#first one felt stifling? is it the anger at what i could not have? is it jealousy at the empty ache of seeing someone lavished in love -

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Priorities

Dean Winchester & little!sister reader

Requested by anonymous

Synopsis: you crash Baby…somebody has to tell Dean

Warnings: car accident, injury, panic

You couldn’t help the easy smile that lifted your lips as you cruised along the road, Baby’s gentle purr comforting you as you cranked up your favorite cassette tape. You’d definitely be in trouble if Dean found out, but he was finally getting some much needed sleep in the bunker, so this was your chance. Besides, he’d never specifically said that you couldn’t drive Baby—it was just a definite unwritten rule.

You were so lost in your own enjoyment that you weren’t paying much attention to the road—after all, you’d been on this road a thousand times with Dean. But the other thousand times, there’d never been a deer in the middle of the road.

You saw it too late. You swerved the wheel with all your might, and by some miracle you missed the deer—but there was no missing the ditch that skirted the side of the road. You actually felt the wheels leave the ground before a stomach-turning crunch preceded the jarring jolt that came when the car hit down on the bottom of the ditch. Your head lurched forward, slamming against the steering wheel and turning everything to darkness.

…

You were being lifted by strong hands when you awoke. Your eyes blinked open to find a man in an EMT uniform placing you on the ground away from the Impala.

“Hey kid,” he greeted gently when he saw that you were awake. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” you groaned. “But I’m ok.”

“Ok, that’s good.” He kept up his soothing voice even as he examined you for more injuries. “Looks like you just have a few cuts and bruises. But you could have a concussion from hitting your head on the wheel. The officers over there found your phone, and they’re gonna call someone for you, ok?”

Before you could answer, one of the police officers stepped up in front of you.

“The first number on your phone is Dean, can I call him for you kid?”

“No, no!” You panicked. “Not-not Dean.” Your eyes drifted to the Impala—the front was completely smashed in from where you’d hit a tree, and there were scratches everywhere. “Dean, he-he can’t see the car like this, he’s gonna kill me!”

“Kid, we’re worried about you, not the car,” the officer said. “We’ve gotta call a guardian.”

“Sam,” you said. “Call Sammy.”

Even as the officer pressed Sam’s name on your contact list, your panic continued to course through you. Dean was going to find out, it was only a matter of time. You were so, so dead.

“Kid.” A hand on your shoulder snapped you out of your thoughts. “You’ve gotta calm down, you’ve gotta take deep breaths.”

It was only after the EMT’s words that you felt the tears trickling down your cheeks, and the haggard wheezing of your breath

“I’ve got your brother, do you want to talk to him?” The officer was holding out the phone to you, and you took it.

“S-Sammy?” You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes.

“Y/N? What’s going on? Who was that that just had your phone, who are you with?”

Not Sam. Dean.

“De?” Your hands were fumbling with the phone, they were shaking so bad. “Dean, th-this is Sam’s phone…”

“He went to the bathroom, now answer the question!” Dean snapped. “You’re starting to freak me out.”

“De, I’m…” the tears wouldn’t be stifled any longer. You were all but sobbing as you managed to say- “Dean, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”

Dean’s voice was getting more frantic every second.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Where are you, I’ll come get you.”

“I-I screwed up, Dean,” you whimpered. “I cra-I crashed Baby.”

“You what?!” You misunderstood Dean’s panic for anger, and it only made you cry harder. “Where are you?”

“We’re going to take you to the hospital, just to be safe,” the EMT cut in gently. He told you the address, and you repeated it to Dean.

“Don’t move when you get there.”

He hung up before you could respond.

…

You were sitting in an observation room when Dean came barging in. The doctor who had just finished examining you looked up, startled.

“There you are.” You missed Dean’s sigh of relief as you ducked your head in shame. He strode into the room, straight for you. His big hand gently lifted your chin.

“Are you ok?” He demanded. You nodded pitifully. Dean gave you a once-over to be sure, before nodding, satisfied.

“We brought her here just to be sure,” the doctor spoke up. “I believe she has a minor concussion.”

“But she’s gonna be ok?” Dean probed.

“Oh yes,” the doctor assured him. “You’re free to check her out whenever you feel ready.” The doctor pulled out a card and held it out for Dean. “This is the mechanic that they towed your car to.”

Dean stuck it in his back pocket without even glancing at it.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m gonna take her home now.”

…

You were next to Dean in the back of a cab when you finally spoke again.

“I’m sorry about Baby, Dean.”

“Would you stop saying that?” Dean huffed. “This is about more than just the Impala. You could’ve been seriously hurt, you could’ve been killed! And all you can talk about is the car.”

“So…” you swallowed. “So you’re not mad about the car?”

“I’m not more mad about that than I am worried about you,” Dean said. “You come first, always. That’s why you called Sam, isn’t it? You were scared that I’d be pissed about the car.”

You nodded feebly, and Dean sighed.

“Honey, that car is never going to be as important to me as you are. I want you to know that you can come to me, you can tell me stuff like this. You should never be so worried about me being mad that you can’t tell me when you get hurt, ever. Baby being in an accident will never scare me more than you being in an accident. Baby can always get a new engine, but this-“ Dean poked at your chest, right above your heart, and you giggled and pushed his hand away. “This needs to be protected. You understanding me?”

“I understand,” you said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

“I forgive you,” Dean said. “Now we’re going to talk about how you’re gonna never sneak out like that again, and how you’re gonna make it up to me for stealing my baby.”

“You said you weren’t angry,” you argued.

“No, I said that you were more important,” Dean countered. “But now that I know you’re ok…

“You are in so much trouble.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter eight ♡

Summary: After being with Joel again, you're back home. Caught in a whirlwind of emotions, you're determined to finally talk things through with him. But just as you're ready, life throws more obstacles in your path—and so does Travis, apparently. WC: 15.3k A/N: Well, It’s been two long weeks since I last updated the story, and I can't even begin to tell you how much I wish I could have written this sooner! But the good news is, I’m officially on vacation now, and all my finals went well. So, I’m hoping to update more regularly from here on out <3 Please remember that i no longer use the taglist, so if you want to receive notifications you can follow me on capuccinodollupdates!

When the door clicked shut behind you, the sound felt final, heavy in a way that made your chest tighten. You leaned against the door, the cool wood steadying you as a flood of emotions rushed in, each one colliding with the next. Surprise. Anger. Helplessness. Pain. And somewhere in the tangled mess, something softer—love? Desire? Whatever it was, it caught you off guard, made your knees buckle. You slid down to the floor, your back scraping against the doorframe as you went, until you were sitting there, small and folded into yourself.

The first sob escaped before you even realized it was coming, a fragile sound that cracked in the quiet of the room. Tears followed, slipping hot and fast down your cheeks, and you wiped at them instinctively, as if erasing them would make the moment less real, less unbearable. Your knees came up to your chest, and you buried your face there, trying to make yourself small, trying to disappear.

What were you supposed to do now? How could you fix this?

The first time with Joel had been a mistake—or that’s what he’d called it, anyway. A lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness, a thing that shouldn’t have happened but did. And you’d told yourself to believe him, even though every nerve in your body said otherwise. But tonight, it was different. This time, you had been the one to lean in, your lips the ones that crossed the distance, your hands the ones that sought him out. And he hadn’t stopped you. He hadn’t hesitated. No, he’d kissed you back, fiercely, his hands gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

Did he need you as much as you needed him?

The thought spiraled through you, looping and tangling until it became something you couldn’t unravel. You sat there for what felt like forever, unmoving, the weight of everything pressing into you. When you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your body felt heavy, your muscles tight with the ache of holding too much. Your shoulders throbbed as you rubbed at them absently, trying to knead away the tension, but all you could think about was the weight of Joel’s hands there just moments ago.

His touch had been deliberate, slow, like he was memorizing the shape of you. You could still feel it, the way his fingers had mapped your skin, his warmth sinking into you. And his eyes—dark, searching—had felt like they were seeing more of you than you were ready to show.

For a brief, fragile second, it had felt right. Like you were exactly where you were meant to be, like he was meant to be there with you. But the feeling didn’t last. It dissolved into something bitter, something sharp that stabbed at the edges of that fleeting joy.

What was happening to you?

Despair bubbled up in your chest, sharp and consuming. You wanted to run, to escape, to leave this house that suddenly felt too small, too stifling, as if the air itself had turned against you. But running wouldn’t help, would it? No matter where you went, Joel would follow—in your thoughts, in the way your body still hummed with the memory of him.

Names darted through your mind like unwelcome guests: Joel, Travis, Sarah, Sienna, Clara. Each one tugged at you in a different way, their presence reminding you of what you’d done, of what you couldn’t take back, of what had happened during the last few weeks.

You pressed a hand to your chest, where the ache was sharpest, right beneath your ribs. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, your lungs struggling to keep up with the storm inside you. Inhale, exhale. You forced yourself to slow down, to count the breaths until they came easier, but it wasn’t enough. The tension stayed, coiled tight in your body, refusing to let go.

When you caught sight of yourself in the hallway mirror, the reflection startled you. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red, your face pale and unfamiliar. You looked like someone else—someone fragile, someone lost.

Calm down, you told yourself, the words hollow even in your own head. Just calm down.

In your room, you undressed methodically, peeling off layers that felt heavy with his memory. The air was cool against your skin, but even that wasn’t enough to erase the warmth of his hands, the way they’d lingered like he was afraid to let go. You closed your eyes and exhaled, but all you could see was Joel—his hesitant voice, his uncertain eyes, his body golden in the light spilling through the window.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, and the intensity in his eyes was like a physical touch, hot and almost unbearable. “It’s not my case at all,” he said, his voice quiet but heavy with emotion. “Not a single day has gone by where I haven’t missed you. Do you have any idea how empty this house feels without you? How empty my life feels?”

He had looked at you like he was waiting for something—waiting for you to leave, maybe. Like he’d already braced himself for the sight of you walking away again. And yet, in his eyes, there had been something else too: fear. Like he wasn’t sure if he could handle it this time.

Joel had hurt you in ways he would never fully understand. Ways you weren’t sure you could articulate, even if you wanted to. What had all of this been for? Why had he done it? Was it out of boredom, selfishness, some unspoken need you couldn’t possibly fulfill? He had a girlfriend. Sienna. He was still dating her, wasn’t he?

And then there was Clara. He’d made you believe there was something there, too. He’d admitted it outright—he’d used her. Said it with a kind of brutal honesty that had stung more than it soothed. The worst part was that you had valued his honesty, that it had felt like a gift even as it tore you apart. You knew him well enough to believe he hadn’t lied, not about that. His words had been sincere, and that sincerity only made it harder to bear.

The truth was a weight in your chest, heavy and immovable: one of the most important friendship of your life was gone, and it wasn’t coming back. Even if you and Joel managed to untangle yourselves from this mess, to salvage whatever was left, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could undo what had happened. His kisses, his sharp words, the way his touch had lingered—they had left marks you couldn’t erase, scars you weren’t sure you wanted to hide.

You stepped into the bathroom, shedding your clothes in silence. The room was cold, the tiles biting at your feet as you turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then poured hot and steady, and you stepped under it, letting the heat soak into your skin. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back, imagining the water washing him off of you, carrying away his touch, his scent, the ghost of his hands.

But it wasn’t that simple.

*

Later, cocooned in a pile of warm blankets on the couch, you finally began to feel your body relax. The ache in your muscles started to fade, but Joel was still there, present. You felt him in the tender bruises on your hips, where his fingers had gripped you too tightly, as if holding on for dear life. You felt him in the hollow ache inside you, the space he seemed to occupy without even trying.

For a moment, you thought you could smell him on your skin—a faint trace of cedar and salt, something earthy and him—but you shook the thought away. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

You pressed your head deeper into the couch cushions and closed your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on sleep, on anything but the way he had looked at you tonight.

Your body was still. Your mind was anything but.

*

When you woke, your back ached in protest, the sharp pull of poorly positioned sleep making you wince. The dry taste in your mouth felt like a rebuke, and your eyes were heavy with the kind of exhaustion that lingers even after hours of rest. A dull headache crept in as you pushed yourself upright, the blankets slipping off your shoulders.

The clock on the small side table blinked at you from under the soft glow of the lamp you’d just switched on. 9:23 PM. You’d been asleep for nearly three hours.

You groaned softly, rubbing at your lower back with one hand as you stood, catching a glimpse of yourself in the living room mirror. Your reflection stared back at you, disheveled and weary. Puffy eyes, tangled hair, pajamas that had twisted in your sleep. You looked like the physical embodiment of a bad day. God, you needed a break.

Your thoughts drifted to Cassie, miles away in Rome, likely fast asleep in the early morning hours. Even if she were awake, you weren’t sure you could unload everything on her tonight. You made a mental note to call her tomorrow, when the guilt and exhaustion felt less immediate.

The kitchen was cold and quiet as you opened the fridge, hoping for something—anything—that might resemble comfort. But of course, there was nothing. The emptiness on the shelves felt like a metaphor you didn’t want to unpack. You sighed and shut the door, leaning against it for a moment.

It was times like these when you missed your mother most, her gentle hands brushing your hair back, the way she’d kiss your temple and tell you it would be okay. Living alone meant there was no one to do that for you. No one to soften the edges of your sadness. You had to pick yourself up, take care of yourself, even when it felt impossible.

There had been a time when Joel was that person. And Sarah, with her quick wit and bright smile, had been the distraction you needed. But not anymore. You couldn’t lean on them now. Not after everything. You owed Sarah a make-up evening, though. The memory of her hopeful face when she’d invited you to dinner today made the guilt twist in your chest. Tomorrow, you promised yourself. You’d make it up to her tomorrow.

Resigned, you tied your hair into a loose bun and started chopping vegetables for a salad. The repetitive motion was grounding, if nothing else, but it didn’t stop your thoughts from drifting to darker places. When your phone buzzed on the couch, the sound startled you.

You washed your hands quickly, drying them on your t-shirt as you hurried to pick up the call. Travis’s name lit up the screen, and for a second, you hesitated.

Your chest tightened as guilt surged through you. Ignoring the call wasn’t an option; Travis didn’t deserve that. You swiped to answer, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

“Hello?”

He said your name with a kind of warmth that made you pause, like he’d been waiting to hear you for hours.

“Good to find you awake,” he said, his voice gentle but edged with something unsure. “I felt bad leaving your house earlier without saying goodbye properly.”

“You left a note,” you reminded him, sitting back down on the couch and pressing a hand to your forehead. “It’s fine, really.”

“Still,” he said, a faint sigh on the other end. “It felt… a little abrupt. Evasive, maybe?”

You hummed in agreement, not trusting yourself to say more.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, concern creeping into his tone. “You sound… off.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear, covering the microphone as you exhaled shakily. He was right. You did sound off. You felt off. Lately, you felt like you were failing everyone, yourself included.

You and Travis weren’t serious. Nothing had ever been defined. But he’d been kind, patient, more understanding than you probably deserved. And you cared for him, in your way. He’d even told you earlier that he’d wait, that you could take the time you needed to sort things out with Joel. And yet here you were, complicating things further by falling back into Joel’s orbit.

“I think I’m getting sick,” you lied, your voice too even, too practiced. The guilt made your stomach twist.

“Still feeling that hangover, huh?” he teased gently, his laugh light and familiar.

“Probably,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory of last night—his exaggerated grimace as he’d crouched over the toilet, the surreal shade of blue in the bowl.

“Well,” he said after a pause, his tone softening, “tell me you haven’t eaten yet.”

“I was… trying to make a salad or something,” you admitted, glancing at the half-chopped vegetables on the counter. “I don’t really feel like cooking.”

“Good,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “I was thinking about ordering pizza and bringing it over. If you’re up for some company, that is. No pressure. Just friends.”

His voice faltered slightly on the last words, and the sweetness of it made you ache.

You hesitated, but only for a moment. Turning him down would feel worse than whatever strange guilt was already weighing on you.

“I like pizza,” you said finally, a smile tugging at your lips. “Definitely better than salad.”

“Way better,” he agreed, laughing softly. “No offense to the salad—or the salad maker.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound lighter than you’d expected. 

*

On the television screen, Vida Boheme radiated elegance, her black-and-white ensemble tailored perfectly, her nails immaculate, and the glint of her pearl necklace catching the soft light. The scene unfolded with Vida sitting at a table surrounded by the women of the village, Noxeema, and Chi Chi, all leaning in as if she were about to reveal a profound secret.

“You know what we should have?” Vida said, her voice lilting with certainty and charm.

The camera cut to Noxeema, dressed in a vibrant orange outfit, her expression deadpan, gesturing as though the answer was obvious.

“A day with the girls,” Noxeema declared, turning to the elderly woman beside her with a conspiratorial smile.

You smiled at the screen mid-bite, the warm glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room. Turning to Travis, you shook your head, half-indignant, half-playful, a hint of laughter in your voice.

“I seriously can’t believe you’ve never seen this movie,” you said, your words slightly muffled by the bite of pizza still in your mouth. You quickly swallowed, grabbing your glass of soda for a sip before continuing. “Cassie and I used to watch this one all the time. This or Riding in Cars with Boys. Classic.”

Travis, lounging beside you with his socked feet propped up on the coffee table, gave a casual shrug, glancing at you with a smirk. “Wait, you mean the Drew Barrymore one?”

“Obviously,” you replied, rolling your eyes and nudging him with your elbow. “Please tell me you’ve at least seen that one.”

He grinned, as if sensing the trap you’d set for him. “I have,” he said slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching. Then he dropped the bomb. “But it’s kind of a downer, don’t you think?”

You froze mid-reach for another slice of pizza, your head snapping toward him. “A downer?” you repeated, your voice laced with disbelief. Your eyes narrowed as though he’d just insulted your favorite family member. “Are we talking about the same movie?”

Travis held up his hands defensively, his expression a mix of sheepishness and amusement. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say it was bad! Just… I don’t know, it bums me out.”

He paused to finish chewing a bite of pizza, clearly weighing how to explain himself. You leaned back, arms crossed, waiting.

“Okay, hear me out,” he said finally, his tone quieter now. He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter. “The first time I saw it, I was twenty. It was right after my dad passed away.” He hesitated, glancing down at the pizza in his hand. “Not that I was close to him or anything. Honestly, I barely knew the guy. But my mom… she was wrecked. And watching that movie, seeing all the family stuff, all the pain... It just hit a little too close to home.”

His words hung in the air between you, the weight of them settling quietly in the space you shared. You studied him for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden honesty that had slipped into the conversation. It wasn’t the direction you’d expected things to take, but there was a kind of openness in him now that you couldn’t help but appreciate.

“I had no idea, Trav,” you said softly, your voice gentle as you shifted on the couch to face him more fully. “That makes so much sense.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a small, self-conscious smile. He seemed almost reluctant to hold your gaze, his fingers idly picking at the edge of the pizza crust in his hand.

“Yeah, well…” he started, his tone lighter now, as if shaking off the vulnerability he’d just shared. “That aside, you gotta admit—the movie’s kinda heavy. All that stuff with the dad? It just plain turns my stomach.”

“With her son’s dad or her dad?” you asked, leaning forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Oh, Lord, her dad,” he groaned, throwing his head back against the couch as if even the memory of the plot exhausted him. “I’d almost forgot ‘bout him. But yeah, both, I reckon. Still, her son’s dad takes the cake. What a piece of work.”

You laughed lightly, the sound bubbling up as you thought back to the first time you’d seen the movie. “I watched it for the first time when I was ten,” you told him, your grin widening as the memory surfaced. “And I’m not kidding when I say it terrified me. I was so scared of getting pregnant as a teenager that I wouldn’t even let my first boyfriend hold my hand.”

Travis let out a warm chuckle, the sound drawing a smile to your lips. He tilted his head toward you, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure that ain’t how babies happen.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you felt your cheeks flush. “Hey, I was young and ridiculously innocent,” you shot back, holding your hands up in mock defense. “It didn’t matter anyway. The poor guy dumped me before I could even think about trying it.”

Travis laughed again, a deeper, more genuine laugh that sent a pleasant warmth spreading through you. The way his face softened when he laughed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, it tugged at something deep inside you. You found yourself watching him for a beat too long, taking in the quiet tenderness in his expression. There was something different about him tonight—something that felt steady, comforting.

On the television, the women of the village were parading in colorful dresses, their laughter and movements filling the screen with life. Stockard Channing’s character stepped into the frame in a stunning red gown, her hair slicked back, adorned with a sparkling appliqué.

Travis gestured toward the screen with his pizza slice, his voice pulling your attention back to him. “Now, that’s somethin’. She’s got, what, maybe ten minutes of screen time? And she just about steals the whole dang movie. I like Vida too. Amazing."

You smiled at his observation, appreciating the way he could shift gears so seamlessly, from quiet reflection to casual banter. “Right? She’s iconic. Cassie and I used to try to copy her attitude, but, uh, let’s just say it didn’t land.”

Travis raised an eyebrow, his grin crooked. “You? Tryin’ to act all high-and-mighty like that? I’d pay good money to see it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you reached for another slice of pizza. “Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly convincing. Cassie, on the other hand… she nailed it. She had the whole icy glare thing down.”

Travis chuckled, leaning back into the couch with an easy smile. “I can’t picture you doin’ icy. You’re too warm for that.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. There was something so matter-of-fact in the way he said it, like it wasn’t a compliment so much as a simple truth.

“Well,” you said after a pause, your voice quieter now, “I guess I’ll just have to stick to being me.”

“Can’t imagine that’s a bad thing,” Travis said, his soft tone softening the edges of his words. He glanced over at you, his gaze warm, steady. 

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Travis broke eye contact, reaching for another slice of pizza, and you shifted your attention back to the movie.

“Back up, Virgil,” Carol Ann said, her voice firm, her gaze unwavering as she confronted her husband. “I’m a drag queen.”

Virgil, the abusive husband, looked at her surprised.

“Stupid fucker,” Travis muttered under his breath, the words slipping out almost by accident.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, the sound startling in the quiet room. His comment felt so unfiltered, so distinctly him.

The clock on the wall read almost 11 PM, and as the minutes stretched on, you felt the weight of the day settling over you. Your body ached for rest, your eyelids heavy as you stretched your arms above your head.

Leaning back against the couch, you let your head tilt, the soft warmth of Travis’s shoulder inviting as your body gave in to its exhaustion. He didn’t seem to mind, adjusting slightly to make your position more comfortable.

On screen, the movie carried on, but the details blurred as sleep began to pull at you. For a moment, the day’s worries faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the TV, the soft sound of Travis’s breath, and the steady rhythm of your own heart.

For Travis, this was just as complicated as it was for you—maybe even more so in certain ways. He liked you too much, too deeply for how short a time you’d been together. He’d grown accustomed to the way your presence softened the sharp edges of his days, to the ease of your laughter and the subtle ways you tried to hide how much you cared. He’d started to imagine a version of his life with you in it, a version that didn’t feel as far-fetched as it probably should have.

But Joel.

Joel was the immovable obstacle, the thing he could never quite get around. Not because of just jealousy—although there was a trace of that too—but because Travis knew that whatever existed between you and Joel, it was bigger than him. It was bigger than you, even. And he knew, with a sinking kind of certainty, that no matter what he did, no matter how patient or kind or present he tried to be, he would always be standing in Joel’s shadow.

What made it worse, though, was that he accepted it. He wasn’t proud of that, but he had made his peace with it, or at least he thought he had. If being with you meant living with the ghost of your best friend, then fine. He’d find a way to make it work. And if you decided you couldn’t be with him at all—if all you could offer was friendship—then he’d take that too. Hell, he’d even try to like Joel, which would be an uphill battle considering the guy had never mattered much to him before.

Travis dropped his gaze to you, watching in silence for a moment.

He had noticed right away that you’d been crying—your eyes were still a little red, the skin beneath them slightly swollen despite your attempts to hide it. Whatever had happened earlier, he knew it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Joel.

But he didn’t ask. He wouldn’t.

He had promised you time, space, no pressure. And Travis was a man of his word, even if it hurt to keep it.

Still, the thought of Joel had his jaw tightening. For a guy who usually avoided conflict, the idea of punching Joel square in the face had crossed his mind more than once since you’d told him everything. How could Joel have done that to you? How could he have looked at you—you—and treated you with so little care?

Travis didn’t understand.

He knew Joel was stubborn, strong-willed, the kind of guy who seemed charming and generous until the moment he decided otherwise. Joel could be kind, sure. He could be thoughtful, maybe even sweet when he wanted to be. But he could also be cold, sharp-edged, someone who wielded his words like weapons.

“I don’t think that’s true.” His voice was calm, steady, as if he’d already thought this through. “I think Joel has... feelings for you. And I think it scares him so much he doesn’t know what to do with it. That’s why he’s defensive. That’s why he can’t stand me. That’s why he kept watching us at the barbecue like I was committing some kind of crime.”

“Travis—”

You had looked at him then, your expression unreadable, and Travis had felt a small, selfish flicker of hope. You didn't seem to believe him.

Maybe you wouldn’t go back to Joel. Maybe you’d leave him behind for good this time.

He hated himself for thinking it—for the way relief had bubbled up in the pit of his stomach even as you wiped at your eyes, trying to keep your composure. It wasn’t fair to you, and it wasn’t the kind of man Travis wanted to be, but the truth of it was there all the same.

Because as much as he wanted to be the one you chose, he wanted you to be okay even more. And he meant it. Even if it made him feel pathetic. Even if it meant giving up the small, selfish hope he’d been holding onto.

When Travis left your house earlier that day, he entered his own feeling like his chest was a tightly wound spring about to snap. His emotions churned in ways he hadn’t anticipated. First, there was confusion—a sharp, disorienting kind of bewilderment. He hadn’t planned on feeling so strongly about you. He had always liked you, sure, but he never expected it to grow into this. This sharp, aching attachment that felt impossible to let go of. Losing the possibility of discovering what you could be together felt like a quiet kind of devastation, one he wasn’t entirely ready to admit to himself.  

And then there was jealousy.  

Jealousy that burned hot and ugly, coiling itself tightly around his insides until it became hard to breathe. The thought of Joel—his presence, his history with you—sliced through him in a way he couldn’t rationalize. All the interactions he’d had with Joel over the last few weeks replayed in his mind on an endless loop. The veiled comments, the pointed jabs, the little ways Joel had gone out of his way to provoke him, to make him feel small.  

