder across your cheekbones. “First there was that pervertito when you were fifteen, and now a convicted murderer.”

“Can you stop?” you demand, clenching your fist. “He’s not a murderer. It was self-defense.”

“Regardless of what you think, he still killed three men. I can’t believe the landlord hasn’t changed our locks yet. I asked him almost a year ago now, ever since he was released from prison,” your sister insists, ignoring your plea. “You should’ve asked for his key back.”

“He has a name, you know.” Guido Mista – a name that once tasted like honey on your tongue, now bitter as cigarette smoke.

And your sister refuses to speak it, for she hates the taste of cigarettes. A hum dies on her lips. Her smirk bequeaths to you an urgency to cower in shame; however, the distressed look in her eyes tells you how much she fears for your welfare.

As if she has anything to genuinely be afraid of.

Guido Mista has, for most of your life, been something of an extended acquaintance to you. His is a recognizable presence in crowded hallways; after all, who else amongst the student body could muster the same courage to break the dress-code by donning a purple beanie cap atop their head? You will admit to him that you look forward to the days when a teacher confiscates his cap because it means that you get to admire his rich chocolate curls all day long from your seat at the back of the classroom. He will chuckle in response and press a sloppy kiss to your cheek while running his calloused fingers over the sides of your belly, drinking in the laughter that bubbles through you, as if you are the fountain of ever-lasting love itself.

But it was not always this way. Before Mista came a boy whose name you will etch from memory in time – remembered as a boyfriend, but never as a partner.

At your locker, he leans over you, waiting for you to stack your textbooks away. You are fifteen, and he asks you to join him behind the bleachers of the gymnasium. No more than a pet tethered by a chain, you follow him blindly to where his companions wait. You know their pubescent faces but you seldom speak to them. Their names do not matter anymore, either.

In a school dress, pitted against three boys who surpass you in height – you never stood a chance.

The squealing of the gymnasium doors and the slamming of the lock is not enough to stop them. It did little more than encourage your perpetrators to wedge you between their clothed bodies as they fist your hair and tug at the skirt that your father has only just purchased for you after you spilled grape juice over the previous one. You spot the purple beanie over your boyfriend’s blazer-clad shoulder and cry out to him – to Guido Mista.

His cap has fallen from his head, and they beat him until he gasps for air and spews bile from his throat. But he never begs them to stop because it keeps them from attacking you again. He can hardly put up a fight when every attempt to stand is quelled by the diving of a loafer-clad foot into the pit of his stomach Your boyfriend grabs him by those beautiful curls and ushers his face against the waxed floors. The glint of a pocketknife catches your eye.

The school-bell blares. The boy who had held you back throws you to the ground. The pocketknife clamors with you, just beyond the grasp of the tips of your fingers. Your ex-boyfriend (for you no longer consider him as anything more) and his boyish companions dust off their blazers, straighten their ties, and hurry off for their next round of classes. They leave you with your unsettled clothes and a boy with a broken nose.

Clutching the rungs of the bleachers, Mista pulls his body upwards:  a buoy in the sea, and you the only vessel on the horizon. You press his discarded beanie – which you cannot help but to notice smells comfortingly so of cedarwood – to his nose. Red blossoms seep into the delicate threads.  “Are you okay?” he asks you with a cough and a grimace for, as you will come to discover, he has cracked a rib.

“Yes.” Compared to his injuries, you cleared the scuffle relatively unscathed. Mista had stepped in before anything beyond the tearing of your uniform could happen. And yet, his concern is of you and not for his own well-being. “Thank you.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin. You are glad to see that, though laced with the blood that seeps into his mouth, he has not lost any teeth. His repose is infectious, and his ease illuminates your own composure. You help him to stand and together you walk to the nurse’s office, his arm slung over your shoulders and yours around his waist. Your attackers are expelled; their testimony of falsified innocence could not hold a candle to security footage, or a pocketknife engraved with damning initials. Despite everything, you make a new friend. The two of you will become lovers at sixteen – utterly inseparable.

Until the very end.

You prefer sweeter cocktails, but you accept the gin and tonic from your sister and lift it to your lips anyways. The relief of the ice pooling in the cavities of your mouth is a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the nightclub. Too many bodies, too much sweat – too many different smells, and suddenly your mind whirls. You place the emptied glass atop a table and only then do you realize that you never juiced the translucent lime wedge curled around the rim.

The circle of women whom you find yourself dancing with are strangers; you sway as though you have all known each other for a lifetime. You do not understand the words of the American pop song that resonates from the wall speakers, but it does not matter; after all, even an illiterate man can read rhythm. Across the dancefloor, your sister drags two men with her towards the restroom.