The worst part was the anger that followed. Not just at Joel but at himself. For not saying something. For not standing up for himself, for you, for whatever it was that had been building between the two of you. He should have fired back. He should have said something—anything—to cut Joel down to size. But he hadn’t. He’d swallowed the insults, keeping his composure because that was what he did. Because that was who he was.  

By the time he made it to his bedroom, Travis felt drained. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to force the tension out of his shoulders. Getting angry wasn’t worth it, he reminded himself, pacing the length of the room as if he could walk off the weight of his emotions. This wasn’t his fight to have; it was yours. Yours and Joel’s.  

Still, the thought brought him little comfort.  

In an effort to shake off the heaviness in his chest, he went for a walk, letting the brisk evening air sting his face. Later, he stood under the scalding spray of the shower, letting it beat against his skin as if it could scrub away the swirling thoughts that had taken up permanent residence in his mind. By the time he reached for his phone, hoping for a reply from you, the ache in his chest had dulled but hadn’t disappeared entirely.  

Hours later, as your soft breaths fell against his shoulder, Travis felt the tension ease slightly. You were asleep, completely at peace, and he was struck by how delicate you seemed in that moment. How your face, so often animated with sharp wit or quiet determination, had softened in sleep. He thought briefly about staying like that all night, letting you rest against him, but the ache in his neck was becoming impossible to ignore.  

Just as he was trying to figure out how to move without waking you, there was a knock at the door. Three sharp, deliberate raps that shattered the quiet of the room.  

You didn’t stir, not even a little. Travis glanced down at you, then gently slipped out from under your weight, careful to cover you with the blanket you’d neatly folded on the other couch earlier that day.  

The hallway felt darker than it had before as he made his way to the door, his mind spinning. Should he wake you up? Probably. He hesitated, hand hovering over the doorknob. Was opening the door himself crossing a line? Maybe. But before he could talk himself out of it, he tugged the door open.  

And there, standing on your doorstep, was Joel.  

For a split second, Joel’s expression betrayed him. His eyebrows lifted, eyes widening slightly as if he hadn’t been expecting Travis to answer the door. The surprise vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something steadier, harder. His gaze flicked past Travis, scanning the interior of the house before landing back on him.  

Travis could feel the storm brewing inside him again, all the resentment and frustration he’d tried to let go of earlier crashing back in full force.  

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Travis. The two men stood there, the silence between them thick and unyielding, charged with everything they weren’t saying.  

Travis clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He wasn’t going to let Joel get under his skin—not again. Whatever reason Joel had for being here, it wasn’t his business. Not really.  

"Travis," Joel said, his voice firm and clipped, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. "Can you call—"

"Joel," Travis interrupted, his tone sharp but with a thin veil of politeness that neither man believed. "How's it going?"

Joel’s jaw tightened, the movement barely perceptible. If Travis hadn’t been watching so intently, he might have missed it.

"Fine," Joel replied, his impatience cracking through the surface of his calm demeanor. His dark eyes met Travis's with the kind of intensity that felt like a challenge. "I need to talk—"

"She can't right now," Travis interrupted again, his voice firmer this time, leaving no room for debate.

Joel’s eyebrows flicked upward, just a twitch, but enough to betray his irritation. His mind whirred, questions piling up faster than he could address them.

"Is she okay? Did something happen?" Joel asked, his voice low and measured, but laced with something more—an edge of concern that Travis couldn’t fully place.

Travis leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms as though settling into the moment. "Oh, she’s fine," he said, feigning nonchalance. "She just had a long day. A really long day." He tilted his head, letting the words linger. "She’s sleeping now. Needed it."

The knot in Joel’s stomach tightened, a slow burn starting to spread through his chest. Something about Travis’s tone—the deliberate drawl, the smug edge—rubbed him raw. "Was she upset about something?"

"You could say that," Travis replied, completely unaware of Joel's concerns, shrugging as though the details were inconsequential. "She was wound up earlier, but I helped her relax."

Joel’s eyes narrowed, his gaze cutting through the smugness Travis wore like armor.

"You helped her relax," Joel repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yeah," Travis said, straightening a little, his smile sharpening. "She needed someone to be there for her. Lucky for me, I was."

Joel’s nostrils flared, his composure cracking slightly. "What are you trying to say, Dunn?"

"Nothing at all," Travis said, his smile widening. "You know how it is. Just statin’ the obvious, you know? Folks like us—we step up when someone needs us. You’d do the same thing, wouldn’t you?”

The words hit Joel like a punch to the gut, an unanticipated blow that left him reeling. A knot began to form in his stomach, twisting tighter with each second of silence.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stood there, looking at Travis, digesting the words as if they were a meal gone bad. His face felt hot, his pulse heavy in his ears.

"Anyway," Travis continued, his tone light but with an edge of something smug, "it's kind of late, isn't it? She had a long day. Poor thing was so tired she fell asleep on me and everything." He smiled, leaning against the doorframe like he didn’t have a care in the world.

It was a deliberate smile, one Joel recognized instantly for what it was: a taunt.

If this conversation had been happening under different circumstances, Joel might have enjoyed hearing such words. Might have smirked at the irony of some guy bragging about holding his girl, oblivious to the fact that she'd been in Joel’s arms earlier that day. But now, standing there on your porch, the words felt like nails in his chest, sharp and unbearable.

“I see,” Joel said finally, his voice tight, each word sounding like it had been carefully measured before leaving his mouth. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the floor for just a second before snapping back up. His eyes locked on Travis with an intensity that couldn’t be ignored. “I just think it’s a little strange, that’s all. You answerin’ her door like that.” His tone shifted, gaining a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. “Pretty sure she needs to talk to me too, don’t you think?”

Travis chuckled softly, the sound low and disarming, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Why? Did something happen?"

Joel straightened, squaring his shoulders as he inhaled slowly. The action made him seem bigger somehow, more imposing, as if the weight of his presence alone could force Travis to back down.

"None of your business, Dunn," Joel said, his voice gravelly, the words biting.

"Maybe. But today she told me she wasn’t sure she wanted to see you," Travis added, his voice quieter now but no less pointed. "She seemed pretty certain about it. Said she wanted space, and honestly?" He tilted his head, his expression almost pitying. "I think that’s a good call."

Joel stepped forward, his body tense. "You don’t know a damn thing about what’s between us," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

Travis didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened. "Yeah, maybe," he said, his voice light. "But I know what she wants. And tonight? Certainly not you."

The words hit their mark. Joel flinched, barely, but it was enough for Travis to see. Enough for Travis to know he had scored a point in whatever unspoken battle they were waging.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure.

"Again, none of your damn business," he said, his voice dropping low, rough with frustration. He stepped forward, just an inch, but the movement carried weight.

Travis met Joel’s gaze head-on, his jaw clenched, his body tense. For a brief moment, he considered saying more—letting loose all the things he’d held back in the past. But something in Joel’s expression stopped him. Something raw and heavy, something that mirrored the storm Travis had felt earlier that day.

"Sure," Travis said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "None of my business. But hey, I’ll let her know you stopped by."

Joel let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he took a step back. "Right," he muttered, his voice laced with derision. "Don’t bother. No need."

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Travis, a mixture of disdain and something else—something softer, almost mournful—flickering behind his eyes. Then, without another word, he turned and walked off the porch, his steps quick and purposeful.

Inside, Travis closed the door with a quiet sigh. Leaning against the door for a moment, he let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to shake off the lingering tension. It had been childish, he knew that. But Joel had treated him like this before, made him feel small and insignificant, and for once, Travis had enjoyed turning the tables.

He moved quietly down the hallway, stopping briefly in the bathroom before returning to the living room. You were still lying on the couch, curled under the blanket he’d placed over you earlier. Your face was soft in sleep, peaceful, and he felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name as he looked at you.

Instead of heading to the guest room or leaving altogether, Travis grabbed the remote and settled onto the other end of the couch, careful not to disturb you. He flipped through the channels aimlessly, the soft glow of the TV casting flickering light across the room.

This time, he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t scribble out a note or disappear before you woke up. Tonight, he’d stay.

*

Travis leaned against the kitchen island, watching you with quiet amusement as you poured sugar into your coffee cup. The soft hum of the morning settled around you, the slow ache in your back from sleeping on the couch a reminder of how little sleep you'd gotten. You glanced over at him—he was still there, still here, though you hadn't expected him to stay the night. His presence surprised you, though there was a comforting weight in it, one you hadn’t quite prepared for.

The coffee, when you finally tasted it, was perfect—rich, balanced, like it knew exactly what you needed to start the day. You closed your eyes briefly as the warmth spread, savoring the sensation. Travis chuckled softly from behind you. "Is it good?"

You smiled to yourself, the corner of your lips curving slightly. "Like you have no idea," you teased, letting the moment stretch just a little longer before breaking it.

“Well, let’s do this again sometime," he said, pushing himself off the stool. He straightened his coat with an exaggerated gesture, his voice light, almost playful. "Smells good.”

You didn’t respond immediately, just took another sip of coffee and turned to the toaster, waiting for the bread to pop. The quiet felt like a small luxury, one you weren't used to, but savored nonetheless. 

“Well, I’m off,” Travis said, his footsteps echoing faintly as he moved toward the door. "I’ll see you later, okay?"

You glanced over your shoulder, the cup still cradled in your hands. "Sure, I’ll text you," you said, as his lips brushed against your cheek in a quick, lingering kiss. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

His eyes softened for a moment, a promise without words. “Of course,” he said, and then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

Alone, you turned and reached for your phone, which sat untouched on the coffee table. It had been the first thing you'd done when you woke up—texting Cassie. Her response had been as you expected: she was home, curled up in bed, eating ice cream and watching TV. It was 4 pm in Rome.

“Aw, look at you,” Cassie cooed, her smile lighting up the screen. She tilted her head, examining you with playful scrutiny. “How cute do you look this morning? How’d you sleep?”

You exhaled slowly, leaning back in your chair as you tried to find the words to describe the chaotic whirlwind of emotions you’d woken up with. “It was... okay,” you said finally, your voice hesitant. You paused for a moment before adding, “Travis came over last night.”

Cassie’s eyebrows shot up, and her face practically filled the screen as she leaned closer to her phone. “Ooooh, Travis,” she teased, dragging out his name with a knowing grin. “Well, well, well. Did something finally happen? Don’t leave me hanging.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, albeit nervously, as you reached for your coffee mug. The warmth of the ceramic grounded you, but the bitterness of the coffee didn’t do much to mask the knot tightening in your chest. “No, nothing like that,” you said after a sip, shaking your head as you spoke. “In fact, I don’t think anything is ever going to happen between us.”

Cassie’s playful expression faltered, replaced by a look of concern. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head slightly. “Wait, what? Why not? Did he do something?” Her tone softened, but her curiosity didn’t waver. “C’mon, tell me.”

You hesitated, staring into your coffee as if the swirling liquid might somehow hold the answer. The truth had been sitting heavily on your chest all morning, and you knew you couldn’t keep it in much longer. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “It’s just... I—”

Cassie leaned in closer, her eyes wide with anticipation. “You what?”

The weight of what you were about to say made your chest tighten. You hadn’t spoken it aloud yet, and the words felt sharp and foreign on your tongue. But there was no other way to get it out than to just... say it.

“I slept with Joel.” The words tumbled out in a rush, and the moment they left your mouth, your heart started pounding like it was trying to break free.

Cassie froze, her jaw dropping as her eyes went wide with shock. For a moment, she just stared at you, her face a mix of disbelief and intrigue. “Wait, wait, wait. What?! When?!”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling as you set your mug down. “Yesterday,” you admitted in a whisper, avoiding her gaze. “And, um... on his birthday.”

Cassie’s mouth fell open even wider, her hands flying to her face. “No. You are not serious right now.”

“I am,” you said, sighing as you ran a hand through your hair. “It just... happened. I don’t even know how to explain it, Cassie. I should’ve told you sooner, but... everything’s just been so complicated.”

She leaned back, shaking her head slowly as if trying to process the bomb you’d just dropped. Then, without warning, her face lit up with wild excitement.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, her voice rising a few octaves. “I knew this was gonna happen! I totally knew it! Tommy and I used to joke about it all the time—like, ‘When are they gonna stop being so stubborn and finally admit it?’”

You blinked, looking at her with a mix of confusion and amusement. “Wait—What? You guys were talking about us? What, like a whole secret conspiracy or something?”

Cassie burst out laughing, her grin widening. “Oh, honey, it was not a secret. Tommy was basically on a countdown. We’d be sitting there, sipping our beers, and he’d go, ‘Any day now, he’ll cave. We just need to wait for the stars to align.’”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of it all making your head spin.

“I’m over here thinking I’ve been doing a pretty good job at keeping my feelings in check, and meanwhile, Tommy’s plotting my love life like some kind of matchmaking genius?”

Cassie shot you a teasing look. “Oh, he’s not a genius. More like an overenthusiastic amateur. But he’s not wrong, was he?”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

It took a while for her to collect herself, but then she zeroed in on the more important question.

“How was it? Does Travis know?”

“Yeah, he knows... about the first time,” you said, a sigh escaping your lips as you rubbed your forehead, exhausted. “I... Well, it wasn’t planned.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I assumed as much.”

You exhaled slowly, gathering your thoughts. "So, on his birthday... we had this massive argument," you started, your voice a little shaky as you remembered how everything had unfolded. "He’d been hiding this thing from me—he's been dating someone... Sienna, that's her name. He didn't tell me, not even once. I had to find out from Sarah." You paused, shaking your head in disbelief. "And then, he actually asked Tommy not to say anything. Can you even believe that? Like, really? I thought he trusted me."

Cassie’s face tightened as she processed your words, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath, the concern in her voice palpable. "What the hell is wrong with him? He couldn't even be honest with you?" Her gaze darkened slightly, her brow furrowing. "I swear, some people... men."

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head.

"Exactly. That's exactly how I felt. He didn’t even tell me, so I confronted him about it. And we fought—big time. He actually told me I was just jealous. Said he knew I had feelings for him, that I liked him. And I—I just snapped. I told him no, I didn’t. That he wasn’t my type. That we were just friends." You rubbed your temples, trying to remember how you felt in that moment. "I was so mad, Cassie. So pissed off that he’d kept something like that from me."

Cassie’s expression softened a little, though there was still a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You totally hit his ego, didn’t you?” she said with a raised eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Come on, admit it. That had to have been part of it."

You couldn’t help but laugh awkwardly.

"Yeah, I guess I did," you admitted, rolling your eyes in a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help myself. It just came out."

"Well, I’m sure it worked," Cassie mused, leaning back into her chair with a sigh. She paused, her lips curling up into a grin. "So, then... you kissed him, huh?"

You closed your eyes at the thought of it.

"I did," you said, your voice a little more distant as the memory replayed in your mind. "And it was... God, it was the best kiss I’ve ever had. No joke. The best." You let out a breath, feeling the weight of your words. "And the best sex too. Sorry, but it’s true."

Cassie gasped in dramatic disbelief, her hands flying to her face.

"Joel Miller," she whispered, almost in awe, shaking her head as if she couldn’t quite process it. "Who would've thought? You’re killin’ me here. This is too much."

You nodded slowly, still lost in the vividness of the moment.

"Yeah, but here’s the kicker," you continued, your voice quieter now, a trace of sadness creeping into your words. "When I woke up, he was gone. Just... gone. No note, nothing. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Then, when he came back to talk to me, he said it was a mistake. That we should never have crossed that line. And he... he looked at me like I was the one who’d messed everything up. Like I was the one to blame. And we fought again, Cassie. I don’t know what to do anymore. I just don’t."

You felt the weight of everything you’d said—the confusion, the regret, the pain—and let it hang in the air. Cassie sat silently, processing it all, her eyes soft but intense, focused on you as she tried to understand your tangled mess of emotions.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been talking until you finally took a breath (an hour, maybe?), looking up to find Cassie watching you with a quiet expression, her concern clearly etched in her features. You shifted uncomfortably.

"I don’t know what to do, Cass," you said, your voice small, the heaviness in your chest like a brick pressing down. "I feel like I’m losing my mind over all this. Like I’m... I don’t even know anymore."

Cassie stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed everything you’d told her. Then she let out a soft sigh, sitting up straighter.

“Well,” she said, her tone calm but firm, “it’s pretty clear to me what’s going on.” Her voice softened just a little, but it was certain. "Do you want me to tell you what I think?"

You looked at her, the uncertainty swirling inside you, but you nodded, desperate for some clarity.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice filled with so much tension, you felt like you might snap.

Cassie didn’t hesitate. “You love him. And he loves you,” she said simply, her words hitting you like a wave. “It’s been obvious from the start, hasn’t it? You both tiptoe around it, but the signs are all there. I even asked him once, you know.”

You blinked, caught off guard. "You asked him?"

She nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Yeah. It was a while ago—on your birthday, I think, when you were turning... twenty-eight? I asked him straight out, just to see what he'd say. He denied it, of course. Told me he only saw you as a friend. But, honey, I saw through it. He was nervous as hell. You could practically see the feelings swimming under the surface. It was obvious.”

Your breath caught in your throat. "What do I do, Cass? What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Cassie exhaled slowly, her expression softening as she looked at you with understanding.

“You need to stop running from it,” she said, her voice gentle but full of conviction. “You love him, and he loves you. If there’s nothing standing in your way, you’ve got to go for it. You can’t just keep pretending it isn’t there.”

You swallowed, your heart heavy in your chest. "But what about Travis? He’s... he’s... And Sienna, Joel doesn't even—"

“That woman he’s dating, Sienna, isn’t an obstacle, I mean, it's obviously not serious. He's just going to break up with her and that's it. And Travis, well, that isn’t serious either,” Cassie said, her voice firm with conviction. “So really, what’s stopping you from going to talk to Joel and figuring things out? Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing in your way. Besides, he told you himself, didn’t he? Yesterday, he admitted it—that he misses you, that he’s sorry, and that he feels terrible about everything. I’m not saying you need to forgive him right away or pretend that everything is fine, but—come on, in my opinion, he deserves a chance to show you how sorry he is.”

You shifted uncomfortably, the idea of confronting Joel still sitting heavy in your stomach.

"This makes me nervous," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" Cassie asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"Talking to him... I don't know, God, it makes me nauseous just thinking about it," you admitted, your hands shaking slightly as you placed them in your lap. The thought of confronting Joel about everything, of peeling back all the layers of confusion and regret, felt like a weight that would crush you.

Cassie’s laughter was soft but genuine, amusement dancing in her voice as she took in your panicked expression.

“Easy,” she said, trying to soothe your nerves. “Just take it one step at a time. Talk to Joel first, then you can figure out what you’re going to do with Travis.”

You shook your head, the knot in your stomach tightening. “No, Cassie, I’m telling you, Joel never actually said he wanted to be with me. In fact, he was pretty clear that he was willing to accept Travis... and—” 

"Jesus Christ," Cassie cut you off, her voice rising with frustration. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto you, as if trying to break through your fog of doubt. "Are you even listening to yourself right now?" she asked, her tone a mix of exasperation and impatience. "He told you that because he’s terrified, okay? He’s scared of what might happen between you two, but trust me, he wants you. Deep down, he’s desperate to be close to you again. He said all that because he wants to convince you, but it's clear as day. He’s not trying to shut you out; he's trying to gain you back. He needs you, and you need him. That’s the truth." 

She let out a breath, her face softening for a second. "You need to stop overthinking everything and just see it for what it is. Trust me."

You exhaled slowly, trying to process her words, but the doubt still clouded your mind.

“Okay, I trust you, Cass, I do, but... what if I go talk to him and he tells me that I’m wrong, that he doesn’t want anything, that I’ve misunderstood everything? What if it’s all just one big mistake on my part? I couldn’t stand the humiliation. I just couldn’t,” you said, your voice rising with the tension. “If that happens... I’ll move out. I’ll leave. I’m serious. I don’t think I could live with myself after that.”

Cassie groaned loudly, her frustration palpable. She covered her face with both hands, groaning again before dropping them dramatically. When she finally looked at you, her eyes were sharp, her gaze unwavering.

“You’re being way too dramatic,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “That’s not going to happen. He’s not going to shut you down like that. But if you’re really that insecure about it, then just... take it slow. Go talk to him. See what he says. Don’t try to rush it, okay? You’ve already done the hardest part, just by being honest with yourself.”

You rubbed your eyes, a mix of frustration and exhaustion settling in.

“Okay,” you said after a long pause, your voice quieter. “I’ll do that. I wanted to invite Sarah over anyway, so I might as well start there. I’ll take it one step at a time.”

Cassie’s face softened with approval, her lips curving into a smile. “Sounds perfect to me. You’ll do fine.”

The conversation shifted then, easing into lighter topics as you both chatted aimlessly for the next couple of hours. It was around noon when Cassie started telling you about the small chaos in her life. She vented about a fight she’d gotten into with the guy who lived below her, the constant tension over thin apartment walls. Then, there was her boyfriend—how he’d been acting strange, how she’d found some unsettling things on his phone that made her question everything. You listened, nodding along as she vented her frustrations. 

Then, she shared something that took you by surprise.

“I really need to get away from Rome,” she confessed, her tone suddenly more serious. “I’m thinking about coming to Austin for a bit. A change of scenery... I just need a break from everything, from the stress. I need to recharge.”

You grinned at her, feeling a sense of relief and excitement bubble inside you. The idea of seeing her, of having her nearby again, was like a lifeline. You wanted her here, now more than ever. And you couldn’t help but celebrate inwardly that her need to escape Rome stemmed from conflict—something that meant you’d have her to yourself, even if just for a little while. 

At one o’clock in the afternoon, you heard the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck engine, a sound that seemed to make your heart skip a beat. You hurried over to the window, your pulse quickening as you pressed your hand against the cool glass, watching him. Joel’s truck backed out of the driveway, and there she was, Sarah—her smile wide and easy as she climbed into the passenger seat. They drove off together, the sound of the engine fading as they disappeared down the street.

You didn’t know why you felt the need to watch so closely. Maybe it was just to reassure yourself that he wasn’t avoiding you or that whatever had happened between you the night before wasn’t as messy as it seemed in your head. But there they were, together, and you couldn’t shake the knot tightening in your stomach.  

Half an hour later, the engine rumbled back into your consciousness. You pressed your ear to the window, straining to catch the sound of his truck once more. When you saw them return, your anxiety flared up again. They weren’t gone long, and that gnawing feeling of uncertainty crept back in, latching itself onto your chest. You knew what you had to do. You couldn’t wait any longer, or it would just get harder to face him. To face this. To face everything.

Taking a deep breath, you rushed upstairs. You threw on a thick white sweater over your T-shirt, pulling it down quickly over your hips, the fabric brushing against your skin. You stood in front of the mirror for a moment, running your fingers through your hair. It was wild, messy—just like everything else—but you managed to smooth it into something presentable. A little makeup, just enough to make you feel like you weren’t about to crack under the weight of this conversation. You didn’t want to look like you were out of control. You needed to feel in control.

When you went back downstairs, your heart raced, and a part of you wanted to turn back. To hide. To not deal with any of it. But then you remembered. He came looking for you yesterday, right? He wanted to talk, and he had been honest with you. You could do this. You just had to go to him. No more games, no more hesitation. You had to find out where you stood. You couldn’t keep putting it off, not without making everything feel even more tangled and complicated. 

The door swung open in front of you as if the universe was pushing you forward, or maybe it was just the weight of your own feet propelling you. The cool air slapped at your cheeks as you stepped outside, the breeze sharp against your skin. The sun, bright but low, kissed your face in a way that should’ve been comforting, but instead, it made everything feel more vivid. You walked quickly, every step pulsing with nervous energy, your body moving faster than your thoughts.

When you reached Joel’s door, you stopped for a moment, staring at the old, worn wood. Your fist trembled as it hovered over the surface, then you knocked, three quick, tentative raps. 

Silence stretched for a few seconds—seconds that felt like hours. You almost knocked again, your resolve faltering, but just as your fist was about to make contact, the door opened. 

There he was. Joel. 

His figure filled the doorway, leaning slightly, the faintest hint of exhaustion in his eyes. He was dressed simply—black pants, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, Converse shoes. Casual, effortless. His hair was the usual mess, tousled and rebellious, little spikes jutting out as if the world had no business asking him to tame it. It should have been familiar, comforting, but something about the way he stood there, looking at you—neutral, unreadable—shifted the air around you. 

Your heart stuttered. His eyes weren’t soft like they had been the night before. They were guarded, intense, fixed on your face, as though he were waiting for you to speak first. There was something in that expression, something you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the uncertainty or the confusion or the way his jaw was set, like he was preparing for whatever was about to happen. 

"Hi, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, and you could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, flooding your cheeks. It was ridiculous, how shy you suddenly felt in front of him, but you couldn’t help it. "How are you?"

He let out a sharp sigh, as if the sound itself was an effort, and his gaze shifted past you, looking out into the distance like something on the other side of the street had become suddenly fascinating. His eyes briefly flickered back to you, and for a split second, they dropped to your neck, then to your lips—lingering there a moment too long before quickly darting back to your face, as if he was consciously avoiding something. A pang of disappointment struck you, sharp and immediate. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, suddenly aware of the closeness between you both. You just wanted him to look at you the way he used to, to see something familiar in his eyes again.

"I'm kinda busy, actually," Joel muttered, his voice colder than you'd ever heard it, the words clipped and distant.

“Oh… what are you doing?” You asked before you could stop yourself, your curiosity slipping out before your thoughts could catch up.

Joel shifted his weight against the doorframe, making the subtle move of pulling himself back, like he was creating even more space between you. His eyes flicked to you, briefly scanning you from head to toe, before he looked away again, almost as if the idea of meeting your gaze was something he wanted to avoid.

"Need somethin'?" he asked, his tone flat, almost uninterested.

The words hit you like a slap. The detachment in his voice was like ice water thrown in your face, and the coldness of it left you reeling. You felt a tightness in your stomach, your heart stuttering in your chest, as you tried to steady yourself. Something had shifted—something was off, and you could feel it, heavy in the air between you.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," you said, shifting nervously on your feet. Your voice was quiet, but firm, the question you’d been holding back finally slipping out. “Can we talk about what happened?”

He raised an eyebrow, his face unreadable, cold.

"What for?" he asked, his voice clipped, hard. His gaze flickered over you again, and it almost felt like he was sizing you up—like you were nothing more than an inconvenience to him. 

You stood there, completely thrown off by his coldness, the harshness of his words catching you off guard.

“What for?" you repeated, your voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "Well, to… to clear the air, Joel,” you added, the words barely coming out, as though saying them made the weight of the situation even heavier.

Joel shifted, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, his posture defensive. His eyes roamed over you briefly, then locked onto your face. The movement was so subtle, but it felt like a barrier being put up between you both. Your chest tightened as his presence seemed to grow colder, more distant. You felt a knot twist deeper in your stomach.

“There’s nothing to clear up,” Joel said, his voice now cutting through the silence, blunt and sharp. 

You inhaled sharply, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and you took a small step forward, your body moving without thinking. But even as you did, you could feel it—the growing chasm between you, the space he’d created between you that seemed impossible to cross. His arms remained firmly crossed, his body language locked tight. 

"What's wrong with you?" you asked, your voice softer now, laced with confusion and hurt. You could feel your heart aching, the raw emotion creeping into your words despite yourself. “Why are you acting like this?”

Joel’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked away, the tension in his face so palpable that it almost felt like a physical barrier between you. His eyes darted to the side, catching the fading light of the afternoon, and his profile was so perfect, so effortless in its intensity, that it made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He didn’t have to look so goddamn beautiful when he was angry, when he was pulling away like this.

“I ain’t actin’ in any way,” he finally muttered, his voice low, rough, and weary. It was as if the words didn’t even belong to him, like they were just something he was forced to say. “I’m just tellin’ you that you and I ain’t got nothin’ to talk about.”

The words hit you like a slap. The frustration bubbled up from your chest, burning in your throat, and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You exhaled sharply, trying to control the tremble in your voice.

“God, Joel,” you muttered, your words heavy with exasperation, frustration, and the kind of confusion that felt like it was cracking your heart open. “Why do you always do that? What the hell happened yesterday? What the fuck is wrong with you? Can you just stop confusing me for one damn second?”

Joel scoffed, the sound like a knife scraping against stone, a sharp, sarcastic laugh that didn’t even reach his eyes. He turned his head, looking past you, anywhere but at you, as if trying to escape the weight of the moment, as if you were somehow the one making this harder than it had to be.

You stood there, watching him, your heart racing in your chest, trying to understand what was going on in his mind. But the more you tried, the more it felt like the pieces just wouldn’t fit. When he finally looked back at you, there was something in his expression—a cold amusement, a bitterness that didn’t belong. It made the pit in your stomach twist painfully.

“I confuse you?” he asked, his voice now laced with amusement, as he pointed at your chest with his index finger. His eyes glinted, but the expression didn’t reach his face, not really.

You crossed your arms, mimicking his stance, as if somehow it would make you feel less vulnerable.

“Yes, Joel, you confuse me.”

He shook his head slowly, still smiling that bitter little smile.

“I’m done with this conversation, darlin’,” he said, his voice colder now. “And with all of this.”

Frustration bubbled up again, and you took a step back, feeling the familiar sting of unshed tears behind your eyes. You tried to hold it together, but the pressure in your chest was too much.

“What the fuck is wrong with your head, Joel?” you asked, quieter now, but the words still packed a punch. “Seriously, because it’s not normal to act this way.”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at you, that same unreadable expression on his face, the silence stretching between you like a thick wall.

“Can you say something, at least?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them, desperate for something, anything, to break through.

“I think I was pretty clear,” he said after a long pause, his voice clipped. “I’m done with this conversation.”

You laughed, incredulous, the sound bitter on your tongue. “It’s ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.

Joel’s gaze turned hard again, like stone.

“And if I recall correctly,” he continued, “I expressed myself quite well yesterday. I don’t intend to waste breath repeating somethin' that serves no purpose.”

You stared at him, stunned, the realization sinking in.

“You’re mad because I didn’t come to dinner last night, is that it?” The words came out before you could stop them, and part of you hated yourself for asking it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling.

Joel paused, his gaze narrowing slightly.

“Ah, no,” he clarified, shaking his head, his tone sharper now. “I think you had other plans, didn’t you?”

You stood there, frozen, trying to make sense of what he was saying, of what this all meant. But as he stood there, waiting for you to speak, you realized there was no clear answer coming. You didn’t know what to say anymore.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered.

"I think it's pretty obvious," Joel replied, his voice tight, as he pushed away from the doorframe. His hand waved dismissively toward the door handle, an almost casual gesture that only made your frustration grow. "But it's all good, don't worry."

You blinked, trying to make sense of his tone.

"Is this about Travis?" The words left your mouth before you could stop them, a bemused smile starting to form as you processed what might be happening. Was Joel really making some kind of jealous scene?

Joel sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in that familiar way you knew meant he was worn out, defeated even. He took a half step back, gesturing toward the door like he was dismissing the whole conversation with a simple movement. The air between you was thick, and you could feel your neck heating with the anger that had begun to coil tightly in your chest.

"No," you said, your voice low but heavy with irritation. "You're not gonna do this."

You didn't back down, not this time. You stepped closer, closer than you ever had before, your body moving almost instinctively. Your hand found his, gently but firmly pushing it away from the door handle. 

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, surprised, but there was a hardness in his expression that only deepened the tension between you. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, and it made something inside of you feel a little less afraid.

“Stop acting like that and talk to me,” you said, your voice quiet but urgent, the words hanging heavy in the air between you. You were so close now that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, see the subtle flicker of something—anger, maybe, or something deeper—behind his guarded eyes. You almost wished he’d let it out. Anything, just to break this suffocating silence.

Joel’s jaw tightened, and he let out a sharp breath, as if trying to calm the storm inside him. He turned his face away briefly, looking out into the distance like the world outside was more important than what was standing right in front of him. When he finally met your eyes again, it was like a wall had been erected between you, the tension in his gaze so thick it made the air feel heavier.

“What’s the use?” he shot back, his voice rising, rough with frustration. "What’s the use of me talkin’ to you? Tell me, what’s the fucking point of it?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. You had no idea what was happening between you anymore. 

He didn’t wait for you to speak. “I was clear with you yesterday,” Joel continued, his voice growing more intense with every word. "I told you everything. Everything. What do you want to talk about now? What fucking sense does it make?”

His words stung, but they didn’t scare you. You took a step closer, your chest tight with both anger and desperation.

"Yes, you did," you replied, your voice steady now, despite the pounding in your chest. "But we didn’t solve anything, did we?"

The laugh that left Joel's lips was harsh, bitter. It echoed in your ears, making your stomach drop.

“I confuse you," he muttered, sarcasm lacing his tone. "You say I confuse you, don’t you?" He shook his head, an empty laugh leaving him. "But I’m not the one who throws himself on top of you, takes you to bed, and hours later spends the night with someone else.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. The words hit you like a physical blow, and you stepped back, your pulse racing in your ears. You stared at him, unable to form a sentence, your mind struggling to process the accusation. 

“What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling as the word slipped from your lips before you could stop it. The space between you felt like it was closing in, thick and suffocating, every breath becoming harder to take. You wanted to step back, but your feet wouldn’t move.

Joel stood frozen, his posture rigid, eyes dark with frustration and something deeper—something raw—that you couldn’t quite name. The tension hung between you like a heavy fog, and every second that passed felt like an eternity. His gaze locked onto yours, intense and unwavering, and it was like he was trying to see right through you, into everything you’d tried to keep hidden.

“You say you can’t be my friend,” he started, his voice rough, like every word was being dragged out of him. “That you want me gone.” He paused, his breath hitching, and you could see the weight of it in his chest, in the way his fists clenched. “I... I had to sit there. Day after day. Watching you walk around with him—watching you laugh, watching you pretend like it was all fine, like none of it mattered.” His voice cracked, the emotion too much for him to contain. His eyes darkened, and the hurt in them felt like a punch to the gut. “But it wasn’t fine, was it? It never was.”

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the words slicing through you. You wanted to say something, anything, but the truth was, you didn’t know how to answer. How could you explain the mess that had been brewing inside you for so long? The confusion, the guilt, the longing, the fear.

Joel’s breath quickened as he continued, his words gaining momentum, each one a little sharper, a little more painful.

“And then, when I finally decide to take control of my feelings—when I finally decide to be honest with you, to lay everything out, to tell you how I feel—you just shut me down. Just like that.” He gestured sharply with his hand, his voice rising, cracking under the weight of his frustration. “And then you sleep with me again. For what? Was it even real? Did you even think about it, or was it just another damn impulse?”

“Joel—” You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. The rawness in his voice, the way it trembled with pain, made it impossible to breathe.

“And I don’t give a damn that you didn’t come to dinner,” he cut you off, his tone now biting, hard like steel. “That’s not the problem. Not really.” He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. They were searching, desperate, like he was trying to find something in you that made sense—something he could hold on to. “You kissed me. You kissed me and made me think maybe, just maybe, you were starting to feel the same way. But I guess I was wrong, wasn’t I? I guess that meant nothing to you.” His voice wavered, breaking on the last word, and you could see the pain written all over his face. “So why the hell did we do it?”

The words hit you like a blow, sharp and heavy, but it didn’t stop something inside you from snapping. The frustration, the anger, the hurt—it was all too much to hold in anymore. You opened your mouth, and the words rushed out before you could stop them.

“Yeah, it was an impulse,” you shot back, your voice thick with frustration, raw and unfiltered. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to do it, or that I regret it. You, of all people, should know that.” The words were sharp, but they were true. You weren’t going to apologize for wanting him. For needing him. For feeling something real that couldn’t just be swept away. “Don’t you dare be a hypocrite.”

Joel’s eyes flared, and he took a step closer, his body tense with rage. His face was a mask of fury, and the air between you seemed to crackle with the force of it.

“I don’t give a shit,” he spat, his words bitter, venomous. They landed between you like daggers, each one cutting deeper. His gaze burned into you, dark and endless, and you could feel the heat of it searing through you. “You think you can just walk away from this without any consequences? You think I’m just some damn fool you can toy with?” 

You didn’t back down. You couldn’t. Every part of you ached, but there was something inside you that refused to let him see how much he was breaking you.

“No,” you whispered, your voice quieter now but filled with a quiet strength. “But I’m not the one who’s been playing games here.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with everything left unsaid. Joel’s breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling like he was fighting to stay in control, to hold onto something, anything. But you couldn’t hold onto anything anymore, not when he was looking at you like this. Not when you both knew everything was falling apart.

Finally, Joel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I don’t know what the hell you want from me no more,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly. “I really don’t. I’m done. You can go on and tell that to your doorman.”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” you shot back, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension in the air.

Joel’s expression twisted with anger, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m talkin’ about that damn idiot you like,” he snapped. “Stop actin’ like you don’t know a damn thing.”

The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, your vision blurred, the sting of his anger biting into you. But you weren’t about to let him see you break. You bit down on your lip, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall. 

You glared at him, your hands balled into fists, trembling with the effort to control yourself. Stepping forward, you shoved the door open, the force of it leaving a crack in the silence.

“You’re full of shit, Joel,” you shot back, your voice low but fierce, the tremble in it only adding to the weight of your words. “You’re a fucking asshole.” 

Determined, you turned and walked quickly, your steps carrying you away from him, away from everything that had gone wrong between you. But you didn’t get far. As if by some cruel twist of fate, you heard him behind you—his long strides eating up the distance in seconds. 

“I’m not doing this again,” you said, your voice shaking now, but you kept your back to him, gripping the door handle with white knuckles, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. 

You didn’t want him inside. You didn’t want to face him, not like this, not with everything so broken between you. You opened the door wide and turned, positioning yourself between him and your entrance like a wall. 

Joel stopped at the edge of your space, standing there for a moment, silent. His eyes—his entire face—betrayed a chaos of emotions. He looked at you like he was struggling to breathe. Slowly, carefully, he moved a step closer, his face so close to yours now that you could feel his breath, the warmth of it. His voice cracked when he spoke again. 

“I was honest with you,” Joel whispered, his voice barely above a breath, thick with emotion. His words trembled as if they carried the weight of something unbearable. “I told you everything, every damn thing I’d been holding inside for so long. I didn’t wanna do that—hell, it’s damn near impossible for me. But I did it. I laid it all out for you. For you, damn it.” His voice cracked, the rawness of it hitting you harder than anything. “I was ready for anything, anything you wanted. I’d do whatever it took, even if it meant beggin’. I'd take whatever you threw at me, no matter how much it hurt. But then..." He paused, and you could feel the weight of his words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. “Then you kissed me. You fucking kissed me. And for just a minute, I thought maybe... maybe you didn’t hate me that much. Maybe this could be somethin’. Maybe we could be somethin'. More than just... whatever the hell we’ve been lately, you know?”

His voice faltered, cracking at the edges, and you could see the pain behind his eyes, raw and real.

"But what was it for?" he asked, the words bitter on his tongue, as if they had burned him just to speak them. “What was it all for?”

The tears started to fall before you could stop them, hot against your cold skin. You stood there, silent, the air heavy between you two. His anger was palpable, the frustration, the hurt, everything he’d been holding back pouring out in waves. You didn’t know what to say, you were terribly confused, but you didn't have the strength to ask the reason for his discomfort, for this sudden anger.

Joel took a breath, his chest rising and falling with a kind of desperation that made your heart ache.

“You tell me,” he said, his voice rising now, tinged with something like pleading, something you hadn’t expected. His teary eyes were glowing in the daylight. "What was it for? So you could turn around, go back to him, and not even wait a damn day before you’re back in his arms? Gettin' his fuckin' dick wet like nothing happened? Is that what this was all for?”

His words were harsh, cutting into the quiet, and you could hear the anger, but also the heartbreak in them, in him.

You opened your mouth in disbelief, a gasp escaping your throat as if the words he’d just thrown at you had physically wounded you. The pain in your chest was sudden, sharp—like something had cracked open inside you. Your hands trembled as you raised them, and with whatever strength you could muster, you shoved him away, hard. Joel staggered back, his breath coming quick, his chest heaving in frustration. But before he could say anything, you took a step toward him, your palms pushing against his chest again, this time with even more force.

“I never slept with Travis, you fucking asshole,” you choked out through your tears, the words tumbling out like you were trying to expel something suffocating. “Never. Not once.”

The change in Joel’s face was instant, a shift so sudden it was almost imperceptible. His expression softened, confusion flickering behind his eyes, his mouth opening slightly, as if he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. But you weren’t done.

“I can't fucking believe it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The hurt in your chest felt like it was pressing down on your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

He took a step back, eyes searching yours, almost like he was looking for some sort of explanation, but you didn’t have one.

“That's ridiculous, you were pretty obvious at the barbecue, right?” he started, his voice strained.

“I fucking lied to you, Joel,” you said, your voice cracking. The admission felt like it tore something open inside you. “I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you. I… I don’t know, I just wanted to make you feel bad. So I fucking lied about it, just like you did with Clara, remember?"

His face twisted in disbelief, his eyes narrowing as he processed your words. But before he could respond, you rushed on, the anger bubbling up in your chest again, the pain mixing with something else—something darker.

“You really think I’m capable of sleeping with you, and then doing it with him?” You shook your head, unable to believe the distance between what he was thinking and what had actually happened. “What kind of person do you think I am? You don't know me at all.”

His jaw clenched, muscles tightening like a coil ready to snap, and his eyes—God, his eyes—flashed with something so intense you couldn’t quite place it. Anger, maybe? Or was it something deeper, something darker? Fear? Desperation? You couldn’t tell, but the way his gaze hardened, like steel being forged in fire, made you want to crawl out of your own skin. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of it.

“And what the fuck do you want me to believe?” Joel demanded, his voice rough and jagged, cracking like a man at the end of his rope. It was raw—like he hadn’t just been hurt, but betrayed. “When I came to see you last night, he—he was pretty damn clear with me.” His words punched the air, heavy with the weight of something he’d been holding back, but his frustration was impossible to ignore. "How the hell can I believe a damn thing you tell me now?"

“How?” you asked, your voice rising in disbelief. “How the hell? I’m your damn best friend. Have I ever lied to you? You act like you don’t even fucking know me anymore.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he started, his voice strained with a false calm. “According to Dunn, he seems to know you better than I do. Maybe he's right. And clearly, you didn’t wanna see me last night, did you?”

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment. You froze, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of emotions swirling inside you. His words didn’t fit together in your mind. What was he talking about? Your pulse quickened, but your throat tightened, like you were choking on your own confusion.

“What... what are you talking about?” The words slipped out in a whisper, barely more than a breath. You wanted to understand, but nothing made sense anymore. Everything felt like it was collapsing in on itself. "Please explain it to me."

Joel exhaled sharply, his breath heavy with exhaustion, like the very air was too thick for him to breathe. He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down slowly, as if trying to wake himself up from some twisted nightmare he couldn’t escape. The frustration, the hurt—he was wearing it on his skin now, like a second layer. 

"Ask him," Joel muttered, his voice tight, strained. "I’m done. I’m fuckin’ tired of all of this. I can’t do it anymore, damn it." His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world was on them. 

And then, as if the final shred of strength he had left had finally snapped, he let his hands fall to his sides, defeated. A short, bitter laugh broke from him, harsh and empty, echoing in the silence. It cut through you, making your heart ache in a way you couldn’t explain. His eyes, filled with unshed tears, glistened in the light filtering through the leaves above, the sunlight casting shadows that seemed to mirror the pain in his expression.

“Apparently, I can’t get anything right,” he said, his voice thick with defeat. The words were coated with the kind of resignation that made your stomach twist. He looked at you for a moment, his gaze filled with something you couldn’t name—pain, maybe? Or was it the last flicker of hope slowly fading away? You could feel your chest tighten with every passing second, and that damn ache in your throat started to burn. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Your mind raced, but you couldn’t make sense of any of it. What did Travis have to do with this? What the hell was going on? Everything felt like it was slipping through your fingers, and the harder you tried to hold onto it, the faster it seemed to unravel.

“I think you should go,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible. The words felt like they were being ripped from your chest. You didn’t want to be cold. You didn’t want to hurt him more. But you didn’t know what else to say. Every word felt like a betrayal, and you were drowning in the confusion, in the pain of it all. You needed space. Distance. You needed to breathe without feeling like your heart was being crushed. "I just... I need some time."

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Joel didn’t move. He stood there for a long moment, just looking at you, his face a mixture of hurt, frustration, and something else you couldn’t place. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but no words came out. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded once, his eyes still locked on yours, and without another word, he turned away. Each step he took felt like it was pulling him farther from you, and you hated how much you wished he would just stop. But he didn’t.

You watched him walk away, feeling like you were watching the last thread between you snap. He disappeared inside his house, and you stood there, staring after him, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You didn’t even realize you were still standing there until you felt the cold air on your face, and then you moved into the house, slowly, mechanically.

Inside, the silence was overwhelming. It felt like everything had shifted, like the ground beneath you was unsteady. Your heart was still racing, your chest tight with all the words you hadn’t said. You couldn’t make sense of it. You couldn’t understand why things had gone the way they did, why everything always felt like it was about to fall apart. And now, there was Travis—what did he have to do with any of this? Why did Joel keep bringing him up?

That night, as you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep was as distant as it had ever been. Despair clung to you like a second skin, making it impossible to close your eyes for even a second. You tossed and turned, but it was useless. The weight of everything was too much, too heavy to ignore. You couldn’t keep carrying it.

Your phone sat on the nightstand, and after a while, you reached for it, fingers trembling as you unlocked it. You opened the chat with Cassie, the words spilling out in a hurried, frantic rush. You couldn’t think too much about it. You just needed to get out of here, to escape, to breathe.

“I need to get out of here. Now.”

You hit send without a second thought, then stared at the screen, waiting for her reply. The silence in the room was deafening, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

[euphemiaamillais]

imagining a modern sej and coryo where they’re you’re roommates but you had just found ur boyfriend cheating on you so your roommates decide to cheer you up by showing you all the pleasures they can give you. and it turns to both of them being inside your pussy at once, rubbing their dicks together while inside of you

mdni | sej and coryo help you feel better

cw: 18+//threesome//double-penetration//fingering//cream pie//oral (f. receiving)//mentions of cheating—this fic is particularly dirty so please read at your discretion!

when you’d found those photos of that girl in lingerie on your boyfriend’s phone, you’d been heartbroken. you’d come home, mascara running down your cheeks, eyes brimming with tears. you’d rushed to your room, too embarrassed to face your roommates, and spent the next half-hour weeping as you scrolled through old photos of the two of you.

there was a knock at the door, and you didn’t respond, but the door creaked open and the heads of both coriolanus and sejanus poked through the door. when they saw how miserable you looked—you’d at least wiped off your mascara—they came straight in, offering looks of sympathy.

‘what’s wrong?’ sej asked, brushing the hair that had fallen in front your face behind your ear.

you broke out into sobs again, and he wrapped an arm around you. he was so warm, and you nestled into him.

‘he was cheating on me,’ you wept, and coryo came and sat down beside you, giving your hand a squeeze.

unlike sej, his touch was cool, but it felt pleasant, both of them touching you like this. it was oddly intimate. sure, you guys had always been close since your first year of uni, but you weren’t the kind to be kissing each other. not yet, at least.

‘i’ll kill him,’ coryo seethed, and you shook your head, gazing at him through bleary eyes.

‘no, that won’t help. i just feel like shit,’ you felt your tears trickle into sejanus’ shirt and shot him an apologetic look; not that he minded.

coryo eyed sej, and moved his hand over your thigh. you furrowed your brow, but you were so overrun with emotions you couldn’t make any logical decisions. his touch made your core tingle a little.

‘i know what can help,’ coryo murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

‘yeah?’ you asked, lips flickering into a small grin.

coryo’s hand travelled further up your thigh, past the apex, and stopped when his fingers brushed against your panties. you were wearing your favourite pair, pink and lacy—they had been for your boyfriend. he raised a brow when he was surprised that you were already wet.

‘jesus, sej, she’s so fucking wet,’ he remarked, and sejanus felt his cock stiffen at the mere mention of your cunt. both of them had dreamed of a day like this.

‘you want this, yeah?’ sejanus asked, ever the sweetheart. you nodded dumbly, already distracted by the pleasant feeling of coryo’s finger stroking your cunt.

‘we’ll make you feel better, hm?’ coryo cooed, slipping a finger inside your cunt.

seeing your expression of delight at the feeling of one finger, he slipped another inside, and pressed his thumb against your clit. you turned to face sej, entranced by his warmth, and pressed your lips flush against his.

it didn’t take long for it to extend into heavy, hot open-mouthed kissing, his hands gripping at the small of your back, yours wrapped around his neck as his lips stifled your moans. coryo’s fingers felt so good, you couldn’t believe you’d wasted your time on that stupid boyfriend of yours when you had two hot roommates.

once you’d come around coryo’s fingers, you could see both the boys were achingly hard. your cunt throbbed, and in the state you were in, your mind was too blurred by your orgasm and the anger you had for your now-ex-boyfriend. you couldn’t decide which one to have first, and gnawed anxiously at your bottom lip.

‘i want both of you,’ you admitted, and the two boys exchanged glances as if they were sparring for which one got to have you first.

‘both?’ sejanus raised his eyebrows in surprise. he was a little jealous, and was anxious he wouldn’t be able to match up to coryo’s prowess—coryo was the more dominant one of the two, and sejanus knew coryo could work his charm on you.

‘you can’t exactly make me choose,’ you pout, your hand ghosting sejanus’ bulge teasingly. he let out a breathy moan, but coryo, ever the envious one, grabbed your chin with his hand and forced him to meet your gaze.

‘maybe we won’t,’ coryo murmured, and you shivered a little, his icy eyes boring into you.

within seconds, coryo had slid your panties off of you, sighing at the sight of your glistening cunt. sejanus couldn’t help himself, and slid his fingers through your wet folds.

‘jesus,’ sej shook his head in disbelief. his cock was straining against his pants; he needed urgent relief.

coryo had removed his own pants, revealing a long, pretty cock with an achingly red tip. you let out a whimper at the sight of it, egged on a little by the feeling of sejanus’ fingers rubbing at your already overstimulated clit.

‘coryo, need you,’ you gasped, feeling your body surge with the beginnings of another orgasm, skin tingling.

coryo didn’t waste his time, and slid into your pussy, causing you to cry out. even though you definitely weren’t a virgin, he was the biggest you’d been with, and you could feel his tip poking against your cervix.

‘fucking hell, she’s so tight sej,’ coryo let out a stifled breath, resting his cock. ‘you need to feel her too.’

your brows raised in alarm, watching as sejanus unbuttoned his own pants, sliding them down, and then his boxers. his cock was beautiful too, girthy and dripping with precum.

‘gonna fill you up,’ coryo grunted, sliding himself in and out of you slowly, stretching out your tight walls. ‘think you can take me and sej, huh?’

you nodded blearily, and held your breath, eyes following sejanus as he struggled to find his way to your cunt. you’d thought he’d go for your other hole, but they took you wanting them both very literally.

you let out a cry, body trembling as you feel sejanus enter you along with coryo. it stung, but you feel so pleasantly full, and from the groans of the boys, it seemed like they were enjoying it too. it feels almost pornographic, having both of them in your cunt at the same time, and you feel yourself clench around them.

‘look at you, what a fuckin’ slut,’ coryo slid his cock against sejanus’ and you flinch, the sensation driving you mad.

‘fuck, coryo, i don’t know how much more i can take,’ sejanus admitted shamefully, his cock pulsing with pleasure.

the feeling of their cocks rubbing against one another, and pressing against your hole, testing the limit of what you can take sends both of them wild. coryo, ever daring, decides to give a thrust, watching as you writhe beneath him, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

‘too much, huh?’ coryo taunted, a small smile flickering at his lips as he glances down at your cunt.

it’s stretched to the hilt; slick dripping round both their cocks, hole clenching at them. you look like such a slut, tears rolling down your cheeks, sweat beading your forehead; lips stretched into a pretty ‘o’ shape.

sejanus feels too scared of hurting you to move too much, but the sensation of coryo’s cock sliding in and out of you and against his cock makes him clench his fist, his breaths growing heavy as he urges his body to stop himself from coming too early.

‘please,’ you beg, cunt clenching around their cocks.

coryo drags himself out at a teasingly slow pace, and you can see sejanus’ face contorting with self-restraint. he can’t help himself anymore, and as coryo slips himself completely out of your hole, the feeling sends sejanus over the edge.

‘fuck,’ sejanus pants as he spills his load in you.

coryo laughs in disbelief, watching sejanus buck his hips helplessly into your hole; and he takes his own cock and slaps it against your pussy. you whine as it presses against your clit; body tingling with the dual sensations. sejanus’ cum is hot and sticky as he pulls out of you, and coryo groans, desperate to rebury himself inside of you.