A pelvis presses against your backend – or perhaps, it is your backend that leans into the nook of the clubber swaying behind you. A pair of hands falls to your hips, though you take the lead in rocking side-to-side to Laura Branigan’s cadence. Over the sound of music, the woman to your left suggests that you all swap cellphone numbers. The woman to your right agrees with a drunken nod of her head and, giddy with excitement, clasps your hand. The woman directly across from you offers to order a round of shots to commemorate this newfound comradery. Instead of a tray filled with cinnamon whiskey, she returns with an olive-toned man clad in orange leopard print pants and a blue cross-patterned sweater that exposes his midriff.

“Hey, ladies,” the woman calls out to your circle. The lights ripple across her flushed skin like water. “This is Mista.”

You freeze, your hips suspended mid-beat. Your dance partner pouts and pulls away. Mista does not look to you, and you are grateful . . . Until his coffee-colored eyes do fall to your face after a hiccup jostles your chest. His brows furrow, gaze darting between you and the man behind you. Before his steadily parting lips can utter your name against the clapping of the bass, you are gone because you are not ready.

The winter breeze makes you shiver. The nightly chill is preferable to the sweltering sanctuary behind you, where only moments ago you bobbed along to pop songs and impulsively contemplated friendship with intoxicated patrons who will not remember you in the morning.

The green dial of your cellphone flashes and reflects upon scattered puddles.  You text your sister and tell her that you are going home – don’t wait up. Your affinity for clubbing has gone sour.

“I thought that was you.”

Your heart races quickly, so much that it might burst from the nook between your breasts and land on the ground before his white boots. “Yeah, it’s me,” you say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Just stuff. And things.”

Mista laughs. “Stuff and things?”

“Y’know, work,” you tell him with a nod. “More work.”

“Me too.” You fidget with your purse. “I saw your sister – or, the back of her head, actually. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

A man stumbles through the door. He reeks of cheap bourbon and rye. You and Mista step aside and watch the man as he struggles to walk away from the club. The scene has created a lull to your painfully cumbrous conversation; you reap the opportunity, for it becomes your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You open your mouth to bid Mista adieu. The taste of your own lipstick leaves you sputtering.

“Hey, so uh, are you busy?” he suddenly asks, cutting you off. You have always believed that he could read minds. In this moment, it is as if he knows your intent – as if shuffling in your heels and tightening the grasp on your purse were not telltale signs of your discomfort.

“Not really,” you insist. “I was about to head home.”

“Cool, cool. I was just wondering because you left something behind at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give it back, but I didn’t think it’d be right to just show up at your doorstep or something.”

“It hasn’t stopped you before,” you chide.

“I know, I know. I just figured it’d make sense to stop at my place, since it’s on the way.”

It gnaws at you – the voice in your head that tells you to leave him be, here and now. It will not do you any good, stepping back into walls once sacred to you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, and gages your reaction. Dark curls poke out from beneath the rim of his cap. You wonder if he still uses that cedarwood shampoo.

It would not do you any good to go with him. The prospect of sipping a glass of wine whilst soaking in a warm bath beckons you home. There is little trouble that you can muster with an idle night, for the night is still young and you have not given up. Though the moon has reached its peak, you cannot surrender. You have made your choice.

“Sure.”

But you never intended to make the right one.

You were sure to slip on a set of shoes before stepping outside. Through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, and onto the street you wander with little more than the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights to guide your way through the dark. You find him in the alley between your apartment building and the next. The stink of a prison cell has imprinted itself onto his skin.

He slips a single nickel-plated key into your hand. “Your sister probably wouldn’t appreciate me having this,” he says.

“You can keep it. I’ll tell her you forgot it.” When he does not accept the return, you reach out and tuck the key into the pocket of his cargo pants. “Just so you have something to remember me by.”

The look in his eyes – the sheen of gloss that coats his irises – churns your stomach. In that moment, Mista reminds you of a dog scorned by his owner. In a way, that is exactly what he is. “You still have that sweater I sent you, right?”

Mustard-yellow, and one of your favorites. And one of Mista’s, too. You had sent it to him during his second week in holding. “Yeah.”

“Keep that, too.” A revolver rests in inside the waistband of his pants. It is a new addition to his appearance. It does not unsettle you, because you know that this man who killed three mobsters without hesitation would never hurt you. “Mista, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” he sighs, kicking at a discarded soda can that had drifted from a nearby trashcan. “But it’s for the best.”