‘want you to eat her pussy, sej,’ coryo directs as he slides into you.

you gasp, pussy raw but so achingly wet at the same time. you don’t know how much more you can take. sejanus obliges, crooking his neck so he can press his mouth against your slick folds. his tongue slides over the folds, fingers rubbing his cum and your own slick over your pussy. 

coryo thrusts into you roughly, chasing his own orgasm as sejanus’ cum coats his cock. you felt so good around him, pussy clenching in spite of having been stretched out by the both of them.

you gasp as sejanus’ tongue finds its way to your clit, body going fuzzy with the start of your own release dancing across your skin. the sight of the both of them, coryo bucking himself inside your hole, and sejanus’ pretty mouth suckling at your clit sends you wild.

‘so good,’ coryo muses as he takes you further, hands gripping at your waist as he pounds you.

you feel yourself coming undone, cunt gushing around coryo’s cock. you run your fingers through sejanus’ curls, tugging as he sucks your clit into overstimulation. your mind goes white and fuzzy, and you cry out—it’s so good. you can’t even remember your stupid ex-boyfriend’s name.

‘such a slut for us, huh? bet you regret dating that stupid boyfriend of yours when you’ve got me and sej?’ coryo grunts as he ruts into you.

you nod, completely fucked out on his cock. sejanus’ mouth has moved to take one of your sensitive nipples in his mouth, and you mewl as you feel his tongue lap at the buds.

coryo finishes inside of you, breathing raggedly as he spurts thick ropes of cum against your walls. you can feel it mixing with sejanus’, and coryo can’t help but go hot at the thought of their cum together inside of you. you look so pretty like this, fucked out on them, cunt dripping with their pearly white loads.

‘thank you,’ you manage to murmur, head lolling back with pleasure.

needless to say, letting your roommates help you ‘feel better’ became a frequent occurrence.

[thewritetofreespeech]

BG3 - Taking care of sick Reader

prompt: I'm sick. so I wrote this up to help me feel better.

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

‘Your head throbs in tandem with your own heartbeat. Pain coursing through your body with every stifled breath you take, as your tight chest struggles to fill with air. It had been a long time since you were sick. You nearly forgot how uncomfortable it was. Without the tadpoles protective qualities shield you anymore, this new wave hit you like a stone wall. You almost wished to have it squirming mass back in your brain just to be over this. Luckily, you were not alone at least.’

Astarion

“There there darling, allow me.” He handed you a small cup of water. Letting you sip from it for a bit before he put it back, and you fall back against the bed. “You still look awful.”

You glare at him; or at much as you could with this pain behind your eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean…you must still be feeling bad and that is unfortunately for you.”

He sat on the edge of your bed, just looking at you. You can see a bit of concern on his handsome face. You wonder if he’s worried about you or what to do. “I’ve never had to take care of anyone who was sick before. I don’t know what to do.” So, it was the former. “Vampires can’t get sick. So I’ve spent the last few centuries in perfect health, minus a few injuries here & there.” He told you. “Should I…get you a new blanket? Prop your head up? Make soup? I’ve never actually made soup before either, but I’m sure I could be up to the challenge.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours. The cool feel of his skin a welcome reprieve against your warm, clammy one. - Just stay with me.

Astarion smiled. “I can do that.” He curled around to lay in the bed beside you. With no fear of sickness, he had no reason to stay away from you until this past. Your body letting out a sigh as his coolness enveloped you. Feeling some of your heat sap out, even over the covers. “You know, maybe I have a knack for this healing thing.” You let him think that, and curl into Astarion’s body to rest and try to regain your strength back. Sleep is easier this time. Hopefully you’ll be better soon enough.

Ascended!Astarion

Coughing and sputtering, you try to sit up as to not choke on your own spittle. An undignified end for a hero. To vanquish so many enemies and an Elder Brain, only to die by asphyxiating on their own sick.

“Still not feeling well, my treasure?” You look up to see Astarion standing in the doorway. His face neutral as ever, but with just the slightest hint of disdain only you can pick up on at the corner of his mouth. Maybe it’s the smell. Or perhaps because now you are so weak. “I bet you wish you had taken me up on my offer now, hm? This wouldn’t be happening to you if you had just listened to me.”

You watch him as he sauntered over to the side of your bed. Annoyed by his comments. You knew deep down Astarion was still hurt that you turned him down on becoming his spawn. He said such cruel things to you in the moment. Even with all that power, still the boy who lashed out at other. But even with everything he said, he’d never left you. Or more to the point you hadn’t left him, as this was his palace, but he hadn’t pushed you out. Comments and jabs here & there said out of latent anger, but always some excuse quickly on why you couldn’t leave just yet.

“Nothing can be done about it now though. I wouldn’t dream of biting you in this state. Agh…” You felt the shutter was uncalled for. You felt bad enough psychically already. Did you really need to be degraded too? “In any case, I’ve had the servants go and fetch you somethings to aid in your recovery. I wouldn’t know the first thing about mortal illnesses after all but they seem to know the trick.”

– Say nothing to him

Bending down at the waist, Astarion pressed his lips to your forehead. The cool touch soothing to your feverous brow. “Ugh. Salty. I’ll be much happier when you’re back to normal, pet. Anyway, must dash. If you need or want anything, please let the servants know. I’ve instructed them to tend to your every need, and expect no slip ups. I look forward to having a new conversation when you’re…better, my treasure.”

You knew, even as he left, what the conversation was going to be about. Another offer to turn you again. You had only turned him down before because you thought you’d have more time to decide. It was literally a life-changing decision. But, laying here, sick and weak as a kitten, you were beginning to wonder if the change might not be a welcome one, as you fall back asleep.

Gale

“Alright love. Here we are.”

You open your eyes and sit up. A little as a tray was sat across your lap. Bread, fruit slices, a bowl of something steaming, and…a flower, all adorn the tray in front of you, and you arch a brow at Gale. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to feed you any strange potions or what not. Despite all my magic and study, there seems no cure for the common cold. No, no, this is just good old kitchen ‘magic’. A Dekarios family recipe past down for generations.”

You examine the bowl, but your mind is too clouded to make out anything other than the odd potato here and there. You trust Gale though and take your first bite. It is delicious.

“I’m glad you like it.” Gale told you with a smile. “I must admit, I feel a bit conceded in this moment in being able to help you. I wish I could say it was pure altruism, or concern for your health, but it’s not.”

- What do you mean?

“Well, I’ve never had someone to take care of before.” He told you. “Mystra never needed anything of me but my loyalty. And…my body from time to time. You need me for things though. Not as often as I would like sometimes. Your independence is a marvel still. But for now, I get to help you. Help you on the road to recovery. I hope it is a speedy one but I have to say,” he reached out and took your hand in his own, “I don’t mind taking care of you.”

You suppose his underlying message was sweet, and you weakly squeeze his hand back.

“I’ll leave you to eat and rest then. Should you need anything, anything at all, just ring this bell and I’ll come to help.” A bright, crystal bell appeared in Gale’s hand, which he presented to you before putting it on your tray. “Be well darling.” He gave you a quick kiss before he saw himself out. Checking on you regularly, with or without the bell, to make sure you didn’t need anything.

Wyll

“Still feeling under the weather then?” You look up to see Wyll entering the room. A bowl of something in his hand. “Come on. Sit up. You need to eat this.”

- Continue to lay down.

“Come on…don’t be like that.” Wyll moved to help you up with his free hand. As delicate and gentle as a badger as he hoisted you up. “Here. This will help you well better.”

You examine the bowl, but your mind is too clouded to make out anything other than the odd potato here and there. It smelled of spices though. Rich and full, as well as a red color to it. To humor Wyll, you take a bite.

- It’s spicy!

“Of course it is. That’s how you know it helps. Tri-pepper soup. My grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick as a boy.” You stop gulping the water by your bed and look at Wyll. “Since my mother was gone, she took care of me often when my father was away. The duties of his work, then Flaming Fist, and then again Grand Duke kept him away a lot. So, she stepped in to take care of me. Until she got older, I had to take care of her. ‘til the end.”

You lower your spoon and just watch Wyll. The loss etched on his face like his scars. For someone usually so good natured, you forget how much he had lost in his life.

“But! Her recipes live on. Now, eat your soup to help sweat out the sickness. And you’ll be right as rain tomorrow. I guarantee it.”

You feel a little manipulated into eating the spicy dish. How could you say no to such a fine, dead woman’s recipe? It takes a lot of will, but you eventually gulp it all down. Wyll seemed pleased. He then took your bowl and left you to rest. Your stomach churning with the spicy soup now bubbling in it. Unable to fall back asleep with the torrent raging in your gut.

Shadowheart

A cool towel pressed against your forehead like a soft caress. Gentle and serene.

“I wish there was more I could do for you.” Shadowhearts voice called out behind the dark of your eyes. “My magic is only for curing wounds and battle ailments. Sicknesses well…being a source of comfort was not something that was taught to me.”

You want to tell Shadowheart that she was doing a fine job. But your mouth was dry, and your tongue felt like it was made of iron it was so heavy in your mouth.

“I can’t recall a time I was sick like this in the past. But I do remember once I was poisoned. Part of my training. Warriors of Shar must be immune to all poisons, least we fail our mistress in such an unseemly way. Anyway, it was horrible. I would writhe in pain for hours while I waited for the poisons to pass. Nocturne would come in now & then, with Mother Superior was busy, and dab my head like this. It helped. I hope it helps you all the same.”

- Turn towards Shadowheart and tell her thank you.

“You don’t need to thank me.” Shadowheart replied with a sweet smile. “After everything you’ve done for me. This is the least I can do.”

Shadowheart took the cloth away and stood from the bed. “I’ll let you rest now. I can…find some herbs and salts to maybe help with the pain. Again, this is not my forte. Eliminating pain. But…I can try.”

She rushed out of the room. Set on her task as you continued to lay in bed. Slowly drifting off to sleep for now, now that your skin was not so hot and your mind a little clearer.

Lae'zel

“What are you still doing in bed?” You turn to look at Lae'zel in your doorway. Her frame stoic and strong as ever. “There is much to be done today. We must make hast.”

- I can’t Lae'zel. I’m sick.

“tas'ki! Absurd. You’re much stronger than some istik disease. Get up and get moving. Your body will not heal if you continue to wallow in this manner.”

You try to sit up as Lae'zel commanded, but your head swims the second you get upright. Lae'zel sucked on her teeth. “Nevermind. Clearly you are in no condition to be out of bed today. I am unaccustomed to this, as no true Githyanki would dream of falling ill and be a burden on their crèche. Perhaps rest is what is needed.”

Before you can tell her thank you, Lae'zel went over to the window and opened it. Letting the cool, fresh air in. “But you must leave this window open to purge the sickness out. Wallowing is one thing, but to marinate in such sick? Disgusting.” You glare at her a little. Not appreciating that she was implying that this was all your plan.

“I will leave you to your rest and check on your progress later. I trust your recovery will be swift.” Lae'zel stepped closer to the bed. Still far enough away, but closer than she was. “Get well soon. It pains me to see a warrior like you weakened this way. And someone I am fond of. It crushes my heart. I do not like it.”

Your face turns into one of surprise at Lae'zel’s back as she left the room. Closing the room behind her. You had not expected that from Lae'zel. To show open concern. The room was much colder now, but the crisp air was a welcome expanse in your lungs. You would need to get up to close them later, but perhaps that was Lae'zel’s plan all along.

Karlach

“Hey there soldier. Feeling any better?” You lull your head to the side to stare at Karlach. “Oof. That good eh? Sorry ‘bout that.”

She pulled up a chair by your bed and sat down. Face still in that almost perpetual smile of hers. Optimistic as ever, although a bit more tepid than usual. “But hey, you’ll be fine though. You’re tough! I’d check if you had a fever or something but…you know.” Karlach held up her hand. Still fiery and hot from her infernal engine, even if she was gifted to touch. “I wouldn’t be the best judge on who runs hot.”

The two of you sat there for a bit in quite. But quite was never long with Karlach. “So how do you think you got sick? Too long out in that swamp marsh? Going to sleep with wet hair again? Like, when I get stabbed, I know exactly where it came from. Do you know when you got bit by the sickness bug?”

- I don’t know Karlach. Please let me rest.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous. Guess that doesn’t help. I’m just worried…you know…that this might not be something I can help you fight. Monster, demi-gods, ghouls, I can fight that all day! But this…you have to do it on your own. And I hate sitting by the side lines.”

Karlach stood. Leaning in to give you a brief, warm peck on your cheek. “I’ll let you get some sleep then. But let me know if you want some company. I’m really good at that part.”

The tiefling then left, and the room suddenly felt emptier without her presence. Like a void had just sucked up all the energy without Karlach in it. Still, you fell asleep. Trying to think of interesting dreams that you might share with Karlach when you wake up. You were sure she would enjoy that.

[pursuitseternal]

“Antics of the Newly Ascended:” ✨🩸What it must have been like right after the Rite for… everyone…

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader | E | 4.4K of “Ascension Puberty” and Smut

Summary: “I can’t yet speak its language…” Astarion doesn’t know all his powers, despite the title of Vampire Ascendant, despite having a Bride at his side. Suppose these manifest themselves surprisingly, even awkwardly… a bit of comedy and smut.

CW: awkward campmates, Vampires stuck on the ceiling, peacock-preening Ascendant Lords, Bride/Spawn Tav also learning what it means to be a vampire, and the hot smut that always delivers (oral sex, hand job, anal fingering, blood kink, dom and sub!Astarion)

Ao3 Link | Astarion fic Masterlist

The First Day…

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A/N: Mostly, I consider this Astarion’s Ascension puberty, that awkward time he’s getting to know his “changing” body… and how it might surprise him sometimes. In my own play-thru, it strikes me that after the Rite, it’s just life as usual for everyone. I like to think there are some lingering feelings and learning curves… so here is some comedy and smut (a gift to @marimosalad because the double stimulation towards the end was her amazing idea 😘)

Not quite “The Rogue You Were” maybe a prequel

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

You had heard he had demanded his own room now at the Elfsong. Wyll had told you, his one good eye rolling in its socket with ire. “His Lordship demanded a separate chamber for him and his.. consort,” he had spat the word out with disgust in your direction, “one that befits his new status and power of Vampire Ascendant.” Wyll sneered, put out, jilted. That forever part of him that was a monster hunter and hero still unable to wrap his mind around what you did for love. “You best not keep him waiting, Consort.”

Someday, the Blade of Frontiers might understand. But not today, not one day into Astarion’s reign as Ascendant and your new immortal life at his side.

Now you creep outside his door, just one room over. The same he had stolen you away to last night… when you became his, when you died to be reborn his consort. He had pointedly refused to really call you spawn. And while the memories of that night were hazy, aside from the most glorious sex of your existence, you knew whatever was done was done.

You waited, your hearing even sharper now, heightened as vampire. From behind the door you hear groaning, grunts of effort, and sighs of exertion.

And you frown. Could he really be… taking care of himself… after everything you had done with him last night? Even now this evening, with you merely a wall away? Like you wouldn’t come running for pleasure if he called for you, with or without compelling?

You knock on the door. Hard. Furious. If your heart still beat, it would be racing in rage.

“Leave me,” he barks back.

“Astarion,” you hiss. And then you knock harder. “Let me in.”

Inside, you hear scrambling, boots scraping on wood. A messy hurry of activity punctuated by curses.

If you hadn’t been there yesterday, hadn’t felt the lives of so many flow into your beloved, hadn’t been spattered by Cazador’s blood yourself as the same Infernal ruins were carved in his flesh… you would scoff at the suggestion Astarion was at all changed.

You finally hear the door handle unlock, and riding the swell of your self-righteous anger, you burst in.

“After all I have done for you… all I did to get you that Ascension, all the times I spread my legs, you insist on…”

You freeze. The door behind you shuts by magic. And looking up beside you, you see why. “Astarion,” you begin, much quieter, trying to stifle a laugh, if only from the pure irritation that seethes on his sharp face, “why are you on the ceiling?”

He hangs upside down, that mess of silver curls near standing on their ends. His face is flushing, that newly reborn heart letting all that magnificent, ascendant blood rush to his head. He folds his arms and spreads his legs. As if he could be intimidating while being inverted.

“I told you this morning, my treasure, it will take some time to become acquainted with my new self.”

You scan the room, skin tingling at the memories of pleasure not one day ago. And yet, here he was being more ridiculous than ever before. “So… the private room isn’t just for mind-blowing sex now that you and I are joined for eternity…” you fight the smirk on your lips as his upside down glower deepens. “It’s so you have some privacy as you… practice.”

“Don’t you dare… tell the others,” he growls, pure irritation and annoyance seething in his voice.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love,” you chuckle, extending your arm above your head as you walk beneath him. “Need a hand, my beloved vampiric master?”

He pouts, grumbling, but reluctantly reaches to grab you. His fingers wrap into yours, that warm touch of his still shocking and foreign. You pull with all your might, feeling his body release from the ceiling, floating as you tug him down until his feet rest beside yours.

He’s fuming, chest rising and falling beneath that elegantly embroidered tunic he has taken to wearing.

You grin, reaching to stroke his cheek as his parlor resumes that pale luster you know and love. Cleaning your throat, you purr, “And this is where you say…”

“Take off your clothes, my beloved consort,” he smirks and sneers at once, jutting his face into yours until you feel his warm breath on your lips.

“Not until you say…” you pause, arching your brows.

You wait. His lips fluttering, eyes boring into yours with almost glowing red intensity.

“….thank you,” he finally grumbles. Barely audible.

You turn your head, cocking your ear in his direction. “I’m sorry, what was that, my lord?”

“Thank you,” he replies louder through gritted teeth.

You can’t help but have another giggle tickle your throat. “I have no doubts you’ll master your powers in time, and until then, I’ll be here for you, my love, to lend you a hand.”

He gives an annoyed sigh. “By the hells, if the others find out…” he hisses, mad at himself rather than you.

“I think I can keep my mouth shut around them, and busy doing other things around you…” you close the distance between you, small as it might be, raising on your toes to press your lips against his, despite the disdainful pout.

“Hmmm tempting, but I do find myself rather famished…” he pats you on the cheek.

You grin, tilting your neck and sweeping your hair, an offering to sate him as you always have. You hold your breath, his lips hovering over that favorite vein of his. But he merely plants a small pecking kiss. “Delicious as you are, I think I’m in need of something more… filling.”

“Food?” you balk, jaw dropping as he catches your hand and opens the door.

“All of man’s appetites and desires are mine again, and after two-hundred years of food like ash and wine like vinegar, it’s time I started tasting all life has to offer.”

He turns, his face grins in power, but there is something in his eyes. Giddy, almost childish in excitement, like waking to presents on your birthday. It lasts a flickering second before he turns his head. You follow, hand held in his warm grip, led back into the common rooms. The scent of roast pork and vegetables fills the air. He lets your hand drop, making quick strides to the serving table before carving himself a huge hunk of meat off the carcass and ladling a pile of potatoes on the side of his dish.

“Well,” Wyll comments as the vampire settles down in a seat, “never thought I’d see the day when a vampire joins the feast with more than a goblet of blood.”

“First time for everything Wyll,” he croons in reply, taking a hearty bite just for emphasis. He doesn’t even wait to swallow completely before he continues. “First time a vampire ascendant has feasted, or existed, at all, don’t you forget.”

“I doubt you’ll let us,” Karlach teases before taking a sip of ale as ripples of laughter break out.

A bit nervously.

You look at the food, your stomach more than hungry, but… You recall as you lick your lips and catch your new fang on your tongue by accident, it’s not just food you crave.

You hear your name from the group, Karlach again breaking the chatter, “Hurry up, dish yourself a plate and get moving soldier. It’s not the same without you!”

You pick up the knife and begin to carve, but nagging thoughts won’t shut up. Can you even eat this? Can you ever feel full again? Can it ever be the same again, now that you’ve binded yourself to immortality?

A hand rests on yours, Astarion moving your hand in his to finish cutting a slice of pork for your dish, spooning out a helping on the side of the rest. “Eat, my treasure,” he orders softly with that sly smile. “Things won’t be all that different for you now.” You look into his eyes. Sincerity, pride, a flicker of concern. “Things will be different for you than when I was a spawn. You are mine, your veins hold my blood, ascendant blood. And besides, if this doesn’t fill you to bursting, my dearest pet, I suppose I’ll just have to offer you something else in the privacy of our room later.”

You arch a brow, stomach growling at the promise. “I hope you mean more than your cock, Astarion.”

He just grins wider. Feral and sly. Then he places a hand at your back and brings you to the rest of your party. You can sense the relief among everyone else once you sit down on the little couch, Astarion settling so close beside you, your arms rub with every movement. But that is nothing new.

Everyone falls right back into that perfected camaraderie, the only thing missing in the inn is a campfire. The banter and the toasting and the storytelling of the day's events to those who remained behind.

Tonight was no different… and yet, everything was.

Your ears seem to hear every word in the room, more sensitive, more overwhelming. Your stomach gnaws on itself, the plate of food on your lap untouched yet. And then, there is the utterly unfamiliar sound beside you, the gnashing of Astarion’s teeth as he bites into his food with abandon. You watch from the corner of your eye. He can’t seem to shovel it in fast enough… like a man who hasn’t had a morsel to eat in two-hundred years. It’s so… strange. Watching his jaw work furiously, watching the juice of his meal trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Not unlike when he has fed on you, you laugh inwardly. You reach your thumb to clean it for him, and it makes him turn, cheeks full of food, eyes smiling. He takes your thumb in his hand, pressing the juice to your own lips. A silent command to suck. You close your eyes, savoring the brush of his warm touch, hiding your sight from having to observe the others watching you.

You part your lips and suck… stomach rolling in hunger, appetite thoroughly whet with just that drop on your tongue.

You feel his face press against your ear to whisper, “Different for you than it was for me, my treasure…”

You shake him off, too hungry for sensuality, digging into your meal and joining the banter slowly.

Astarion remains mostly silent, laughing to himself here and there. Other than him eating and drinking, he is right however, it isn’t all that different now, you observe. Not yet anyway.

Not until he has you alone in your rooms once more. Hands gripped hard into your hair, cock thrusting down your throat as you kneel before him. You gag and sputter, sucking greedily. Indulging him. Letting him feel that power he’s gained in his life for once. His wild smile as he watches you taking him in so well makes you practically drip on the floor from between your legs. He pants relentlessly, growling praises over you, his little love, his good girl, his greedy consort.

New words, new titles, same obsession.

Same fingers caressing your jaw as it works eagerly, same touch clawing into the back of your head.

Only now his cock pulses with his heart, his skin flushed, his cum warm when it inevitably trickles down the back of your throat.

You swallow, pursing your lips around his cock so he feels every little ripple of your cheeks, your throat. Astarion pants above you, and you can count every one of his heart beats through his shaft in your mouth. “Glorious little love,” he manages to speak, swallowing to wet his throat. “Claiming a kingdom is nothing compared to the sight of claiming you on your knees, darling…”

Two fingers slip under your chin, pressing firmly to release his cock from the wet of your mouth. “On your feet, my love,” he smirks. “Time to give your master all his tribute.”

“You are enjoying this far too much, Astarion,” you purse your lips, smiling faintly and tauntingly as you do stand. “I think you should allow me to choose how you receive your… what did you call it?” You plant your hands on the expanse of his shoulders, feeling the muscles moving under your touch as he reaches to grip into the swell of your ass.

“Tribute,” he purrs, squeezing that fullness commandingly in his palms.

“Oh yes, that,” you tease, devious twists to your lips as you give him a firm shove. But he holds tight, sending you both backwards into the bed. His chuckle rumbles in his chest beneath you. “Why doesn’t my lord make himself… comfortable,” you whisper into his pointed ear, watching it twitch as you run your tongue up its long edge.

“What do you have in mind to please me, my treasure?”

You press him down, clambering on his sprawled, flawless body beneath you, your hands closing around his wrists. His smile says it all as he lets you pin him, arms bent around his mess of silver locks. “You’re so… hot,” you moan, sliding yourself over his erection, feeling it jolting as your body slathers it in arousal.

“I know,” he tilts his head, flashing his fangs and grinding into your folds.

“No, I mean…” His eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion. “Yes,” you correct with a giggle. “You are heartbreakingly handsome, devastatingly beautiful, ruinous…”

“Better,” he preens with a feral grin. “But you meant my body, my skin, my newly beating heart…”

“It is… different,” you hum, nuzzling into his neck, caressing those two little circular scars that made him what he is. His pulse beats against you, a steady drumming that still startles you.

“Almost as different as the way you make me even harder, darling, now that the mere sight of you demands instant arousal…” His hips buck through your folds again, just to demonstrate. “Now… about your adulation and homage that’s long overdue to your lord and master…”

“Shh,” you press a finger to his thick, wicked, smirking lips. Slinking down, a toss of your hair over one shoulder, and you meet his crimson eyes, dilated wide and glazed with his lust. Gently, you sweep both your hands over the sinews of his thighs, bending his knees for him.

Or, at least he lets you…

He nestles into the bed, languorous, luxuriating atop the thick covers. You let him. You can feel the difference in his being—not the power, the beat of his heart or the tingle of untamed magic that dances erratically in his touch from time to time.

He’s free. Not a care in the world. No fear, no anxiety, not even a trace of suspicion that he might be caught and forced back into hell under Cazador. He has everything now. Even you. Especially you.

You hover there, arms propped up over his hips, the tip of his cock wavering against your breasts as you just observe him. His lips twitch into a smile. “It’s rude to keep your lover waiting, you know…” he purrs. You chuckle. That veneer of power, that rasp and roll in his voice, a performance to sway you.

Not that you need it.

But it will be fun cracking that veneer all the same. You let your hands roam his body, massaging and caressing the powerful muscles of his legs. Their every definition you know by heart now, the glide of his skin on yours a nightly comfort and pleasure for you both.

Your new eyes can count every beat of his heart in his veins, your ears can almost hear that rush of blood pumping, making him achingly hard for you. And it makes you lick your lips. You lap inside his left thigh, bringing a giggle to his throat. “Don’t think I’ll leave you hungry, my pet, but pleasure first.”

“Say please,” you taunt, grazing your new fangs over his skin. As he has done to you a thousand times before.

“What?” he drolls, raising his head a little, your hand flying to the hard planes of his belly to hold him down.

“Say… please… my lord,” you smirk into his thigh, laughing to yourself as you mix submission into your demand.

“Eager to test your new powers as well? Can’t say I’m surprised…” he feigns a dramatic huff. “Alright pet, just this once. Give me my pleasure first…” he places a hand at the back of your neck, drawing you back between his legs, “…please.”

“Good boy,” you rasp before running your tongue up his shaft. You dip your lips over that seeping head of his, his groan of pleasure reverberating in his chest. Your hand, your mouth take him in deeply again, resuming a more delicate pressure, a gentler pace than he demanded of you before. It relaxes him, slowing his pleasure as you feel his skin heating all the more.

And you take full advantage of his ease.

You press a thumb over the tight little pursing of his ass. Instantly making him shake and groan. Both your hands play in tandem, drawing louder and louder hisses from his slack mouth as you beat his cock and circle that hole.

He squirms at the unexpected contact. A pant of need sounds from his mouth. You run your hand through your folds, covering your hand in your own slick, and he laughs knowing full well what you’re doing.

But that laughter melts once you sneak a finger and then two inside him, the delicious sound of his whimpers replacing any giggles. “Gods,” he mewls, “don’t you dare stop.” He manages to speak between the grunts you pull from his throat. Thrusting your fingers deeper inside him crooking and thrusting to make him catch his breath in pleasure. You feel his cock leaking seed down your fingers already, a whine escaping his clamped lips as you find that spot inside him. Cock jolting in your touch as you thrust into him again and again.

You lose no focus on that pulsing cock as well, your hand around his shaft sliding through the lingering spit and slick you’ve left dripping on his cock. His whole body shakes, and you can’t take your eyes off the way he’s coming undone. You’ve given up sucking him, your lips sore at any rate.

Instead, your hands work a magic on him, sweat beading on brow, fangs biting his own lips until they bleed. He clutches the bedding in his fists, and you watch as every vein in his arms strain to the surface with the exertion.

Hips buck in time with your fist around his cock, ass sinking back down on your fingers as he plummets back down each time. “More. I’d like more,” he groans hard, head wagging back and forth. You feel his muscles clenching around your fingers, and you slink another one inside, a louder whimper of approval is your praise. Words have failed him as he can do nothing now but ride the growing wave of pleasure you have sent washing over his oh-so-mighty and ascended form.

His balls tighten, cock shuddering in your fist as he struggles for breath. Every muscle, inside and out, goes rigid and spasms, your fingers covered as spurt after spurt of his cum erupts everywhere.

A hand flies to his face, palm over his mouth to hide the little pants he’s making as you squeeze out the last of his seed and slide your fingers out from inside.

“Is my lord… so… very… pleased?” you taunt, crawling to watch as he tries to regain composure, to salvage that dominating veneer of power.

Handsome face twitching, he can barely put two words together. “Obviously,” he manages to eke the word out. “That was…” he pauses to pant, body still shaking beneath you with the last tremors of his climax, “…amazing.” His arm comes to pull you into his chest, to press your supple, if cold to the touch, body into his embrace.

You hear it, the racing of his heart as you rest your head on his chest beside it. A slice of envy, of uncertainty, slices into your heart and twists your gut. And from the way his hand paws through your hair and down your back, you’re sure he’s readying himself for another round.

You swallow, hesitant, your thighs clenching as his hand begins to snake between them. He senses it, your unwitting reluctance. That familiar yet unfamiliar warm touch ghosting higher on your leg. “Darling,” he purrs into the top of your head, “something the matter?”

You shake your head even as your words scramble their own way out. “Last night,” you whisper almost inaudibly, “you said you would miss my warm flesh…”

“And…?” He lets the question hang in the air. Lets you speak the rest of it on your own tongue.

“Do you?” you mutter, unable to look into his face, bracing yourself for the worst.

“Not if it means I can plunder you for all your riches for all eternity, my treasure,” he croons, slowly rolling you on your back. Crushing you with his wiry frame until you wriggle against his every inch. “But, if you’re truly worried about how delicious you’ll feel…” he holds his wrist up to your mouth, “why don’t you break in those virgin fangs, my pet?”

“You mean?” you finally look up, the hunger in his eyes, the pride to see you licking your own new-formed sharpened teeth.

“I do indeed, my dark consort,” he smirks so wickedly, your own hunger for his blood and his body flames to life. It blinds you as you look into his eyes. “You’ll only need a taste,” he grins with a rakish tilt of his head, “I swear it.”

He presses the inside of his wrist to your lips, that warm skin brushing you with its softness. You can hear it, even in that small span of his wrist. Thump… thump… it makes your stomach flare, an empty pit, hungrier than you ever were for food.

And just for him.

You press your fangs into his skin. Hesitant.

A firm grip snakes behind the back of your neck, his laughter in your ear as he shoves you into his flesh harder.

Hard enough to pierce him, to let his blood flow on your tongue and tingle your mouth with its power. Rich and delicious, sweet and tanged with just the same flavor as his scent. You suck, greedily, a vague feeling you’ve tasted it before.

His other hand rubs up the back of your head, lacing his commanding touch through your hair, cradling you, keeping you feeding. His eyes flicker shut, tongue licking his lips before his mouth goes slack in his own pleasure.

He likes the way it feels, having you feast on him, drinking down his ascendant blood to pool in your belly.

“Can you feel it?” he murmurs, “my power flowing in your veins… my heart beating in your breast.” His hand ghosts down over your shoulder to cup firmly around that breast. “Your skin is flushing, your folds will swell even fuller the more you take me inside you…”

You release your mouth, a moan slithering from your sticky throat as his fingers pluck and play with your nipple.

“There is no one more worthy of this than you, my little love,” he slides his wrist from your lapping tongue, fingers clawing loosely around your throat to lift you against his own hungering lips. “You need not fear anything, I told you, not even the worry that your immortal flesh would ever repel me, my darling.”

You curl into his arms, letting his warmth seep through you, inside and out. His kiss dances slowly with your lips, his tongue licking all his blood from your fangs and lips. A hum of satisfaction rumbling in his throat, “Mmm… You taste… divine…”

“You mean… you taste divine, my love,” you laugh into his kiss. You place your hand against his neck, softly pushing him off of you.

“I do indeed,” he purrs, his knee shoving your thigh to the side, spreading you wider. “As do you, if I may?” His silver brow arches, wry and mischievous. You tilt your head, your neck already sore from last night, from where he sucked you dry. You hiss, delicious pain slicing through you, his fangs in your neck burying the same moment his cock sheaths into your folds.

Hip undulating slowly, he drinks noisily behind your ear. And you do feel on fire, burning as hot as him, the friction of his thrusts, the trickle of your blood down your neck… they scald you.

They make you feel alive in his arms, alive with him fucking between your thighs.

It’s enough to shatter you in a matter of moments, his lips barely off your bleeding neck before you clench and spam around his pulsing cock. Your voice tears from your throat in a scream. So much fuller and hotter than ever he felt inside your walls. Thicker. Heating you from within. The pressure drives you wild, your climax more intense than ever as you writhe beneath him, as stars cover your vision and pleasure steals your breath.

He laughs again, that tickled giggle to watch you panting to catch your breath, barely able to make a sound more than a whimper yourself. “That’s right, my pet, let them all hear you through these flimsy walls….”

You laugh, breathy and quick, wrapping your thighs tightly around his waist. “So quick to forget what I managed to reduce you to?” You steal a hand back to his clenching ass, returning your touch to that tight little hole.

He gasps, biting his lips as if to keep himself from crying out again. “Don’t you ever tell them,” he growls, smiling with that predacious gleam in the crimson of his eyes.

“I don’t need to,” you can’t help but laugh, letting the words already in your mind already make you smile. Even if they are his own… even if he just might make you pay deliciously for them for the rest of the night, “given the noise you made, I’m sure they already know…”

[lacunasbalustrade]

random thought but one of my fav things while watching korean idol variety shows is when idols call their mothers or grandmothers when making traditional food/snacks (i see this most when they’re making kimchi) and idk,, it’s a very tender and warm sight. the way their tone changes into something more familiar and lighthearted when their family member picks up the call and the way their family members are so readily available to help them. it’s those rare moments of familial love and sincerity that stick with me.

[qlossytbh]

𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you get an unexpected visitor at headquarters after one of your old high school friends was murdered and rossi has ideas as to how to catch the killer.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 usual criminal minds content, mentions of killers, mentions of a phsycotic killer :D, mentions of murder, mentions of underage drinking (if i’m missing anything pls let me know)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 4.4k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 we’ve finally got our first flashback ;) i know it’s kinda slow but we will get more spencer x you content in the next chapter, pinky swear. also this is kinda wordy but whatever

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Come on, it's not that bad!" You smiled, pushing at Spencer's shoulder as he took a sip of your coffee, face screwing in disgust. "You're such a baby."

"No," He disagreed, voice hoarse as he handed you your coffee back. "That is disgusting."

"Just because it doesn't have about 3 pounds of sugar," You taunted, looking down at his mug with disapproval. "All that sugars gonna' catch up to you one day you know."

"Actually," He started and you felt yourself beginning to groan. "White sugar is a type of carbohydrate that provides energy to the body so what happens is the body breaks down sugar into glucose that can be readily used for energy and to carry out various functions. It improves brain functioning—"

"Spence, it's eight in the morning," You said, resting your forehead on his arm. "As much as I care about you, you are not allowed to go wikipedia on me at this time."

He stifled a laugh, glancing down at you with a soft smile. He took no offense to what you were saying since he knew your favorite thing was to listen to him. You pulled away, taking a sip of your coffee. You looked up at him, opening your mouth to speak but being abruptly interrupted as the kitchen door burst open, causing you to jump and stain your white blouse with coffee.

You looked down at the shirt, hissing in complaint. "Are you fucking—"

You turned, face twisted with anger. Spencer shrank at your demeanor looking over at the door to see who was about to receive the latter end of your anger. He took a sip of his own coffee when he saw  Derek standing by the door. The anger in you began bubbling even closer against the surface. "Really Derek?!"

Just as you were about to scold him even more for being such a brute at eight am, you noticed the features in his face laced with an all too familiar tensity. Realization dawned upon you. He started "Looks like we've got a visitor,"

You watched him, glancing briefly back at Spencer before setting your mug down. "And they're asking for you."

The case currently at hand, although pinching a little too close to your past then comfortable, wasn’t overwhelming you. It made you fidgety and a little more anxious than usual, sure, but you weren't overwhelmed by it. All it did was irritate you, how you always tried so hard to keep your past out of your present, and the present away form the past.

All you wanted, was to find the UnSub and move on. Still, you sighed heavily, popping out of the nice bubble Spencer and you had isolated yourselves in. You left your coffee mug long forgotten as you followed Morgan out of the room and across the hall, Spencer following very closely behind.

"A girl who barged in here, asking for you," Derek explained. You continued your stride across the hall, wondering who could possibly be asking for you. "She said she doesn't wanna' answer any questions until she's spoken to you,"

"Does it have to do with our recent case?" You asked, knowing otherwise but still hoping the answer was no. When Derek's lips pulled into a tight line, you sighed in disappointment letting your shoulders slump. Just as you rounded the main hall, you saw a familiar mop of red hair ranting at Hotch in a blazing fury. You froze in your tracks, almost causing Spencer to knock into you. You watched as she pointed her finger at Hotch, stress, and anxiety written all across her face.

"Claire..?" You said, voice barely above a whisper. All the anger in her face untwisted as she turned to you, her features suddenly soft and all too familiar. She hadn't changed a bit in the ten years you haven't seen her.

"Oh my god," She said, relief flooding her voice as she rushed over to you, pulling you into a tight hug. You remained still, not reciprocating the affectionate gesture as Hotch eyed you from behind her with a questioning look. You shrugged slightly at him, remaining completely neutral.

"I can't believe it," She said, voice soft as she pulled away, grabbing you by your shoulders. You noticed the eye bags and the panicky look in her eyes and suddenly things started clicking for you.

Back in high school, you, Easton, and Claire had been each other's rocks, always going everywhere together and relying on each other greatly. The three of you were best friends and you had been for all four years of high school. After what happened during and after your senior year, you fell out with the two of them and continued your advanced studies, not necessarily making any time to ever see both of them again.

Claire had always been the mediator in the trio. You always felt closer to her than you ever did to Easton. Claire always listened, and she gave the right advice when you needed it. You would've loved staying friends with her after highschool, but since she was so close to Easton, it remained impossible. You'd be lying if you said that seeing her again after all this time didn't tug at the strings of your heart in the slightest.

"You haven't changed a bit," You said, giving her a small smile. She did look the same, all of her sharp features still in tact the same way they were back then. There was a silence. She looked behind you momentarily and you turned, realization hitting you. "Shit, uhm—“

You turned, causing her hands to fall from your shoulders. "This is SSA Derek Morgan, SSA Aaron Hotchner and Dr. Spencer Reid,"

You introduced everyone, pointing at each of your co-workers referringly, to which each responded with a small nod or smile. Her gaze lingered on Spencer, who stood closely beside you. She smiled politely at them all, apprehension still laced in her gaze.

"It sucks that our reunion has to be under such shitty circumstances," She laughed, hugging herself protectively. The humor hadn't quite reached her eyes which caused you to shoot her an empathetic look.

"How are you holding up?" You asked. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She sighed heavily, reaching up to cover her face with her hands. She shook her head.

"I cant believe any of it," She sighed, looking like she hasn't had a single ounce of sleep in days. "It seems like just yesterday she was coming back from her honey moon and now, she just—“

You felt for her, you really did. Even if you and Easton had your own history, you knew her and Claire remained great friends after high school. You didn't know they had still been friends after all of these years though. "Were you at the wedding?"

"I was her maid of honor,"

Oh,

"We're very sorry for your loss," Spencer added. You looked over at him, smiling sadly and appreciating his efforts to be empathetic with her. You reached out, rubbing the side of her arm. She smiled at the two of you weakly. "I'm sure this is all extremely hard on you."

She reached up, rubbing her eyes rapidly, as if trying not to get sensitive in front of everyone. It was understandable, suddenly being surrounded by people she had no clue of, and losing someone close to you is not easy and it could be very overwhelming.

You looked over at Hotch before starting. "We're trying our hardest to figure out who could have done this to them,"

"Do you mind coming in for some questioning?" You asked. Claire looked over at Hotch apprehensively, clearly not approving of him.

"We think you can help us determine if there was anyone that may have wanted to intentionally hurt Easton and Michael—" You explained, trying to ease her up. "—And Sarah and Adam.."

She sighed heavily, nodding her head with acceptance "Yeah, that's fine.."

"I promise, we'll catch up afterward," You smiled as Hotch and Morgan guided her towards one of the interrogation rooms. You watched her intently as she walked away. With a beat, you looked down at your watch, huffing quickly and furrowing your brows.

"Must be hard for her," You stated. Spencer took notice of how unbothered you seemed, and he didn't skip out on calling you out.

"And what about you..?" Spencer asked curiously, shoving his hands into his pocket and staring you down from his spot next to you. You turned to him, tilting your head.

"What?" You asked.

He shrugged, looking to the side momentarily. "For a case hitting so close to home, it would be normal for this to affect you,"

You pursed your lips and responded truthfully. "It doesn't,"

Spencer looked you in the eye and did what he always tried doing when he suspected something was up with you. He tried profiling you, something that with time, you knew how to fight against, especially when it came from Spencer. His brows crinkled with a familiarity that was only present when he was worried about you. You reached up, rubbing your thumb against the furrowed skin of his brows and smoothing it out gently. "You worry too much."

"Haha." He shoved your hand away as you snickered to yourself. You were glad that with everything going on, you could still find the time to laugh. Spencer made that very easy.

"You," You reached up to link your arms with his as you began dragging him down the hall, all the way to Garcia's office. "Are going to accompany me to visit our lovely technical analyst,”

You watched as both Easton and Claire downed whatever drink it was they had in their hands, music blaring loud and people waltzing around intoxicated at every turn you made. Not completely sober, but not all that drunk either, you found yourself feeling as if yet another Friday night had gone to waste.

"Can you believe we're already seniors?" Easton cheered, throwing her hands around both you and Claire. You stifled a laugh at her slurred voice, knowing the hangover she was bound to have tomorrow was going to be brutal.

"This year is going to be absolutely insane," Claire said, excitement laced in every syllable of her voice. You rolled your eyes and cringed internally, swirling your drink in your hands and debating whether or not you should throw it out since you weren't really in the mood to drink anymore.

You knew you had to get a lot of studying done tomorrow because you were taking some advanced courses that would get you ahead of certain subjects, effectively allowing you to finish the school year earlier and begin your college studies ahead of time.

You had always been very different from Claire and Easton, but you had never seen a problem with it. Claire cheered you on whenever you decided to focus on school work rather than go out on a Friday night, claiming that she could never have your willpower, but Easton always teased you and pushed you to 'let loose'. Of course, you went out with them sometimes, but you also knew when to stay in and focus on yourself, and you never saw that as a crime. It was like enjoying the best of both worlds.

Although lately, going out with Easton felt more like a chore than something you genuinely enjoyed doing.

"Are we finally going to attempt to loosen Y/n up?" Easton shouted over the blasting music, pulling you into a side hug. You laughed awkwardly, a very small feeling of annoyance bubbling in your stomach.

"Oh shush Easton," Claire slapped the girl's arm, rolling her eyes indefinitely. "We know Y/n is going to rock it this year in her own special way."

"Shoving her face into a book isn't my definition of rocking your senior year," Easton added.

"Well shoving my face into someone else's twice a week isn't my definition of rocking my senior year, but you don't see me shaming you, huh?" You bit back, deciding to defend yourself rather than let her step on your toes for what felt like the fifth time this week. You and Easton worked like that. Sometimes it was complicated though, since it was hard to draw the line between teasing and passive-aggressive comments.

"Not my fault you're a prude," You sighed, crossing your arms as she let you go. That's the complicated line you were talking about. Claire shot a disapproving look towards Easton.

"I'm kidding!" She shrugged innocently, holding her hands up in defense. "But like seriously, isn't there anyone that sparks your attention? Not even a little bit?"

You sighed once again, knowing this conversation was popping up. Easton was a very 'out there' person, to say the least. She had a very bad habit of agreeing to hook up with any 'hot man' that breathed. And being part of a private school, everyone seemed to be connected to everyone, somehow. If someone didn't know your business, it was someone else's personal goal that they did, and so the story goes on. And for some peculiar reason, Easton was very vocal and passionate about the fact that you didn't throw yourself at anything that breathed.

"No Easton,"  You set your drink down on the small stool that was available right beside you, not in the mood to drink at all anymore. "Just like I said last time you asked me."

"What about Henry? He seems cool," She pursed her lip in thought. Claire's face twisted with disapproval.

"Henry's a total jerk," Claire warned. Easton sighed in defeat and began scanning the room attentively. You watched her, unamused and annoyed, up until her face popped with excitement.

"Wait a second," She said, reaching out for your arm and pulling you in closer to whisper. "What about the guy in white, over by the kitchen aisle that's practically drooling at the sight of you?"

You deadpanned at Easton but looked in the direction she pointed to anyway. As you looked over, your eyes suddenly fell on a man in a white-clad t-shirt, who was in fact, looking over at you with deep curiosity. You suddenly, for the first time in who knows how long, felt nervous under the gaze of a man. He smiled at you softly from the other point of the room, to which you uncontrollably returned and your heart flipped inside your chest. Just as you opened your mouth to protest, the man began making his way over to the three of you.

You had spent all afternoon skipping through file after file and picture after picture with Garcia and Spencer, while Hotch and Morgan interviewed Claire. Rossi, JJ, and Prentiss called you every few hours to dump more newly acquired information on the victimology report based on what they were seeing over at the crime scene. Your brain was practically about to melt out of your ears. The comfort of the conference room chair seemed overwhelming once you sat down, finally giving your back a break.

Claire had left headquarters just only a few hours ago which now left you all to lay out and create a new profile. Everyone sat at the table until Hotch and Morgan walked into the room.

"We've interviewed Claire Thomspon for more accurate victimology reports and further insight on our Unsub's possible motives for killing both pairs of victims," Morgan stated, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. "Claire declared that Easton had various romantic and sexual relations during high school and every relationship she started was as soon as she ended a previous one,"

"So enraged ex that most probably wanted revenge?" Prentiss said.

"But then what connection would Sarah and Adam have to the murders?" You asked, furrowing your brows in contemplation.

"His murdering methods reflect his psychological state and motivations. For example, if he meticulously plans and execute his killings with precision and calculation, which clearly isn't the case here, it could suggest a need for control and dominance, but since his methods are more frenzied and impulsive, it could indicate overwhelming emotions, and a lack of impulse control." Spencer explained, looking over at you. You nodded, glancing down at the file report and scribbling something across the side of it.

"Meaning Sarah and Adam could've just been collateral damage," You finished, looking back up at him from your seat across him. He nodded.

"If this is revenge, the Unsub may experience, intense feelings of powerlessness, and a need to exert control over others as a way to cope with his emotional pain. Slaughtering married couples could serve as a twisted form of retribution symbolizing the perceived betrayal and abandonment he experienced." Spencer continued, hands dancing around freely, something that always happened when Spencer talked on like this, he was very expressive with his hands.

"By targeting couples, he may be projecting his own feelings of envy and resentment towards those who have found happiness and stability in their relationships." You completed, giving Spencer a proud smile.

And this is exactly why Hotch thinks the two of you work best together, it’s as if your minds were synchronized and every blossoming thought was finished by the other.

"Do we have any leads?" JJ asked.

"We've asked Garcia to pull up some names of people who have a past with Easton." Morgan explained with ease, you looked down once again.

"That's gonna be a long list," You mumbled, low enough for anyone to hear.

It was true though. You weren't shaming her for sleeping around. It was simply a reality that she broke a lot of egotistical men and saw having sex with them as a way of feeling good about herself. You even heard her say once that 'men were just trophy's waiting to be collected by her'. It worked, she felt amazing about herself, and she truly had any man she ever wanted.

"So what would you say our profile is?" Rossi finally spoke up, being awfully quiet as he silently drew his own conclusions.

Hotch began. " We're looking for a 27-year-old male with an unremarkable, physical appearance, something that allows him to blend in with the general population."

You allowed yourself to think back on your past, dwelling if you remembered anyone that might fit the Unsub report.

"He maintains a fit or athletic build which helps him overpower his victims and he leads a relatively solitary existence, avoiding social interactions." He continued in a serious demeanor. "He exhibits narcissistic tendencies with a sense of entitlement, believing that he deserves attention or admiration. He's adept at manipulating others and his actions may be driven by impulsive, completely disregarding consequences, leading to reckless behavior."

"He also harbors a severe paranoia, showing irrational fears and suspicion leading to a heightened sense of vigilance and a tendency to see threats where non-existent." Morgan said, closing off as he sat back down into a chair. Rossi pursed his lips in thoughts.

That described about half of your class though— unfortunately. You rubbed your temples, lowering your head and processing the information, trying to rack your brain on anyone viable who gave you 'serial killer vibes' back in the day. You looked back up, and turned your gaze towards Hotch, opening your mouth to speak

"So wait, if our UnSub presents a lack of impulse control, couldn't that mean that he could strike again even if Easton is dead?" You asked. Hotch nodded and you felt your hands begin to grow clammy.

"We asked Garcia to pull out the names of the couples that have been married in the last year or so from the class of North Virginia High School,"

"How many married high school sweethearts are there in one graduating class?" Emily asked, looking over at you in disbelief. You leaned back in your chair and scoffed.

"Our class was compared to an orgy," You stated, an unamused stance settling your gaze. "That says enough,"

You couldn't even count all the people in your class that had either hooked up, had sex, got together or got married, with your two hands. You never understood what the desperation was at the time, apart from the raging hormones— and its not like your class was full of A-list celebrity lookalikes.

Easton had always wanted you to have your fair share of hookups with the guys in your class, but you had fortunately settled your low scale of bodies on a whooping number one. 

"So, we just—" Emily's brows were furrowed deeply. "—wait until our Unsub shows signs of attacking one of our couples?"

Everyone waited for an order. You didnt believe that was the smartest idea, because yet another two people could possibly end up killed if you didnt play your cards right. You felt uneasy as you waited for Hotch to put together a plan that you could all follow, but he even he was struggling to decide how to love on. Suddenly, Rossi's voice cuted through the air.

"No, that would be stupid." He hummed, narrowing his eyes in deep contemplation. "We need someone from the inside."

You stopped, peering intently at Rossi as you gave Morgan a quizzical look, slightly stupefied by Rossi's sudden intervention. He shrugged his shoulders at you, clearly just as lost as you were. Sometimes, it was hard to follow along with Rossi's thought process, which was surprising to say the least, since you completely understood Spencers.

"We could use you, as a decoy," He said, cutting his gaze over to you and pointing a finger. You froze in your seat, shrinking at the sudden call out. You choked on your own breath, being completely taken off-guard by him. Not because you didn't have it in you to go undercover but because—

"Uh—" You cleared your throat, coughing once or twice. "Sir, I'm not married..."

"Yet." Was all Rossi said.

You tilted your head, truly not getting a single word coming from this man's mouth "Come again?"

Everyone shared dumbstruck looks. When you looked over at Spencer, he was just as confused as you were. You shared a silent conversation but all you could answer with were confused shrugs. Hotch looked ahead, suddenly seeming to grasp onto Rossis implications.

"You mentioned Claire was still in contact with many of your ex-classmates, right?" Hotch asked. You pursed your lips, blinking slowly and turning to him.

"Uh, yeah, she mentioned something like that earlier—"

"So then you lure the Unsub in," He stated, explaining what Rossi's brilliant mind was getting at. You closed your mouth and narrowed your eyes just ever so slightly. "You and Reid go undercover as a newly wed couple, and you lure the Unsub in, making yourself the next posible target."

Your mind screeched to a halt as you straightened up in your chair. Suddenly, Spencer was heard choking on his own breath in his seat in front of you. You felt your minds racing hit a brick wall, silence and stillness hitting every fiber of your body. "You want me to—Huh..?"

You weren't even quite sure how to process anything that had just been said. Questions began dawning at you, because one, why you? And why Spencer? And why together— as a married couple?

"It'd be a complex operation, that would include meticulous planning but," Rossi suddenly pulled out papers and began scribbling down. "Comprehensive security measures would be implicated, and with Claire in the mix, you two can find ways to get yourselves to interact with the high schools graduate community and it's very probable that the Unsub, is baited in, especially with Y/n being an ex-classmate."