“It is.” The soda can rolls your way. You stop it with the sole of your foot; it crinkles beneath your weight. “Maybe one day, after you’re tired of working for that Bucciarati, we can pick up where we left off.”

“I’d like that.”

You smile. “Me too . . . Well, I should get going before my sister realizes I’m gone.” In your final moments together – before a pair of lovers once again becomes two separate beings – you embrace. Face buried into the crook of his neck, you speak: “You’re a good person, Mista. No matter what happened between you and those men or whatever does happen, you will always be good.”

He clutches you tighter.

“Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let this job get to you. And please, stai al sicuro, amore: stay safe.”

Back in your bedroom, you shed your clothes and don a mismatched set pajamas. Ever the optimist, you retire for the night with a heart not yet ready to be broken.

And an inescapable evocation of loneliness.

You are shocked to see the stack of hastily packed cardboard boxes. The words fragile or giunca are crudely scribbled with black marker across each one. All that remains is a worn couch with springs that poke into your skin and a square television, which sits on a box labeled libri e altra spazzatura – books and other trash.

The uniform pinholes in the barren walls are a reminder that imitators of your face, frozen in time, used to adorn the room.

“You’re moving?” you ask Mista as he tosses his hat aside and runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and looks to the boxes. “Yeah, actually,” he confirms. “The rent’s too damn high to afford on my own. I’m moving in with some coworkers.”

“You mean other gang members?” You do not miss the way he bites his lip in response. You regret your words as soon as they leave you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s okay – you’re right anyways.” He trails off. “So that guy you were with. He your boyfriend or something?”

You struggle to recall your dance partner. “Oh, no,” you insist, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. He hides the smile that creeps on his face behind the back of his hand, though he does not speak. Not another word is spoken.

It does not sit well with you, the silence that manifests in the still of the room. You are a trespasser – but so is he, for this realm no longer belongs to him, either. “Um, where’s this thing I left behind?” you finally ask; your voice echoes through the emptied space. It makes you shiver.

Mista disappears past the threshold of the bedroom that you once shared  – you wonder if he still uses the cream-colored sheets you bought for him as opposed to his preferred navy blue – and returns with a shirt: it is your mustard-yellow sweater. It is wrinkled and smells just like him and something new (gunpowder, perhaps). The dried drool marks tell you that he sleeps with it bundled in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You do not move to take it. “I gave it to you,” you remind him. A crushed soda can is under your foot and again, you are back in the alley saying farewell to your love. “I want you to keep it.”

But there is no alleyway – only a vacant apartment suite. He does not wish to return it; in a hasty, split-second decision back at the nightclub, he wagered his ownership over what has become his most cherished possession. Just for the chance that you might say yes.

Just for the chance to spend one last night with you.

He rolls his wrist, extending his arm further. “No. It’s for the best.”

And so, you pluck it from his grasp and tuck it inside of your purse – the final harvest from the tree, to be seeded and planted elsewhere. “I’d better get going,” you tell him. “I wish you all the best. It was good seeing you again. Really good . . .”

The doorknob hovers under your palm. “Wait,” Mista suddenly calls. You stop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Would you like to stay for a bit?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s late.” Your tongue betrays your heart. It is treason within your very soul. “Besides, it’s probably for the best if I go.”

Your reverberation of his words makes him wince. More than anything, you want to drop your purse and climb into his arms – to feel his warmth again. You need to leave. Yet, you step away from the door and take a seat upon the flattened cushions of the couch. You still remember where to sit to avoid the broken springs. “Unless, I mean . . .  I guess if you really wouldn’t mind.”

Mista perks up. You mirror his grin. He takes the spot beside you, careful to leave a considerable amount of distance between your bodies. He reaches for the remote. The reception has not improved – it remains fuzzy, pixelated, and colorless.

“I’d offer a boardgame, but . . .” He gestures to the boxes; you get the hint. The channels flash by. “Any preferences?”

“I’m fine with a cooking show,” you tell him. “Or a movie.”

He settles for the latter. At some point, you leave Mista to fetch two drinks from the kitchen. The refrigerator is nearly empty, save for a few bottles of water. When you return with your beverages, you find that he has fallen asleep. You leave him be and watch the reminder of the movie with nothing more than his heavy breathing and the voices of the actors to keep you company.

You turn the television off once the end credits begin. Mista has not moved. If not for the heaving of his chest, he might have been a dead man. Without a clock on the wall, you cannot tell the time. Prediction is all you have – and so, you predict that it is just after midnight. Regardless, you have overstayed your welcome. It is time to leave.