"Actually," Emily started, looking between you and Spencer, who both shared the exact, red painted look on both your faces. "Thats not a bad idea."

"Wait, wait— You want me, to go undercover as a married couple, with Spencer..?" You asked again. It all started slowly falling, like dominos. You finally allowed your minds gears to rear back into movement as you shook your head slightly.

"Yes,"

Pretending to be a married couple implicated everything being a married couple was. And Rossi was implying, that you pretend to be a married, romantic, madly in-love, head-over heels about each other, couple with— Spencer? Which meant living in the same house, sharing the same things, going everywhere with each other, hugging, touching, kissing, sharing the same bed?—

Okay, now you were overthinking it.

You felt a sudden patter in your chest, that traveled all the way to your skull and through your ears, pressing against your throat. You felt heat rush to your cheeks at just the thought of all of that, and if you weren't mistaken, you could've sworn you felt your stomach flip in circles.

Spencer was your best friend yet why did this feel so incredibly exposing..?

"If you think about it, Reid and Y/l/n would be the only ones able to convincingly portray a married couple..." JJ shrugged. You glared over at JJ wondering what the hell she meant by that.

Suddenly, things were moving all too quickly and all too suddenly. You dared yourself to look over at Spencer who was surprisingly, in the same shaken up state that you were. His cheeks were glowing red, and something in his gaze was silently speaking to you. You looked back at him, feeling an unfamiliar uncertainty begin to nip at you. You were too scared to speak up, and for the first time, you truly couldn't read a single thought behind those hazel eyes you had grown to care about so deeply.

"I—uhm," You said, voice hoarse and weak. "You really think this is a good idea?"

"I think it's our closest shot at catching this guy without anyone else getting hurt." Rossi stated.

"But we only do it if the two of you are a hundred percent willing to do so," Hotch reminded. You looked back at Spencer, not knowing what to think, or what to say, or what to do. His gaze relaxed, in constrast to your panicky one, and he gave you a small nod of encouragement. You swallowed thickly.

He looked over at Rossi, nodding slowly. "Okay, we'll do it."

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 @yondiii @r-3dlips @moonchildohh @rubyirene @sp3ncelle @alisyacsa @pleasantwitchgarden @landooscurls @chonkybonky

[latoyalestrange]

spin the bottle

d. malfoy x f!reader

Summary:  On a boring ride to Hogwarts on the Hogwarts express, your Slytherin friends come up with an idea for a game to pass the time.

words: idk

warnings: lil spicy, nothing smutty. as always minors dni. this is a blurb i wrote a few years ago and just getting around to posting it here. i didnt revise it so be warned.

      "Guys," Pansy sighed and slumped in her seat. "I'm bored,"

    " Agreed," Goyle chimed with a mouthful of licorice. Draco was visibly annoyed. He hated hearing other people complain. You sat quietly, the odd one out of the group. You didn't have many close friends at Hogwarts, but mingled with everyone. Your true friends were nowhere to be found on the express, so you settled to sit with Draco and his posse. Even though you were friends with the Golden Trio, Draco never made an enemy out of you. Mostly because you stayed quiet, but it could also be in part caused by secret feelings of Draco's. You were nearly everything he wanted. Pureblood, smart, and you kept your opinions close to your chest. For some Draco always admired that about you. He also thought of you as a way to annoy Potter. If he had you, it would be a way to show Potter that he was a better man. After the silence ended, Pansy perked up in her seat next to Draco. 

    "I've got an idea! Let's play spin the bottle!" You looked nervously around at the other occupants of the train cart. Blaise, Goyle, Pansy, and Draco liked the idea.

    "I get to go first," Draco sat up and snatched the butter beer bottle out of Pansy's hands.

    "Oh, of course, Daddy's boy gets to go first," She teased, rolling her eyes. You stifled a giggle.

    "Piss off, Pansy," He huffed, his eyes narrowing.

    "Go on, then," She nudged his arm forward with her elbow. He placed the bottle onto the table and with no hesitation, he spun it around. A lump formed in your throat and you could feel your stomach fill with butterflies. The bottle spun slower and slower until it finally stopped. It pointed at you, no doubt. The boys in the compartment sounded their whistles and "oooo"'s. Pansy looked shocked. You had a feeling she was repressing anger.

    "Well then, let's leave them to it," She announced to the boys. Your eyes widened.

    "W-What?" You felt as if the wind was nocked out of you. You couldn't meet Draco's eyes out of nervousness, but he was staring at you, and with a smirk. "What do you mean, 'Leave us'?"

    "Oh, don't you know? That's how we play this game around here, right boys?" Goyle and Blaise nodded, almost as if they were afraid of what would happen if they didn't agree. "Come on then," They followed her out of the compartment like ducklings. You blinked hard and gulped as you heard the compartment door shut. Draco stood up; you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. He stood in front of you for a moment, then turned, but only to shut the blinds all around the compartment. He sat back down, opposite to you.

    "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," He stared down at his lap and played with his ringed thumbs. A wave of relief fell over you. You looked up at him, but all you saw was a lonely, insecure boy. Suddenly, his rough personality was just a front. This was real. Now filled with sympathy, you got up and sat next to him. You knew exactly what it felt like to know no one knew the real you, and you were glad you got to see this side of him. The side that no one got to see.

    "Draco?" He didn't look up at you, almost too ashamed.

    "Hm?" Was his only reply.

    "Kiss me," You felt his body tense under your comforting hand. You were the first person to actually accept the real him. He turned to meet your gaze with a questioning expression.

    "Kiss me," You repeated. He fixed his posture towards you and placed a gentle hand on your cheek. He slowly leaned into you and locked his sot lips onto yours. Everyone knew Draco as hard and tough, but his kiss was just the opposite. Gentle, almost as if he had loved you for years. When he broke away from you, he kept his hand on your cheek and pressed his forehead against yours. You took this as a sign to take initiative and placed your mirroring hand on his jaw and pulled him in once more. He wrapped his other arm around your neck and pulled you deeper and deeper into him. Now on top of him, barely keeping balance on the narrow booth, you pulled your scarf and tossed it away, hitting the blinds that covered the window. 

    "Easy, tiger," He teased with a sheepish smile. You smiled back at him. You hadn't seen him smile in years. Giggling, you leaned over him for more. His hands gripped your waist and yours had fistfuls of his platinum hair.

    Suddenly, a knock at the door.

    "Are you guys done snogging or what?" Pansy shouted. Draco rolled his eyes, breathing heavily. You gave him one last peck and you were about to stand up from straddling his hips when his hands pulled you back. You smiled at one another once more.

    "One more," He demanded quietly, his smile still not leaving his face. You leaned down and his hand tangled itself in your hair, not allowing you to release until he wanted you to. He finally retracted his grip and you got to your feet, pulling your scarf off of the ground. He stood up as well to open to door. He faced an annoyed Pansy, who fixed her attention on his now sloppy hair. She huffed and stomped back to her seat between Draco and the window. 

    "It was your idea," Draco teased, causing the other boys to laugh as they followed her in. 

    Draco's smile remained for the rest of the day.

[omegalomania]

the thing is that i can still remember the way it felt.

end of november, 2022, suddenly every feed lights up. they're doing something. people are posting images of the chicago tribune, a full page ad that has this bicolored logo, a face both happy and sad, black and white, and it simply says: FOB8.

"is this real?" quite a few people were skeptical after the years-long pause between mania and now. "i'm not convinced."

"it's a full-page ad in a single chicago newspaper out of nowhere, right after joe got finished doing a whole book tour where he insisted they had no new music to speak of," i answered. "of fucking course it's real. it has fall out boy all over it."

i remember so vividly the sense of wonder that arrived on christmas morning of that same year, when i woke up at the exact right moment to learn that fall out boy did something again. an eerie, playful, earnest, weird claymation video with a haunting soundtrack, featuring a little black and brown dog. it was mystifying and bizarre and striking - a sprinkling of stardust on the dog's muzzle that prompted it to sneeze - and the adrenaline rush i got from the snippet of heart-pounding drums and guitar was the best gift i'd received all year.

so much (for) stardust. i've said it before and i'll say it again - it's a damn near perfect title. it's a play on words, it has multiple meanings nested into one another. given enough time, we all fall apart like so much dust, like so much stardust because that's where we came from. we are made of and from stardust. for stardust. so much for stardust. so much for the cosmic clay that shaped us. so much for this life, so much for the very foundational fucking firmament from which we we all sprang, so much for this whole strange weird existence. it's exhaustion and anger and spite and frustration and, at the same time - it's wonder. it's love. it's a doberman frozen in an instant of elated play, snapping at bubbles. it's a dog breed conventionally associated with danger captured in a moment of buoyant delight. it's an oil painting, surrounded by words shaped from sparkling clay.

it's love.

it's a record full to bursting with love. it's in the very first song they sent to us, sending us their love from the other side of the apocalypse. it's a record that says yes, the world is a mess and it feels insurmountable. maybe existence is meaningless. maybe it's all fucking pointless and we're all gonna die anyway. but like hell that means i'm not going to love life with all that i am. like hell i am going to let that stifle me. if nothing matters, then love is what matters.

and they committed to it, too. if there's one thing we can take away from so much for (tour)dust, it's that fall out boy loves us the way we love them. they'd have to, right? they could have called it quits years ago. hell, they could've packed it up after the hiatus and just never come back. they'd have to really love doing this to want to keep at it, years later, and look at that. they have.

fall out boy, at the end of the day, is propelled by love. they have to really love what they do to keep doing it. they have to love each other, love the music, love the fans, to keep doing what they do. this is something they've repeatedly asserted over the course of this tour and record cycle: the sheer, shared joy, the positive feedback loop of creative energy that comes from sharing something you made with the world and seeing the world respond in turn.

the world is a wreck and it feels, at times, like nothing you do matters or changes anything. so much (for) stardust is the antithesis to that kind of existential apathy. look, it says. look at what your love has changed. because as desolate and nightmarish and inescapable as the pitfalls of this strange, oftentimes terrifying existence can be - we have laughter, we have good friends, we have good music, and we have the ability to not let our own ennui defeat us. there are things in this world worth living for. there are things in this world worth loving. you have to love one another. you have to laugh and do whatever silly, inane thing makes you feel alive. you have to hug your friends and sing with them, cry with them, and savor every drop of this life that we get. prioritize love. be seriously unserious.

a week before this record came out, i spent some 6-7 hours in a car driving to a record store to hear it with a bunch of people, many of them strangers. i heard so much (for) stardust in its entirety in a record store with one of my favorite people, surrounded by awed chatter as we all drank it in. we didn't catch all the words, but the ones we heard sank into us and took root. i almost couldn't bear to wait for to hear the record properly.

a year later, it's sunk into the recesses of my soul. i'm not sure it'll ever come unstuck there. i don't think i want it to.

thanks for the stardust, fall out boy.

we love you back.

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XLV | One Thing More

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: self-harm, flashbacks, referenced child death AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XLV | One Thing More First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel and Hornet have a difficult conversation. Hollow considers whether to intervene.

○

Its sister tensed.

The vessel could feel every motion she made, every shiver, every stifled flinch. She was leaning against it, tucked into the crook of its injured shoulder with its legs drawn up on her other side. Its head was craned around to rest beside her, its single hand curled near her knee: the knee that she’d injured, that she’d been favoring as she ran to meet it. It knew the look of a bad strain or a break, knew the meaning of the massing heat it could sense through her cloak. That should be seen to.

It did not move. Neither did she.

No one had ordered it to do this—to hinder her movement, to come between her and the scholar, to keep them apart by threat or by distraction—but to its shame, instinct had taken hold of it again. The last hours had worn it down until it felt like nothing more than a ball of instinct and bare nerves; it could not have said what it feared as Quirrel stepped closer, only that it could not bear to see it happen.

He had been unwise to approach her. It had felt the winding tension in her limbs, the subtle quiver in her claws. The anger in Quirrel’s voice, clenched inside his fists, had nearly matched her own.

Its options were few. It refused to hiss or bare its teeth at Quirrel again—not after he had stayed by its side, spending hours in its company as the fear slowly, slowly left it.

Still, it was a monster. A construct of blade and spell, a creature of death and the endless dark, wielding the weapons that had formed it. Metal and void, tooth and claw. It could not disarm itself, could not make itself harmless, even for him.

But for him, for what he had done for it, it had tried. It had tried the only thing it could think of—putting itself in his way, warning him back, while pleading with its gaze, its curled shoulders, the tilt of its horns.

Do not.

Do not come closer.

Do not hurt her.

And, inexplicably—

Do not let her hurt you.

Even more baffling, he had listened.

He had heard, somehow, what it did not have the voice to say.

Something was humming inside of it, some uneasy note ringing through its void. Its sister was back, its world set right at last, destroyed and then restored within hours. She was here, her back pressed warm against it, so close that it could wrap itself around her, shielding her with its own shell.

…so close that it could pin her down, with just a shift of pressure. Could keep her here. Could keep her from leaving again.

Those thoughts were traitorous. Mutinous. Such a thing should never have entered its cursed mind.

But the fear—the fear was still there. Muted, nearly silenced, though ringing loud enough to clash with the relief of her return. Enough that it did not move, though the danger had passed.

It would move, if she wished. If she asked it to. It would let Quirrel approach. Both of them had calmed now, and he had asked to tend her injury. It saw no reason to warn him away.

“It’s fine,” she said, but it could tell she did not believe that. “It’s—I’ll live.”

“I’m sure you will,” Quirrel replied, somewhat drily. “But wrapping or splinting may help with the pain and prevent it from becoming worse.”

Her hand tightened on its horn. “I heal quickly. It’s not likely to last more than a day or two.”

“And I’m sure that fact has enabled you to develop any number of bad habits.” He tilted his head, staring, intent on her. “Just because your limits are higher than others’ does not mean you should attempt to ignore them. Let me see.”

Hornet slumped further, sighing. Then she extended her leg, setting her heel gingerly on the floor and pulling the hem of her wet cloak up.

Before it could do more than glance at the injury, Quirrel’s attention returned to it. “Hollow. May I come closer?”

That was—

That was strange.

He knew that it had not been ordered to do this. That was an action it had taken on its own, an expression of will, though the tattered remnants of its knight’s oath had guided its decision. It was meant to protect the weak, and as strong as its sister was—as strong as Quirrel was, to survive both the wilds and the mindless brutality of the decaying kingdom—they were weaker than it. By design. It had been built into something stronger than anything natural.

Its ultimate purpose had failed, but it was able to do this much. It could still protect her. Protect him. Protect this fragile peace that they had forged.

Hornet had not reprimanded it. She had not taken offense at the notion that she might need or want the service of a thing so broken. She even seemed to welcome it, if the way she leaned into it and stroked its face were any indication.

And more confusing still, rather than order it to move aside, or ask its wielder to do the same, Quirrel deferred to it, about what it might decide to do. As if its will were equal to his own, its actions as valid as another’s.

Nothing had happened when it spoke to him before. When it used the signs it had been taught for one specific purpose in another way entirely. Its hand was trapped beneath it, and it could not move without leaving its sister unshielded—and she wanted it there. When she bade it answer him, that was the only option it could think of.

So it answered again. Two taps. Its claw made no noise on the blanket, but his eyes dropped to follow the motion as it spoke.

Yes.

Yes, he could approach. Yes, he could assist her—he was able to do things it could not. She was hurt, weakened, and afraid, though it did not quite understand why. And he—

He had spoken kindly to it. To her. He had attempted to help it, to keep it from deepening the wounds that still throbbed beneath the dressing. He had not run, even when it threatened him, had not left it alone. He had not gone away, though its sister had ordered him to.

Beneath the still-settling unease that swirled in its breast, it was… glad.

He nodded back at it. “Thank you.”

That, too, served no purpose. It had never been thanked for performing its duty. But this was new territory, someplace uncharted. No one had ever behaved toward it like he did. Perhaps this was simply who he was: someone who gave of himself, always, even for those who did not deserve it.

He moved carefully, as if he half-expected that he might need to run. His steps were slow, his hands slower still, as he knelt and reached out to touch its sister’s leg.

Hornet sat stiffly, one hand clenched around her cooling cup, while he examined her knee, the swelling that had pushed her plates apart, the way the skin between had darkened with gathered fluid. When he pressed his thumb beneath the joint, she hissed, and it felt a tingling rush run up its spine and into its jaw, a sudden, compelling urge to bristle, to bite.

No. It must not, must not lose control—it was dangerous, deadly, a single strike could tear off a leg or an arm, it must stay still.

It was restraining itself so tightly, all its concentration focused onto holding itself back, that it nearly twitched when she spoke. Her voice was fractured, airless, as if the words were dragged out of her unwillingly. “Quirrel, I—”

“Later,” he muttered. She stiffened even further. He glanced up, met her eye, and looked down again. “When we both mean it.”

A breath broke from her throat, heavy and strained. Anger? Or something else? What had she been about to say to him? What was it he had not wanted to hear?

Quirrel’s fingers pressed somewhere new, and the next hitch of her lungs was undoubtedly pain. Her hand squeezed its horn more tightly, seemingly unaware she was doing so, using its presence to help her endure.

Did she need a distraction? Did she need it to help her in some way? It had never had anything to hold onto, aside from the desperate curl of its claws into its own palms. It did not know what she needed, what might aid her.

It hesitated, then bumped its face against her side, fighting the instinct to press itself still. This, too, was an action it had not been ordered to take, but she rewarded it by breathing out a troubled sigh through her teeth and relaxing.

Her head eased back, bit by bit. She let go of its horn to slide her hand down between its eyes, claws moving in tiny half-circles across its cracked shell. When she flinched again, it was half-hearted, smothered by exhaustion, and the humming note of its relief grew louder, its shade nearly purring within it.

Quirrel did not say anything. His hands were moving in tiny, shifting motions that its eyes could not interpret, not this close. There was a stony quietness about him, something its mind couldn’t help but worry at, like a beast with prey between its teeth. Was the injury worse than she had thought? Was he loath to speak of it, for fear she’d be displeased?

It shifted its head again, this time to get a better view—it did not need to see, it knew that, this was information it did not need but it wanted—and Quirrel halted, turning minutely to look it in the eye.

“Nothing is broken,” he said. To it. He had noticed its interest, and… and he was answering questions it could not even ask. It had only had to look. “I think it’s a sprain, though a fairly bad one. It should heal with no complications.”

“As I said,” Hornet mumbled without looking, sounding as if she could not quite get her mouth to work correctly. “It’ll heal quick enough.”

“Yes, it will.” The scholar sighed, resuming his inspection. It could see now that he was shifting the joint slowly side to side, watching the motion while applying only the barest pressure. “If she can manage to stay off of it for a few days, that is.”

Hornet raised her head at this, looking between it and the cricket, but whatever she found there, she did not comment on it. When she spoke again, it was softer. “I can manage that.”

“Good.” He set her foot back on the ground. “From what I recall, most spiders would prefer to sacrifice the limb and induce a molt rather than suffer through the healing process.”

“If you recall, I have fewer limbs than most spiders.”

Quirrel shrugged. “True enough.” He rose, tiredly, bracing one hand on his knee. “Stay put. I’m getting the bandages.”

Hornet half-tensed, uttering the beginning of a protest, then slumped again when he disappeared into the kitchen, ignoring her entirely. He should not do that—she was of much higher rank than he—but, strangely, it found that it did not mind, not if she continued to object to having her wounds cared for. She deserved that far more than it did, and it did not know why she would deny herself this, except to prove something that did not need proving.

Quirrel returned with several rolls of linen and set about wrapping the injury, saying nothing more as he did so. Hornet watched him with heavy-lidded eyes; her head was leaned back against its side, her hand falling still every few moments as her focus slipped. It had not seen her so tired since the last time she left the house, since the last time she left it alone.

It had not been alone, not this time. It had had Quirrel. He had listened. He had helped it. He—

He had apologized. He had seen it broken, utterly, had witnessed it losing hold of every scrap of its control, and still, he had said—

Oh, my friend. I’m so sorry.

And its sister’s voice echoed the words—

I’m here. I’m so, so sorry.

For what?

For what?

They spoke as though wrong had been done to it. How was that possible? Any distress it experienced must be a result of its own hidden flaws, its own weakness that it had failed to stamp out. From the moment the Temple opened to show it the one who would replace it, all the way back to watching its older sibling dwindle and fade before its eyes.

Dead. Its sibling, dead.

Not merely returned to the Sea, like so many others. Not merely a shade, a lingering imprint of instinct and will. Unmade. As if they had never been.

Its kin, its siblings. First and last. Dead and ever-living. And the vessel itself was somewhere in between, a shattered thing, fit for neither its duty nor the grave.

It was certainly not fit for the sympathy it had been given. For the desperate grief in Quirrel’s voice as he stayed near it while it cried, or the breathless sorrow in its sister’s as she begged forgiveness for leaving it behind.

And yet, something within it reached out toward the words. The same twisted, ravening thing that grasped and clung on to every scrap of praise, growing stronger each time the vessel failed to deny it what it wanted. Some lingering hunger that the void had instilled in it, a shameful need that had at last been its downfall.

It would not have retained the memory that the Radiance used to break it, otherwise. It would not have cared. That moment would not have mattered, any more than any other moment in its life.

A single glance had been enough to ruin it.

But still, the thing inside it dared to hunger.

It fed on soft touches, soft words. It sank its teeth into its sister’s guilt, into the fearful way she clung to it, into the broken desperation of her promise, that she would come back for it. That she would always come back for it.

What had it ever done, to be valued so? How did she see anything in it worth returning for? What purpose could she have for it—for she must have one—that would bring her back, exhausted and injured, fighting through the cold and the pain just to be here with it?

“Try not to move it.” Quirrel’s voice broke through its thoughts. He had finished his task, wrapping its sister’s knee in a layer of bandages, finished with a neat knot. “I can find you something to use as a crutch, if you like.”

“Fine.” Hornet sounded utterly flat, defeated, in a way. Though if it meant that she did not protest being cared for, perhaps that was for the best.

Quirrel went and rummaged in the shelves until he pulled out one of her spare cloaks. He placed it, wordlessly, in her lap, then busied himself elsewhere in the room. Hornet grumbled and hissed to herself as she peeled her soaked garment off and exchanged it, movements stiff and halting.

An awkwardly placed elbow caught the vessel in the face. Hornet mumbled an apology, but did not move away, toward her comfortable nest on the hearth. In fact, she burrowed in closer to it, tucking the dry fabric over her feet and resting her horns on its neck, breath coming in warm puffs against its throat.                                                                              

It did not stir, either, though its shoulder was beginning to burn. That was only one more pain to ignore, just like the phantom ache of its left arm, the pressure in its chest, the dull throb in its mask.

No, it would not move. To move would be to disturb something precious, something delicate, a moment of unutterable peace. She was so small, so light; the weight of her hardly added to its pain.

This… must be like dreaming, but it knew that it had not fallen asleep. It had never dreamed in all its long un-life; even its time spent trapped in that realm had been unnatural, twisted and manipulated by the goddess in order to hurt it however she could.

It had heard others speak of their dreams, including those that preceded the early stages of infection—sweet and warm and bright, filled with unutterable longing for something unfulfilled. A heart-deep wish, a need long unmet. The yearning hunger of someone deprived of what they needed most—of a goddess whose worshippers had fallen away.

They had sounded exactly like what it felt now. The soft-sharp ache in its chest, deeper than any of its wounds. The warmth spreading over its shell, centered where it held its sister close, as if she were a light and the vessel her clinging shadow.

It did not seem possible for this to be real.

But it was no longer with the Radiance. And vessels did not dream.

Quirrel finished tidying the room as the light waned, putting away his tea supplies and hanging its sister’s cloak to dry. He brought in more sticks of shellwood and piled them on the fire, then crouched down to nudge them into place with the iron. He took so long about it and accomplished so little that it began to question whether he was watching what he was doing.

Its sister stirred, then slowly turned her head. Her voice was rough. “You’re staying, then?”

The scholar half-turned his head, the gleam of one bluish eye just showing through his mask.

Four eyes. Eyes behind masks.

It blinked, attempting to clear the images away. The tightness in its chest was back, and it struggled to breathe quietly, to not betray that it was snared in its own past once more.

Would it ever stop seeing the emptiness of its sibling’s eyes? The void draining down the table to envelop its feet? The scholar standing over it, its father’s knife melting away in his hand?

It had smothered those memories. It had not even known that there were any to unearth from its brief time as a nymph. It was not the Radiance’s influence, or a mind broken by infection, that had prevented it from remembering; this had been sealed away before the vessel itself had been, and just as thoroughly.

Had its sister not left it here, it may never have remembered its missing sibling at all.

They had no relevance now. It ought not think of them.

It did. It would. It knew that.

Quirrel did not answer Hornet’s question directly. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and lowered the fire iron. “You’re sure you wish to have this conversation now?”

Its sister uncurled further, but still did not move away from it. Could she be drawing some kind of comfort from its touch, or was she merely trying to keep it calm? Either way, she did not seem inclined to leave.

She did tense again before she spoke. Pulling inward, spines beginning to bristle against its side. “Yes, I am.”

He nodded, but said nothing more. Not until he had jabbed at the fire a few more times, then hung the poker in its place by the hearth. “If you insist.”

After snagging a pillow from the pile in the corner, he approached the bed and lowered himself to the floor with another sigh and a muffled creak of chitin. He wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at the floor in front of his feet. He did that for a long minute, seeming to hunt for the words he wanted.

He must be tired. Nearly as tired as its sister. He had sung to it for hours, melodies and words it could barely remember now, except as a constant presence in its awareness: one song braiding into another, one verse into the next, giving it something to hold onto as it climbed out of panic’s maw. He had sung until his voice began to crack, and then he had kept singing still, pausing only to sip water from a bowl he’d placed at his side. He had sung until it lay still with rapt fascination, rather than frozen, trembling in terror that had made it hiss and snarl at him. He had sung until it could hardly hear him at all, and now every word that left his throat was rough, rasping, much like the sounds from its own.

It wished that she knew of that, somehow. She was still afraid, still staring him down as if he might strike out at her. But he had not tried to defend himself from it, or even retreated to safety. He had done something utterly unexpected—something that was able to guide it out of the dark.

It thought he might do the same for her, if she would let him. It thought that he might intend to try.

“They panicked when you left.”