Your fingers brush across his arm as you lean over his hunched form to rouse him from his slumber.  You would hate to leave without saying goodbye. “Mista . . . “ you coo; your speech slurs and it is only then that you realize your own exhaustion. “I’m gonna go home, ‘kay?”

He stirs beneath you. Eyes puffy from sleep, he ogles at your figure. You hover over him, your breath close enough to ghost his cheeks. His long, dark lashes twitch when you breathe too sharply – when he parts his legs for you to slide in between them so that he might capture your lips with his own. One hand to the base of your neck, the other to your waist: he pulls you flush to his body, caging you with arms that feel unfamiliar. More muscle, you suppose.

You press against his chest and detach. His grip loosens, although only enough for you to raise the back of your hand to puckered lips to wipe the saliva from your face. He has already lost you – once more and it will become a life sentence.

“Mista,” you warn, turning your head away to resist his second kiss. The twinges of early love bloom again in the core of your belly. You want him. But you cannot have him. “We can’t.”

Your lipstick stains his mouth. It makes him look undeniably pretty.

“One night,” he pleads – yet his hands leave your body. “I know what you said, about waiting until I’m finished with Passione. But that was easier said than done. I can’t leave them; not now, maybe not ever. They’re mia famiglia. And so are you.”

Your head falls limply. “You can’t have us both.”

“Why not?” He speaks your name when you hesitate to answer. A finger hooks beneath your chin, tipping your head so that you must meet his gaze. “Why not, cara?”

He demands a truth that you have never professed. Not to him, nor your sister – and never to yourself. “I’m scared, Mista,” you finally admit. Confession weighs you down in his grasp. “Because I know the day will come when you won’t come back. It’d be better if I’m not around for it.”

A faint smile, laced with sorrow, etches upon his face. “Do you have that little faith in me?” he asks.

Faith? It was never for the lack thereof. You trust Mista with every fiber of your being because he saved you. And it was not just you – he took the lives of three men to protect the virtue of a woman whom he had never met because she could have been you. She was almost you. That night, when he had heard that woman’s screams and saw the man crouched over her bruised form, Mista felt as though his body had projected itself back into the gymnasium of the school you once attended together. Only this time, he knew how to put up a fight. He acted in the way that the constraints of boyhood had once held him back from.

No, you do not place your mistrust on Mista – you place it in the souls of every man and woman that poses a threat to his safety. The fact that you do not know how to convey this to him mystifies you. Actions are far easier than words, and so you press your lips to his once more. You feed off his touch alone.  

You recline against the backing of the couch, hands pressed flat against the cushions. keening into Mista’s palms as he slides your skirt down – past your thighs, past your knees, and past your ankles. Your panties follow suit. His mouth presses against your slick folds; as touch starved as you have become, it takes little more than his kisses to stir your core. As if commanded by muscle memory, your legs coil around his shoulders and yank him closer the moment his tongue slips past your heat. He groans against you, low and gravely. It makes you gasp when his teeth graze over your hardened nub. When he brings his finger to join his tongue, you find that you are unable to stop your hips from rocking against his lips. A second finger coaxes you, and then a third – you come undone in his mouth, heaving for air.

You cry out his name in prayer. Mista pulls away, letting your legs fall back down. The spasm of your thighs turns your abdomen to jelly. You cannot move. You draw him in for another kiss, savoring the taste of your balm that coats his skin. He mutters his desires and you nod, eager to feel him fill you again. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom.

It fills you with gratification to see that the rumpled sheets and folded pillows beneath you are in fact the color of sweet cream.

Soft snores leave Mista’s lips. He sleeps on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other tucked beneath your head. Unlike your lover, you are wide-awake. You stare at the browning wallpaper of the bedroom wall, willing yourself to believe that the stagnant flowers are truly billowing against the wind in a field elsewhere.

You toss the duvet from your body and stand, careful not to wake him. The mattress breathes in the absence of your weight. In the darkness, you collect your discarded clothing and don your clubbing attire. You cast one final look to the sleeping dark-eyed boy before clicking the heavy door shut behind you.

A tiny voice cries out – a child from the next apartment suite perhaps, startled by nightmares no doubt. Though, as your ears strain and listen, it almost seems as though the child is calling your name. It is a ludicrous idea. Still, it unsettles you, for there is something familiar in its tone. You tighten your grasp on your purse, readjust your heels, and leave.

Regret is a sickening temptation – and you have ruined everything. 

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