Ah.

He—

He meant to tell her of its failures. Of how it could not help reacting when he came close. Of the way it had threatened him. A sliver of that panic pricked at it now, both at his words and at the shaky breath its sister took.

She should know. She should hear that it could not keep itself in check, that its fractured mind made it a danger to those around it. She should not even be here now, so close to it, so soon after it lost control. It could not be sure it wouldn’t do so again. It could not.

“Nothing I said could reassure them, though not through any fault of theirs.” His gaze shifted to meet its eyes. “I am not the one who saved them. I am not the one they trust. You are.”

Hornet didn’t reply, didn’t shift against its side, did not move at all except to breathe a little faster.

Quirrel clenched his hands tight around his wrists. “I don’t think I need to tell you what damage was done. Or that it could have been far worse.”

She shook her head minutely, whispering, “No.”

He…

He would not tell her, then? She deserved to know, and he—

Quirrel deserved to be safe from it. He was kind, and gentle, and had not in any way earned what it nearly did to him. Would it not be punished for that? Would it not have to hear the words that would make its sister lose faith in it?

It was unfit, in every way—unfit to live, to serve, to exist when so many others no longer did. Its fault, its fault. People had died. Many, many people. The infection had crushed its father’s kingdom like a landslide. Another sibling suffered now in its place. And before any of that, before it had known it was impure, before it had been proven faulty, it had stood before another, and watched their darkness drain away.

Many, many.

It had nearly added one more to that tally. Not one left to plunge into the Abyss, or driven mad by the whispers of the goddess. Merely too close at the wrong time, too fragile to survive a blow from its hand.

He knew that, surely. He knew what it had almost done. He feared it, and rightfully so.

And yet—

“I do not know you well, Hornet.” Quirrel lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I thought you would keep your word. But I could not say for sure.”

Hornet turned away, tucking her chin into her cloak collar. Her hands were moving under the fabric, twisting, claws scraping over chitin. “I didn’t—” she started, then scrapped it and started again. “I wouldn’t—I won’t—”

“Don’t tell me you will not leave again.” Quirrel’s voice was harsh, suddenly. The vessel suppressed the urge to curl more tightly around its sister, as if it could protect her from the things he said, the way they seemed to sink into her shell like drops of acid. “I promised the truth to them, and I promise the same to you. And if I’m to assist you, I must ask for the same. Do not lie to me.”

Hornet was shaking. Anger, fear—it could not tell the difference. The scholar did not flinch as she snarled at him, even when she bared a glint of fangs under her mask. “I swear it, cricket.” Her words were garbled, half-lost in a growl. “Do not call me a liar.”

Quirrel tilted his head to stare at her from another angle, his antennae twitching. “I will call you nothing you do not deserve. That, I can also promise.”

Its sister scoffed, turning aside again, shoulders hunched tightly. Offended, as she should be. Who was he to speak of her in this way? How could he imply this—and why was she allowing him to?

She had not disputed any of it. Not a word.

Was he being truthful? Was she…

Had she really lied to him? Had she really said—

You said you would not leave them.

You swore it.

The vessel was as lost now as it had been before, in the face of a new kind of pain it did not know how to bear. It felt… pulled, in tension between two extremes, though it lay there helpless, unable to interfere. Putting itself between them was not warranted; there was nothing it could do.

It should not interfere. It had no right. That was not its place.

“If,” she said finally, the word grinding out through her fangs. “You said if you’re to assist me.”

Quirrel sighed, tipping his head back. “You seem to recognize that you were in the wrong. That you should not have left the way you did.”

Silence.

“If so, you must also recognize that I have a right to feel wronged. Betrayed, even.” He waited, but when he got nothing more than the sound of Hornet’s claws scratching over her wrists, he sighed again. “I do, Hornet. I am hurt, and I’m angry with you. That is why I had decided to wait before I spoke to you about it, until you decided otherwise.”

Hurt. Wronged.

These were words that should have had no meaning to it. But—

It did hurt. Always, now. It felt its hand twitch, invisibly, felt its fingers start to move through the memory of the sign. Hurt.

The fear had hurt, deep within it, when it realized its sister was gone. The despair had hurt, when it thought she was not coming back. The memories of its sibling hurt, hurt, hurt, like a knife sinking void-deep into its shell.

Its claws had hurt when they pierced its chest. Its throat had hurt as it cried. Its whole body hurt now, an all-consuming ache that seemed to drag its limbs deep into the cushions.

I am hurt.

He said it like he had been wounded. Did his throat burn, too? Did his joints ache? Did the betrayal he spoke of sting like the point of a blade?

Surely, that was not what he meant. It did not understand. It could not know what that might feel like.

I’m sorry, she had told it once. I’m sorry. I know it hurts.

That hurt had been physical. That had been something it was well-equipped to endure.

If she had not left it now—if it had not been alone with Quirrel—if its memories had not ambushed it after she was gone—

It was hurt. It did hurt.

You were wrong—I am hurt—I’m sorry, sorry, sorry—

“What is the point of this,” Hornet snapped, jarring it out of its spiraling thoughts. “I know this. You’ve said enough.”

“Have I?” Quirrel’s forefinger tapped against his knee. “I still don’t think you understand.”

“I—you said—”

“What I said in anger was true.” He looked down, briefly. “But I believe you heard something more than I intended.”

Its sister choked out a sound. A splintered laugh, perhaps. “What does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal.” There was something else in his gaze now, a softness that looked almost wounded. “I am here because you asked me to be. Because I could see that you needed help. Because… when you found me, nothing else in my life seemed to matter.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “For the most part, those things are still true.”

When you found me.

The blue haze of the crossroads flashed before its eyes, its body growing heavy with the memory. Heavy with exhaustion, with infection, with the clinging, smothering certainty that there was no use going on. That it would be better served to fling itself into oblivion, to fail one final time and then no more.

She had saved it. The red of her cloak. The sound of her voice. The threads of her silk, binding it.

Had she saved Quirrel, too?

Hornet looked on in silence, still with tension quivering in her arms where her claws were clenched. It smelled a trace of blood, hot and sharp. Alarm kicked its heartbeat higher. It could not stop her—it did not know how. The only thing it could do, it had already done: offer itself as support, as something to hold onto, to lean on.

Oh, it wished she would stop.

It had once been a knight. A protector. If it must protect her from herself, put itself in the way of her anger, give her something else to sink her claws into, it would. It would.

Quirrel noticed, too. He stopped, mouth open to speak again, and seemed to reconsider what he’d been going to say. “Hornet, I… no, I am not leaving.”

She twitched, briefly, halfway to flinching. It fought not to respond, fought not to break from its stillness. Every breath she took was high and fast, and with the tang of her blood in the air and her smothered shudders against its shell, its every instinct called for it to shield her, to pull her away somehow, to take her pain upon itself, as it was meant to.

“Do you need some time?” Quirrel asked, gently. “I don’t have to—”

“Say what you need to say,” she interrupted.

For a moment, it thought he might protest. When he resumed speaking, it was slow and halting, as if he worried he might put a foot wrong. “What I said before was this. If I’m to assist you, I must ask you to tell me the truth. To tell me what I need to know. If you cannot do that, I will find it hard to help you.” He sighed, and it sounded world-weary, full of exhaustion that a single day had done very little to add to. “It did not mean that I am looking for an opportunity to leave. Or that what you did, or what you are, or what you think you are, has given me reason to.”

Hornet swallowed, and it felt the barest amount of her tension release, her spines creeping downward an inch.

“I don’t understand why you left,” Quirrel continued. “But I understand that you felt you needed to. I am hurt, and I am angry with you. I do not need an explanation, but I do need you to listen to what I’m saying, and only that. Not what you think you might hear.”

Hurt. I am—

Hurt, hurt, hurt.

A moment ticked by, measured in the rattle of the raindrops. Then its sister nodded stiffly. Her voice was a mere whisper. “Agreed.”

“Good.” Quirrel shifted, crossing his legs and leaning forward, hands laced together before him. He was silent for a moment. “I cannot promise that I will always be here. There may come a time when our paths diverge, when I can no longer stay, for one reason or another. But if that happens, I will tell you. And I will tell you why.”

Its sister looked at him. Stared at him, really, as if there were more to him than a single cricket scholar with an earnest gaze and the warm glow of firelight spread behind him.

“This is what I’m asking.” He lifted one finger for emphasis. “The next time you need to leave, you will tell me first. You will tell me where you’re going, and how long you’ll be gone. No argument. And, if you can, I’d like an hour’s notice.”

A long exhale, which seemed to leave its sister smaller than she had been. “Agreed,” she said again. “I—I swear it.”

She spoke with a slump to her shoulders and a tilt of her horns that it recognized. Much like its own, a feeling it was faintly surprised that she shared with it.

Shame.

You were wrong.

Did she agree with him? Did she believe, too, that she had done wrong?

Even if her actions constituted a failure, she could never fail as thoroughly as it had. It should hurt. It should burn for what it did. It would never wish such punishment on her. Never, never.

She did not seem to wish that for it, either. She did not want it to hurt. She had said so, over and over.

I know it hurts.

I’m sorry.

Its next thought was feather-light, a whisper. Weak. Cringing. The shade, the void, at the core of it, corrupt. Impure.

Desperate.

It… did not want to hurt again.

“One thing more,” Quirrel said, before it could turn this concept over. “You will do the same for them. They deserve to know, as much as I do.”

For—

For it?

Its tired mind filled with static. It—

Surely it had not heard that correctly. It blinked, waiting to understand, to piece together what he had really meant.

Hornet turned to look down at it. It found itself tense, suddenly, painfully so, and its breath had snagged somewhere around the hook in its guts. It had done nothing to draw her attention, there was no reason for her to regard it now, unless…

It had heard right?

They deserve to know.

She had already made it one promise it did not understand. She had already given it far more than it had ever dared to want. Without reservation, though she had little to give, and without condemnation for what it needed.

It wished it did not need this at all. What it would not do to be what she once thought it was, to be the perfect void that its father had intended. That she had told it of her plans before was generous, to be sure, but it could not expect—

They deserve to know.

Quirrel was looking at it, with a tired softness in his gaze.

Deserve. It did not deserve anything. It had earned nothing but a traitor’s fate. He had no right to ask this of her, especially not on the vessel’s behalf. He was mistaken.

He—

He had called it friend. Sat with it. Sang to it.

It had never met anyone like him.

A gentle hand touched its face. It smelled the fresh blood on her talons, the scratches she had opened on her wrist. “Hollow?”

It had not been breathing. It was worrying her.

It made an effort, though its first attempt was too short, shaky, doing no good to reassure anyone at all. It was spent, mind and body, frame aching in ways that it had not felt since the very first days in the mansion, muscles sore and throat rubbed raw with sobbing. But it tried, tried to please her—nudging its muzzle into her palm, into the firm touch that seemed to send warmth racing down to its very core.

Hornet gazed into its eyes, into the lightless void there, and did not flinch. Without looking away, without so much as a quiver in her voice, she whispered, “I swear it.”

○

Taglist: @slimeshade @moss-tombstone @gamergenia @crustysoapbubbles @botslayer9000 Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[dangerdazee]

descendants: rise of red one-shot, in which uliana is not as big and bad as her "friends" lead her to believe

Uliana walks in front, a couple feet ahead, and the other four villains follow behind. They whisper as they walk.

"Goblin pastry? That's her plan?" Hook crosses one arm over his chest, propping up the arm with a hook and letting it sit up by face.

"How were our ideas not worse than that?" Hades questions.

"I'd much rather eat a little pastry than burn to a crisp." Morgie raises his eyebrows and purses his lips.

"Maybe there's more to the plan than just the cupcake." Hook's attempt to give Uliana the benefit of the doubt is not well-received.

"It's Uliana. You know there's not." Hades smirks.

Maleficent smacks her boyfriend on the arm.

"Hey!"

"Don't say that." But Maleficent's laugh doesn't really match her words.

"What's all the talking back there?!" Uliana stops abruptly and whips around, her hair flying.

"Nothing." Maleficent, Hades, Hook, and Morgie say in unison.

As soon as Uliana turns back around and the group of five continue walking, the four in the back stifle laughs.

Uliana thinks she's big, bad, and scary. She thinks all of the people in her little entourage are terrified of her and bow to her.

She couldn't be more wrong.

Why she ever expected evil personified to not be playing a cruel joke on her is beyond them. But she's been falling for it, hook (no pun intended,) line, and sinker.

It was Maleficent's idea first. When the five of them began to form a solid group, Maleficent immediately noticed Uliana's insecurity and confidence issues.

A good friend would try to be supportive and helpful, but this is Maleficent. She saw it as an opportunity to have a good laugh.

One day, the facade will fall and Uliana will be humiliated and the outcome of this evil prank will bring them great joy. But, honestly, they find it just as fun and satisfying to laugh behind her back about it.

"Should we even be getting back at Princess Perky?" Hades throws his arm over Maleficent's shoulders as they continue walking and whispering.

"Why? Are you going all soft?"

"Gross, no. The flamingo thing was just really funny." Hades gives a sly smile.

Uliana stops as someone calls her name. It's a teacher, so she's more inclined to actually pay attention and go. She tells the others to go on and she'd meet them later.

As soon as Uliana is out of earshot, Maleficent pipes up again.

"We could always... sabotage." Maleficent's face reveals that she's thinking hard.

"Bridget?"

"No- How would that make sense?" Hook pats Morgie on the shoulder, taking a bit of the edge off of his correction. "No, she means we could sabotage Uli's plan."

"Exactly."

"How?" Morgie asks.

"I'm not entirely sure yet. But we have a few hours left to figure it out."

Hook glances over at Uliana, seeing her angry and frustrated as the teacher speaks to her. Hook can only assume that she's not doing well in a class.

"Look, look. Look how upset she is." Maleficent, Morgie, and Hades turn their attention that direction and chuckle along. "Never gets old."

It would be only a couple years later that Uliana realizes what's been going on.

The anger in her was only beaten out by humiliation.

Suddenly, all these people who she thought feared her were making her feel small. And weak. It was as if they grew ten feet tall.

All the strength and power she thought she possessed dwindled down to almost nothing.

Uliana felt like her whole life was a lie, while Maleficent, Hades, Hook, and Morgie all laughed and had a grand time. They reveled in the result of their game.

Part of Uliana wondered if she deserved it.

.

[ @ladyoftheesun here it is! might rewrite sometime to improve it, and i'll tag you again if i do unless you tell me not to! ]

[space-invading-pigeon]

Steve is the Mom Friend™, officially the most reliable member of the Party; it would be Dustin, but Dustin insists that they'd be lost without Steve there to help them. Steve doesn't argue, but he disagrees. He thinks he's too volatile to really be considered for Most Reliable.

For most of his childhood, he was isolated from his peers, who he was Not Allowed To Talk To Because They Aren't Worth A Harrington's Time, Stephen. Steve is young and still wants his parents to love him, so he obeys. He's a good boy, if a little sensitive, and therein lies the problem: he feels so much, and he doesn't have a clue on how to express any of it. He can't process his feelings, they're too big to fit in his body. It overwhelms him easily and makes his throat tight- impossible to speak. His father scolds him when he has these overwhelmed episodes, as if Steve is purposely ruining his off time at home by crying; his mother ignores him if he acts childishly. There isn't really anyone who teaches Steve how to cope with being a human.

Steve remembers that he was always angry. It felt like an itch under his skin, a low but steady humming in his veins that could explode at anything, and even back then, he despised that feeling, scared that it meant he would end up a Bad Person. He'd started getting into fights (the first one he could remember was when he was eight and Keith pushed him to get to the playground faster. Keith got a bloody nose and Steve got detention for a week) and never really stopped. By twelve, his entire school is afraid of him, except for a select few kids: Tommy H, whose dad worked with Steve's dad, Barb Holland, who thought Steve was both a good person and a blockhead, and the new Munson boy, who didn't say much of anything, but especially nothing about the time he caught Steve crying in the woods in April after his parents missed the sixth birthday in a row.

It didn't really get better until high school, when his father demanded suggested he sign up for the basketball team; practice and drills helped diffuse a lot of that stifled anger, and for the first time, Steve feels like he can breathe. He doesn't have to be angry all the time anymore, even if most of his calm is just a lack of energy. That isn't to say the anger is gone; he still gets into fights often, but he manages to tone down the violence and rely more on a sharp tongue and a lazy confidence whenever fighting is brought up.

Cue season one! Steve, at the top of his game, the bloody, undisputed King of Hawkins High, is absolutely head over heels for sweet, shy Nancy Wheeler. He bares his soul to Nancy, who, after hearing what he has to say, promises that she'll be there for him. They're together now, they look after each other. It's everything Steve had ever wanted.

When he finds out about the creepy photos Jonathan took of them at Steve's pool on the night Barb went missing (and I love Jonathan, I really do, but what the hell man), he feels that anger starting to boil over again and panics. He was doing so well! Nancy would help, though, just hearing that find "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington" would cool him off. But it worsens when he tries to sneak in to Nancy's room and Jonathan is SLEEPING in Nancy's bed, half-curled around her. Steve doesn't want to get the cops called on him again, so he goes home.

The next day, it all boils over. He tried to stay calm, really, but it was like using a wine cork to stop a volcano; he stands by while Carol and Tommy spread rumors about Nancy, smirks cruelly while Carol spray paints the slur on the movie theater sign, and does not give an inch when Nancy calls him an ass, tears in her eyes and flanked by Jonathan. He's trying his damnedest to keep his hands to himself, though (his father wasn't happy the last time Steve got arrested, and somehow Steve knew that he wouldn't be happy if it happened again), so he's caught off guard when Jonathan starts throwing punches. (Later, Steve will admit that he doesn't really remember what he'd said to make Jonathan so angry that he'd actually try to fight Steve, but he'll apologize anyway. Jonathan is quick to forgive, and apologizes for starting the fight, as well). Steve's memory gets spotty around this time; he remembers a sharp pain in his head, just above his left ear, and being so dizzy that he struggles not to throw up, but he doesn't remember Jonathan landing any other hits (he has three bruises, two around his sternum and one under his eye, as well as a split lip), and he definitely does not remember running from the police trying to break up the fight.

It takes him a few hours to calm down, but it's largely due to the gap in his memory keeping him confused and panicked; he can't remember what he said, and Jonathan Byers may be a girlfriend-stealer but Steve remembers that he's also the kid who held funerals for the mice caught in the traps behind the school gym. Whatever he said had to have been really, really messed up, and Steve genuinely hates that he gets angry, that it isn't uncommon for him to lose time to his anger, that his first response to anything is always anger. So he goes to apologize.

The loaded gun pointed at his face is somehow the least upsetting part of that night.

During season 2, there's a lot going on. Steve has been working so hard on his anger, on keeping a lid on it and actually processing his emotions (thank you, therapy that Hopper demanded Hawkins Lab provide), but it wasn't enough. Nancy resented him, had actually blamed him for Barb's death, and that bitterness came to a head on Halloween.

Without Nancy, Steve struggled a lot more. He had nothing, no one; he didn't have anyone to tell about his parents' death in early June, and he didn't like talking about his wealth. There was no support system- until Dustin decided that Steve was going to help him. The kid was relentless and demanding and trusted Steve to help him almost immediately. Steve could hardly keep up, but he loved the feeling. And, when they ended up in a junkyard bus surrounded by demon dogs, he had three people depending on him, and suddenly he had a way to channel his anger (Dr. Harris would be so proud when he told her). He had a bat and enough unresolved trauma to rival those people his dad used to talk about with shell shock, and by the gods he was going to use that. He went apeshit on some demodogs, saved the kid's lives, and apparently became a big brother to a genius boy and a little girl that could probably fight God and win. He also got his third concussion when Max's stepbrother threatened to kill Lucas, but the order of events for that night is skewed; he blames the concussion. The doctor Hopper forced him to go to after said that he may never hear out of his left side again.

Season 3 sees Steve with a little family that he built all on his own: there's Will (who's shy but has a smile like sunshine when Steve asks him about anything), Jonathan (who cried when Steve asks if they can be friends and then proceeds to infodump on musicians every time he hears Steve so much as hum in a mildly musical manner), Max (the girl with a keen sense and a quick wit, whose older brother terrifies Steve because that's exactly how he could have turned out had he not gotten help), Lucas (who treated Steve like the big brother he never had and often called him racist for trivial things ["Steve, can we order pizza?" No. "Is it because I'm black?"]) Erica (who just sorta showed up with Lucas on occasion and reminded Steve just how fun it could be to be That Bitch), Mike (who alternated between passive assholery and cartoon-esque assassination attempts), Nancy, shockingly (who sat Steve down soon after the massacre at the hospital and apologized for blaming him for- well, everything. They'd talked for a long time, hashing it out, and by the end of it, Steve felt like he had a friend), Eleven (who comes by every Wednesday and Saturday for homemade waffles and a secret knitting circle), and Dustin (who became like a real little brother in the span of three days and never looked back. Steve vowed to keep Dustin safe with everything in him that night in the tunnels.).

He meets Robin when he gets a job at Starcourt (he may be set for life but Hop had told him that hard work built character, and Hop was the kind of man Steve wanted to become). She's wary of him, at first, especially when she watches him break the ice cream machine in a (now rare) fit of anger after a customer blew up at him for their ice cream melting before they finished it. But then he stammers through an apology and brings her a batch of cookies the next day, and tries to explain that he's better now, really, and Robin decides that he's a good person deep down. Maybe not too deep down, though, because his cookies are the best she's ever had. Besides, watching his face turn cherry red as he hides behind the shelves to spy on the repair guy is the most entertaining thing she's seen all summer, possibly in her life.

("Steve, you're drooling," she warns, and Steve hurriedly checks his chin.

"I'm making sure he doesn't get his hair stuck in the machine!" He tries to defend.

"First, his hair is under that bandanna. Second, Eddie Munson would rather die than ruin his rockstar hair.")

Their ice cream machine breaks six more times before Dustin comes back from camp, and each time Steve is a flustered mess talking to Eddie Munson. To his credit, Eddie only gives Steve a half-fond, amused smile before chatting with him about nothing in particular. After the third time, Eddie starts calling Steve "big boy" and lightly teasing him over the fist-shaped dents in the side of the machine.

Steve fights the Russians in the secret Starcourt base, not because they're coming at him, but because one of them reaches out for Dustin/Erica. The edges of his vision blurs, and distantly he knows that he's experiencing something like his childhood episodes: all his can feel is fire in his soul, burning straight through his body, and he has to get it out, he has to protect his brother-

"Wow, Steve won a fight!" Dustin crows as Steve is coming back to himself, his whole body trembling with leftover rage and no one to take it out on. Steve just clutches Dustin to him and tries to breathe. Dustin allows it for two minutes, then starts to squirm, but Steve doesn't release him until they hear footsteps.

With Dustin and Erica safe, Steve surrenders pretty easily- he needed to save his energy. But then they started the "interrogation," and Robin sounded so scared, and they hurt his hands and there were drugs-

Steve faintly remembers jumping onto a man (so tall and broad that Steve briefly felt like he was just a backpack) and biting him, locking his jaw and clawing like a feral cat. Robin remembers Steve promising to "smack the red right out of you commie assholes" while forcing his way through the tunnels, but she can't be sure if it was real or the drugs they were given. Dustin recalls Steve giggling at the movie they were hiding in, like a dork. Erica will never forget that Steve has a Berserker mode, or that he protected her even though she was in the process of blackmailing him for free ice cream.

In October of '85, Jason Carver catches him in the high school parking lot one night as he waits for Hellfire to get out. Steve denies all memories of what was said between them, but Jason walks away without need for an ambulance, so he counts it as a win.

In December of '85, the day that the kids all get out for Christmas Break, Chrissy Cunningham finds him in the parking lot and they sit for nearly an hour talking about projects for their secret knitting circle with the police chief's daughter. As hellfire let's out, Chrissy leaves, and Steve gets to watch as the older members walk his kids to his car, like awkward little nerdy gentlemen. Eddie always hands them off with a flourish and a wink. ("The children, Your Highness," he would say confidently, his three nerds behind him giving him nervous looks. "Perhaps you'll join us next week, my liege?" Steve pretends to be unamused by his theatrics, but Eddie has an infectious grin and a genuinely happy shine to his eyes.)

Season 4, Steve is definitely on edge, twitchy as they search for Eddie. He's worried for Dustin, who is attracted to trouble and smart enough to drag everyone else into it too, but also for Eddie, who occasionally popped by Family Video to talk with Robin. According to Eddie, he's allowed in the break room and behind the counter because he and Robin are "friends of Dorothy". Steve doesn't even know a Dorothy. (Eddie usually waits until Steve walks away in a flustered, confused huff before whispering to Robin, "Dorothy says: be gay, do crime.")

Eddie held a jagged glass bottle to his neck and Steve didn't feel anything. He wasn't scared for his life like the news promised he would be, nor was he angry like he'd expected he would be. Eddie shuffles around nervously, but the only thing Steve feels is concern for him.

He gets dragged through the Watergate and immediately attacked by those godawful bats- he was almost in the boat, they had to help Max, he would not lose his baby sister, and boom, he's back to fighting. He fends them off with the help of Eddie, Robin, and Nancy, all of whom he is furious with for following him into the Upside Down like idiots.

"Harrington's got her. Don't ya, big boy?" Eddie teased, and Steve felt electricity through his whole being. His face flushed red and he stammered an affirmative, not noticing Robin or Eddie as they grinned at each other. Eddie stuck close the entire time they were in the RV, and if Steve didn't know better, he'd say Eddie was flirting with him. But he did know better, there was no way Eddie was flirting. He was on the run and desperate for human interaction.

Separating for the plan was the hardest thing Steve had ever done. While Dustin was getting ready, Steve pulled Eddie aside. "Please keep him safe. I'll do anything you want, just please, don't let anything happen to him," he begged, desperately clutching Eddie's sleeves. "He's my brother, Eddie, I can't lose him-"

"I promise, Steve," Eddie had interrupted. "I'll guard him with my life."

"Guard him with mine," Steve insisted. Eddie didn't get it at first, but it would hit him later that Steve wanted Eddie to keep them both safe.

Steve would never tell a soul, but he liked confronting Vecna. Armed with chemical weapons, Robin stayed a bit behind, but Nancy emptied round after round into One, and Steve? Steve got to use his bat.

It was exhilarating; as much as he hated his anger problems, he could not deny that it felt good to attack the source of all their problems. His arms grew tired after a while, though, and Vecna seemed distracted, disoriented, so Steve resorted to his usual tactics. He never fought fair: biting, scratching, clawing his way to victory in everyday scuffles, there was no way he'd give up this opportunity.

Something in him twists suddenly. He feels sick to his stomach and scared, but he has no idea why. All he can think about is Eddie and Dustin- he's hurt he's hurt he'shurtheshurtheshurt. So he makes the decision to go back; Nancy and Robin technically have the injured Vecna under control. He runs.

Eddie is being swarmed when he makes it to the trailer. One minute, Steve watches as they descend on his friend(?), and the next, he's supporting an injured Eddie as they hobble together to Wayne Munson's truck, Wayne on Eddie's other side and rambling about "what the hell is going on" so similarly to Hop that Steve feels the hollow sting of loss. Later, as they rest in the living room of Steve's empty house, Dustin tells Steve about what he saw: Eddie, going to the ground, unable to fight them off any longer, hope lost and grief already tearing its claws into Dustin's chest, and then out of nowhere Steve appears, covered in bits of vine and rock. He tells Steve about the enraged roar he could hear from the trailer (ten feet behind Dustin as his hobbling came to a stop) and the nail bat that had yet to leave Steve's hand swinging at each assailant with such a precision that, for a brief moment in the chaos, Dusting could hear the sounds of an orchestra playing a symphony, Steve as their ragged, bloodied maestro. He tells Steve about the wild look in Steve's eyes as he carried a half-conscious Eddie into the trailer, snarling about how stupid and careless Eddie was, and how moronic Dustin was for jumping through a gate the way he did. He tells Steve about the stray demobat that burst through the door, how Steve grabbed it with his bare hands and ripped it in half- Dustin's got stars in his eyes as he relays this, even now, days later.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

This kinda got away from me I'm sorry

I'm still new to people wanting to read what I write so I'm just gonna tag the one person I know was also excited about steve being feral: @amoris-no-smut-allowed

[soulessjourney]

T'ill I Go Blind

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: When Gortash reveals details about your past relationship, Astarion refuses to entertain any of it.

Warnings: OOC Astarion, angst, mentions of truama, mentions of death, jelous Astarion, Gortash, fluff, Humor, Astarion of course making a few out of pocket comments, Scared Astarion

A/N: It's basically cannon at this point that Gortash and the Durge are exes or had something going on, so enjoy my depiction of just how their first meeting after so long would be like.

Who would have thought that you would find yourself standing in Baldur’s Gate, face-to-face with Gortash, who gazes at you with surprising tenderness? "Well, isn't it my favorite assassin? It has been too long since we indulged in each other's presence," he remarks. You raise a quizzical brow as your arms fold over your chest, leaning against the protective metal.

"Ah, yes. How could I forget? You lack the memories of what we once shared. A shame, truly. Your father never was one for the ideals of... affection." You resist the urge to let your jaw drop at his words, while Wyll stifles a laugh beside you.

"I'm sorry, but you're telling me you and Tav had some sort of connection?" he asks, looking between both of you. Beside you, Karlach goes stiff, and you reach out through your connected minds, assuring her that you have no clue about the nonsense the man is spouting. Upon your words, she visibly relaxes, folding her arms and shifting to stand a step in front of you, ready to protect you from the person she once trusted if need be.

"We did, in fact, have a connection, and that connection was the reason why your friend now has no memory of who she is," Gortash states, a frown appearing on his lips. "Her father felt threatened by the idea that his perfect assassin was falling for someone, so why not punish those who fell into forbidden love." From beside you, a sudden gag sounds, and Astarion clears his throat.

"I do apologize, but that had to be the most sickening thing I've ever heard, and I don't mean the fact that her father stripped away her memories." It's hard to suppress a laugh at Astarion's words, especially since you can feel the jealousy radiating off of him. Astarion is what you'd call a cat; he thrives when affection is given on his terms, but he is quite territorial with things that belong to him. In this case, you are that thing—mind, body, and soul. You are his human, and he would rather tear the world to shreds than give you up.

Reaching back, your fingers gently brush against him, and he seizes the opportunity to interlace his fingers with yours. A sense of safety and confidence washes over you as his hand firmly holds yours. Gortash, observant of the interaction, advances toward both of you, prompting a tenseness in your body.

"I see you've found a replacement, Little Flower," he remarks. The use of that nickname freezes you, causing your body to stiffen as memories flood your mind. Flashbacks of your younger self and Gortash flow through your consciousness. Despite the rugged and worn-down appearance, Gortash possessed qualities that rendered him remarkably handsome. In the recollection, you both stood in the middle of a flower field, having sneaked off after some convincing. He delicately placed a flower in your hair, affectionately uttering the same nickname.

Gortash notices the recognition in your eyes, prompting him to smile at Astarion. "Seems she remembers that exchange very well. The kiss we shared sealed our promise to one another. Yes, you two are quite...adorable, but let her stay where she belongs. It won't be long until your little romance disappears when her memories return."

Astarion vibrates with anger, and all you can do is squeeze his hand, offering silent reassurance. Gortash attempts to provoke him in a way he knows best, wanting to witness the dissolution of the bond you share. However, Astarion surprises everyone. Instead of reacting impulsively, he closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and regulates the tightness of his grip around your hand. He's wrestling with the urge to draw his knife and thrust it into Gortash's chest.

Your chest swells with pride at how far Astarion has come from the first encounter when he held a dagger to your throat. "I'll never let her go, not until she tells me to. And when she does, I'll do everything in my power to protect her from a distance because she doesn't deserve to revert to the life she once lived. Not when she's worked so hard to build herself a new life. Not when she's almost killed herself fighting the demons that claw at her, begging to escape."

A snort escapes Gortash as he listens to Astarion's words. "To think someone as powerful as you settled for that," he spits, redirecting his gaze toward you. "Have your fun, Little Flower, but as much as I would love to bring up the past and the memories we share, I have other matters to discuss with you," Gortash states, pacing around the room. "Your sister is stirring up trouble and making things difficult. Her newfound thirst for power after you left is creating tension in my city." You know precisely who he is referring to. In your few encounters with Orin, she made it clear that you both shared the same father.

"What Orin does is none of my concern. If she's hell-bent on trying to take something I don't even want, then let her. I don't know what kind of life I lived before this, but I don't want any part of it. I was given a second chance to finally live, and I won't be ruining that over some family drama," you shrug. You notice Karlach adopting a look of approval at your words. Seeing Gortash again is tough for her, especially now that you know you apparently had some kind of relationship before waking up on the ship.

Gortash sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and nods. "Yes, yes, I quite understand what you are saying. You're breaking free from those torturous chains, but your family matters affect the lives of those in Baldur's Gate. I don't care if you are sweeping your matters under the rug, but I want you to kill her. Take out Orin and bring me her stone, and when you do, I'll assist you in defeating the Elder Brain." Something about his words is taunting, making you question the truth of his alliance with you. Almost as if sensing your doubt, he leans against the table behind him.

"I do not wish to fool you; I don't stand for the loss of innocent lives. Orin is out of control, and the brain will wreak havoc if given the chance. If we can control the brain, we can destroy it."

Your mind races as you consider the situation. Releasing a defeated sigh, you clench your jaw, allowing your face to fall into a blank stare. "Fine, I'll kill her." The sound of your group protesting fills the room, echoing off the walls. Gortash only smiles at your words, letting his eyes lock onto yours as your friends attempt to talk some sense into you. After a few minutes, Gortash dismisses you and leaves the room.

Your companions follow behind you, attempting to get your attention before Karlach finally speaks up. "Tav, stop walking away. You know what he did to me and the hell I've lived through. Accepting his offer is a betrayal to me, so you better explain. If you don't, then I have no choice but not to trust you or to stay in the group." Her words hit you hard. She was like your sister, a reason for you to live.

"I'm playing him at his own game. We saw the power these stones had over the brain when we fought Thorm, meaning he had plans for them when he got them all to himself. Trust me, Karlach, I don't trust him either, but we need to take advantage of this. He could be the key to leading us right to the brain so we can destroy it, so I can save all of us," you whisper, looking up at your friend.

Karlach meets your eyes, searching them as if trying to detect any lies in your words. So, you open your mind to her, letting her read your intention with Gortash. Silence fills the area around your group as they wait for Karlach's response. "I trust you," she finally says, sending you a bright smile. You let out a breath of relief at her words as Astarion walks up beside you. You could feel how tense he felt, and you immediately knew something was wrong.

Things between the group had gotten tense after you entered Baldur's Gate. You felt the urge calling to you more than ever before; Astarion was only steps away from having to see Cazador again, and Karlach finally had to come face to face with the person she trusted her life with and who stabbed her in the back. Sending him a look, he nods slightly before looking away. It was a silent communication that you two would be talking when you got back to camp, and you could only hope this wouldn't end in a fight between you two.

---

Upon your arrival, you couldn't help but notice how Astarion immediately headed toward a shaded area. Jaheira spoke quietly to you about matters that needed attention in the city, but your gaze remained fixed on your lover. Jaheira fell silent before laughing quietly, drawing your attention back to her. "You two are quite fond of one another. Go to him; you've been worried about him since the walk back," she said, patting your arm soothingly. Nodding in gratitude, you walked towards Astarion.

He sat on the ground, gazing up at the sky, with rays of sunshine warming his face through the leaves. Stopping behind him, you were unsure of how to initiate the conversation between the two of you. "Star," you said, your voice carried by the slight breeze swirling around you. You sensed him tense, knowing that the forthcoming discussion would likely be tense as well.

With his back to you, he leaned his arms on his knees, shifting his gaze ahead. "So, you were the one involved with the absolute and why we're like this," he stated. Your heart dropped as you looked down. Indeed, you were. Your memories flooded back when you entered Wyrm’s Crossing, remembering who you were, who your father was, and what he wanted you to carry out.

"As angry as I want to be with you, I can't. I know what it's like to feel trapped under a command without being able to escape. I mean, look at what Cazador made me do. I want to be angry, but I just can't," he continued, and your shoulders dropped as you listened to his words. "But that's not why I'm questioning things. Not us; I could never question us. What I'm questioning is what will happen when you fully regain your memory. You and Gortash obviously have something, or rather had something. He talked to you like he was seeing his lover all over again. He looked at you like he was undressing you, ready to show our group of lovely friends that you still belong to him."

There it was—the feeling of your heart shattering in your chest as you listened to his words. He was terrified of losing you, and you had no idea how to reassure him that you're his.

Moving to stand in front of him, you drop to your knees and gently grasp his face in your hands. Opening and closing your mouth, no words escape you. Lost in his eyes—those crimson-red orbs that appear scared and broken—a part of you feels angry, angry at yourself and angry at Gortash for dredging up a past you have no memory of, a past you never want to revisit.

“I meant it when I told you that you mean a lot to me, Star,” you finally say, brushing your thumbs against his cheek. “You’re my entire world. You stayed by my side when the urge wracked my body, when I attempted to take your life that night. You didn’t judge me when it got so bad I caved and harmed an innocent person. You held me and told me that I could beat those urges. You saved me, Astarion, and I will not be leaving you.” His tears begin to pool under the pad of your thumb as you speak.

“Losing my memory was my second chance at life, and then I met you. You gave me something worth living for. Hells, all of our friends did, and I refuse to go back to that life I once lived. I don’t want to be a killer, and I don’t want to be his daughter. I want to be my own person. I want to be able to make my own decisions and control my own body and mind. So, my little Star, I won’t be going anywhere because my home is right here by your side.”

You can tell your words have moved him in some way as he is now fully sobbing. Pulling him to you, you let his head fall onto your chest as you allow him to fall apart in your arms. The fear that plagued him during your meeting with Gortash finally leaves him as he deflates in your embrace. Soon, his sobs quieten, and you both lie under the tree, his arms wrapped tightly around you, almost as if he fears you will disappear if he lets go. In that moment, a peaceful and intimate moment, three words are finally shared between you two. In that moment, you vow to destroy Cazador and show him what true power is. In that moment, the urge claws at your insides, begging to be unleashed, and soon enough, you will let it take over your very being.

[elusivecagedmockingbird]

Bad Omens

[jungkook x reader] [1.8k+ smut, angst; two-part series]

these bad omens, I look right through them, that's what you do when you love somebody

-

The raging buzz you feel collides with the mellow hum of the love song Jungkook has playing on the car stereo.

Each movement you make, a huff and a puff escapes your lips. Your eyes shooting icy daggers at your husband.

Feeling ignored, you pivot your attention to the seemingly endless road home. Your final act was crossing your arms and making sure he hears your snappy and annoyed tsk.

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook has been trying really hard to be patient with you. His energy has been drained up to the last drop during the baby shower you attended. When you both said your goodbyes to your friends, he anticipated a calm drive, but no, for some unknown reason, you decided to flip your bitch switch on him.

Spotting a lay-by, Jungkook swerves the car to the side of the road.

"Why are we stopping here?" Your confusion momentarily eclipses your irritation at the sudden stop. The knot in your brows undoing, and for the first time since you left Jin hyung's home, you and your husband make eye contact.

"Well, Y/N," he huffs particularly at the utterance of your name. "I'm not taking you home with that attitude. So, tell me, what's wrong?"

You scoff. Now you're offended, and when you feel this way, you can't help but be petty. All reason and ability to communicate goes out the window.

"You already know what pissed me off." You unbuckle your seatbelt and attempt to get out of the car, ready for a dramatic exit. But as soon as you unlock the car, Jungkook locks your door from his side.

You grunt, fingers pushing the unlock button. Without missing a beat, he locks it again. You groan in annoyance, and Jungkook 'patiently' waits for you to spill what you've been holding back.

You harshly lean yourself on the seat. Defeated and frustrated, you glare at the doe eyes staring at you. "You embarrassed me back there," your simmering rage starts to bubble in your throat as you choke out a sob. Already tearing up at the mere thought of it as you try to articulate your anger. "You told our friends you never have to deal with me getting baby fever because I lack maternal instinct."

You furiously wipe at the tears freefalling from your eyes. "I mean what kind of husband says that about their wife?"

It was quiet for a moment. Too quiet, and you felt uncomfortable being around the person you love and trust the most. You stifled your sniffles.

Across from you, Jungkook looked like a fish coming up for air, with his lips puffed open and closed. He was speechless and motionless.

Jungkook knew he screwed up when he made that remark. He couldn't even backtrack nor come up with an excuse for it. Sure, you were privy to your emotions even to him, your husband of three years, but he had no reason to be telling people those. But he swears he only wanted your friends to get off his back. He felt like he was in a pressure cooker from all the bombarding comments and questions about when he would have a kid. He could only hope you hadn't heard it back then.

Clearly, he was wrong.

"Sweetheart," he placates, his hands warming your cold face as he cups and wipes the tears. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. That—that was really wrong of me to say." Jungkook pulls you to his chest, and your dam breaks. You're only glad your sobs were muffled. One of your hands curls at the lapel of his leather jacket and the other is clenched, throwing weak, harmless blows to his shoulder.

You stay curled up together inside the car. None of you knows how long, but in that shared silence, he was able to comfort you when he couldn't with words.

The loud clattering of ice and rain falling on your car rouses you. Groaning as you crack your strained neck, you shake Jungkook awake.

"Jungkook, we gotta get home." With a voice as hoarse as yours, he curses and sits up to stretch.

With eyes still squinting with sleep, Jungkook starts the car, then drives away.

-

"Wake up," a voice purrs. The voice is breathy and pointed. It tingles you in all the right places. A sudden surge of pleasure erupts from your core. Still sleep-laden, you softly whimper as your hand aimlessly touches your crotch—aching for release.

Your name is called again. This time, the voice was loud enough for you to recognize it to be your husband's. Your eyes flutter as you look down between your heaving chest, "J-Ju-Jungkook," you moan.

"Breakfast in bed, sweetheart." The proud man between your legs smirks at you, then when he's sure he has your attention, he sticks his tongue out until the tip reaches your clit and flits his tongue up and down.

"Shit, baby," you pant. The spaces between your fingers are filled with his soft hair. You tug his head closer, urging him to devour you.

You hear Jungkook chuckle. The vibration adds to the blinding arousal you're experiencing, causing you to carelessly throw your head back to the soft pillows.

He pulls your legs closer and rests your thighs on his shoulders—his hand cupping your ass. You gasp and your body starts to quiver until your arousal squirts out of you. Jungkook slurps you like his morning orange juice—drinks you in like he was wandering in the desert and he found an oasis in you.

"Sweetest breakfast ever. But I'm still hungry, babe." Jungkook wipes his mouth with his hand while he kneels on the bed to position his hips between your legs. With a cocky smirk, Jungkook immediately pumps two of his fingers into your pussy.

"Shit. Fuck. Jungkook," you wail, body thrashing in your bed. You push your hips towards his hands and you were quick to cum again.

Jungkook leaves kisses on every inch of your skin until he reaches your lips. You slip your tongue in his mouth and bite his lip, evoking a satisfied hum.

"My turn," you propose as you push him on his back.

-

"Okay, answer this, do you want to have a kid now?" You stare at your husband's eyes as yours starts to sting with the brimming tears you're trying to keep at bay.

You want to stay level-headed, not be driven by your emotions. You need to talk to him, Y/N—you remember your mom telling you. She was right. This was a talk between you and your husband, but it's difficult, and somehow, all your talks start with you with your hands up already in defense.

"I want what you want, Y/N." He sighs.

Jungkook was tired—not because of or from you, but physically. Going out straight all night was taking its toll on his body, and with that, he was prone to being more irritable.

"Christ," you cry out. "It's sentiments like those that make me feel like shit, you know?" You grunt in frustration. You look away from him, but your body remains close to his. You want to walk away, but you keep reminding yourself this talk needs to be done. And so, you plant your feet on the ground.

"You think I'm supposed to swoon and love you even more when you tell me you want what I want, but all I feel is I'm alone in making a decision that's too heavy for one person to make." Your confession was sharp on your tongue and it drove daggers to Jungkook's heart.

You recoil at seeing Jungkook's eyes moisten with tears.

"I-I know you love me, Jungkook. But—"

"No buts." He cuts you off. "I love you, Y/N. And I want to have a baby with you."

"You can't just say that." Your voice was soft, like you were worn out, but your eyes remained hopeful as they searched for truth in his.

Jungkook closes the gap between your bodies and leans his forehead against yours. In a whisper, in a voice he hopes would come across as sincere that it mirrors his heart, he re-affirms.

Happy tears fall from your eyes and you kiss him. "Take me home."

Even with the most mundane tasks, Jungkook looked good. Some days, like today, he looked too good.

You slowly pop each button to open your dress. Jungkook remains focused on the road, still clueless to your provocation. You proceed to slip your fingers under your dress, removing the flimsy cloth you call underwear.

At the sound of your seatbelt unfastening, Jungkook looks your way, and it's comical how his mouth pops open.

He swerves on the free road until pulling to a stop. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

Arms outstretched to the dashboard due to his sudden turn, you scoff, "How could you drive that badly?"

"Badly? Are you..." Jungkook faces you. "You're the one out here flashing me. Thank fuck we're alone on the road."

Embarrassed, you impishly grin. With your tits still out and your dress hitched higher on your thighs, Jungkook gulps at the sight.

Catching his reaction, you smirk before climbing on his lap. He lets you. The adrenaline from your near-demise turned to lust. Jungkook grips your hips, hands pushing your dress to reveal your leaking cunt. You, on the other hand, frantically unbuckle his belt before taking out his semi-hard-on. You lick your hand, then stroke his cock to fully stiffen.

"Y/N," he stutters and bucks his hips in your hands. With a staggering drop to his dick, you both whimper. The sudden plunge was rough, but you loved the ache that came with it.

"Fuck," your husband curses. "Look at your tiny cunt swallowing me whole." he goads.

"Fuck into me," you command and Jungkook happily obliges—hips thrusting upwards. He presses his thumb to your lips and you open your mouth to suck at his digit.

Inside the car, a confetti of moans and groans explodes. Your arms wrap around Jungkook's neck to keep you from falling off from his lap. His aggressive thrusts have you bouncing, and you've hit your head on the roof once or twice, but the growing pain goes unnoticed. Thanks to your lover's unrelenting fucking, it's all you can feel, and you let it swallow you whole.

You bite Jungkook's thumb, not too hard to hurt him, but enough to feed into his pain kink. He cums first inside you. He quickly pulls his digit from your mouth and swirls it around your clit until you're reaching your climax with a shriek of his name.

Chest still heaving and high on pleasure, Jungkook teases you, "Think I fucked you good?"

His palm lays flat on your stomach and you laugh.

Yeah, he fucked you good, you muse.

-

>> Ghost of You

[forgeofthenine]

This isn’t even what I wanted to write for Rolan but the nonnie yesterday who sent in that heart breaking ask about if you died fed my plot bunnies so this took over my brain until it was done lol.

For my own mental health while writing this, Cal and Lia have been rescued at this point. I don’t think even Karlach could stop a Rolan who thinks he really has lost everyone. -🪻

~~~~~~~

You’d died before. Most adventures had. The first time, most people tend to understandably panic. It’s not a small thing to wrap your head around, that you’d been here and then not for a moment before you were brought back. One scroll (or one spell from your cleric if you have the diamonds to spend.) and you’re back good as new if not a little worse for wear. Eventually, after it happens enough, you start to get used to it. The window of time for a revivification is so small that death never really has the time to settle in your bones, you don’t feel its cold grip seeping into your soul. You start to get reckless, after all, you’ve always been able to come right back should you fall.

But not this time.

Rolan is at the Last Light, sitting at one of the tables near the entrance with a drink in hand watching Cal and Lia argue animatedly over some ridiculous thing or another. He’d thought about stopping them for the sake of preventing a headache later from their shouting but quickly put that thought out of mind when he realized their nonsense was more a show for the children than anything else. So he bit his tongue and stifled a smile, lest the children realize he can be anything more than a grump.

His seat also gives him the best view of the waystone by the bridge. You didn’t always have time to stop by the Inn and chat with him on your way to your nearby camp but if he could at least see you return safely then his heart could rest easy until you spoke next. It was late in the day already, so you and your group should be returning any moment

As if the gods heard him, at that moment the waypoint flared to life and brought your party back. Two, Gale and Karlach split off immediately towards the inn, while Astarion ran at full speed to your camp carrying something in his arms. He looked around for you and felt the dread sink into his chest when you were nowhere to be found and realization began to dawn. That hadn’t been something Astarion was carrying, it was someone.

Gale and Karlach reach him just as he reaches that horrifying conclusion and begins to rise. Each of them putting a hand somewhere on his person, whether to ground him or restrain him he wasn’t sure. The inn begins to quiet at that, everyone around them taking in their drawn and somber expressions as they look at him. Karlach speaks first, softly as though she’s trying to keep him from falling apart. Though by the look on her face she might also be trying to prevent herself from going to pieces. “It’s going to be okay, there’s someone at our camp who can help. But right now the best thing you can do is to stay here, okay?”

Almost immediately, that cold dread that’s filling him is replaced with a white hot rage. How dare they try to hold him back when they’re partially to blame for what happened. When they’re the ones who didn’t do enough to prevent this from happening. Dimly, he recognizes that not a small amount of this anger is misplaced, after all, these same people he was furious with now had at least been there. They’d tried to stop what happened from happening. They’d had to watch as you fell. All the while, he’d been here, warm and comfortable, drinking and laughing like a fool.

And just like that the warmth of his anger leaves him again and he’s once again overtaken by cold fear. He doesn’t even realize he’s sat down again, or that nearly everyone in the inn is looking at their group with a touch of that same fear. You were supposed to be invincible, this great irritating hero that somehow manages to put off the epic deeds you set yourself to. You weren’t supposed to fall.

Karlach is still sitting with him, Gale has gone over to Jaheira to fill her on what happened. He sees her face harden and then she gives a short nod. She commands the Harpers to gather and she gives orders to increase patrols on certain areas. He must have made a face because Karlach’s soft voice breaks through the fog he’s in again to explain, “We ran into needle-blights, three separate groups. Nasty fuckers if you haven’t had the pleasure. A pain to kill, since they’re tough as nails and the damn things explode when they do finally die. We were all a bit too close when the last few went down after Gale’s fireball but…”. He doesn’t need her to finish, he can almost picture what happened. You were no doubt right in the middle of everything and got caught up in the chain reaction. You probably told them to do it too, you and your stupid self sacrificing ways. By the time anyone was able to get near, it would have been far too late.

Karlach and Gale both look abruptly in the same direction, before they walk off, Karlach pulling him with her as she strode away. “Wha-“ he starts to stammer. “It’s all okay now, Withers worked his magic.” Karlach says, a bit less tense and with far less heaviness in her eyes. Before he can ask another question, namely “Who is Withers??”, they’ve activated the waypoint and he’s in your camp with them.

Shadowheart and Halsin are beside you just outside your tent and are working to try and ease the ache of a proper resurrection as best they can. You look up and see him there and try and give a smile but what you manage to give him is small and shaky and makes you look damn near to tears. Your hands are shaking in your lap where they rest and he runs over and drops to sit as out of the way as he can while still being beside you. His hands reach out and stop as if he’s not sure if you’re stable enough for contact yet. The two healers finish what they can and leave, giving you both some kind of privacy. Really the whole camp can’t bear to take their eyes off you for a moment, in case you fall again, in case the magic doesn’t hold and you slip away.

You look at Rolan and your lip trembles and that’s all it takes for him to wrap you in his arms as tight as he can and you sob. You cry like a child experiencing true fear for the first time and he holds you. He rocks you back and forth and holds you together as you fall apart. And if he’s crying too who has the nerve to say anything. He presses his lips to your temple and holds you tighter. He shifts you both inside your tent as your sobbing slows and sits so he’s leaning against something, and just holds you as you calm. When you fall asleep in his arms, he repositions you both, pausing before he lays down to remove his boots and outer robes with all its irritating bits. He lays down beside you in just his breeches and shirt and pulls you back into him to sleep. He doesn’t know what dreams or nightmares one has after dying, but he can’t imagine they’ll be pleasant.

Because whatever else comes, at least for right now, he will be there at your side to face it.

Flower anon, have I told you recently how much I love you?

This makes me feel SO MANY FEELINGS-

It doesn't help that you somehow managed to pick the exact team my original Tav ran with for almost the entire game/final battle. I just want to kiss Rolan until he feels better and keep him in my pocket so he never feels bad again. This was glorious as always and I love getting your fics in my inbox ♥️