#i could write 5k a day some years ago and feel good about it and now every sentence feels like i am sacrificing my liver

[stories-by-rie]

how to feel excited about my own projects again

[katsu28]

home is wherever you are

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: secretly falling in love with your best friend is tough. secretly falling in love with your best friend who also happens to be your roommate is even less than ideal. the solution? move out! (hint: it isn’t a very good one.) (5k)

warnings: angst with a happy ending, a smidge of google translated french lol

a/n: CHARLES LECLERC!!! CHARLES LECLERC!!!!LECLERC!!! LECLERAUGHCOUGHCOUGH

“I still cannot believe you’re abandoning me.” 

Charles shoved another box of your things into the boot of your car rather huffily, as if to reiterate just how unhappy he was. 

“I’m not abandoning you, I’m moving out of your apartment.” You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully at him. You passed him the last box off the ground, wiping your hands off on your shorts before propping them on your hips. 

“That is quite literally the same thing.” He mirrored your stance in total seriousness, frown unwavering. “And it’s not my apartment, it’s yours now too. Your home.” 

You’d been living with Charles for a while now, having been suddenly evicted from your own place three, almost four years ago. With nowhere else to go, you’d turned to your best friend, and Charles had welcomed you with open arms, giving you a home when you’d needed it most. 

There were many good things about living with Charles—he liked to cook (which boded well with you, seeing as you were no master chef yourself. Except for when he’d gone through a questionable phase of combining cuisines that did not go well together.), he was respectful of set boundaries and agreed upon rules. You had the same taste in shows and movies, which made for little fighting when it came to deciding on what to watch. 

But most notably, he loved to play the piano. It was a hobby he’d picked up during long days spent staying at home, and he was good at it too. An electronic keyboard when he’d first started out, just to see if it was something he was serious about, but as he zoomed through the basics with ease, he’d splurged on a gorgeous white piano that stood proudly in the living room. 

Soon enough, it wasn’t unusual for the apartment to be full of music, beautiful songs of Charles’ own composing. 

He played whenever he had the feeling. Whenever he had something on his mind, whenever he was bored, anything, he’d spend hours at the piano, playing, playing, playing. Some might’ve called it annoying, but not you. You found it rather soothing. 

It had very quickly become a habit of yours to fall asleep listening to Charles play. Something about it seemed to always relax you just enough to the point where you could pretty much fall asleep anywhere if he was at the bench. 

Your favorite spot was on the sofa with a big blanket, watching him get lost in the notes until you drifted off. More often than not, you could rarely get a good night’s sleep without Charles’ accompaniment—your very own version of white noise. 

But truth be told, this past year of living together with Charles had been trickier than the first couple. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment things began to change, but something had definitely shifted between you. 

You’d been trying to write it off just the two of you being very close, but you’d been dancing on the line of close friends and more than friends for a long time. Falling asleep together cuddled on the sofa, lingering touches whilst you were in the same room and in passing, hugs that lasted a little too long to be considered normal. 

The more your feelings for Charles grew, the more worried you became. Worried about what, you weren’t exactly sure. All you knew was you didn’t want to lose the longest and best friendship you’d ever had because you went and fell in love.

“I know. But I think it’s well past time I get out of your hair and try being on my own for once.” You said softly, stepping in to fold yourself into Charles’ arms. 

Most of that was true. You did feel like you needed to live by yourself for a chance, to see what it was like to be fully independent in your adult life. You’d moved in with Charles when you were twenty two, and you were twenty five now. It was time for you to venture out on your own. 

But the uncertainty of falling in love with your best friend was definitely also a contributing factor. 

He made a displeased sound at your words, but tucked you under his chin nonetheless. “I don’t want you to get out of my hair. My hair likes it with you here.” 

“I live fifteen minutes away, Cha. I’m not moving across the country. You and your hair can come over anytime.” You scoffed, giving him a gentle poke in the ribs. “And I’ll come over here all the time too, you know that.” 

“Fine, fine. I don’t know what I am supposed to do with your empty room now, but I’ll figure it out. Maybe I will take up scrapbooking. Knitting. Needlepoint, maybe. Turn it into a craft room.” 

“Maybe you can turn it into a music room. Move the keyboard in there, your piano.” 

“Ah, bien entendu, my piano. How will you ever fall asleep without my sweet, sweet melodies?” 

“I think I will manage just fine.” You chuckled. 

Charles held you at arms’ length, dark brows furrowing as he scowled. “What I’m hearing is you don’t love me anymore.” 

Oh, if only he knew. 

You smiled instead, patting his cheek good-naturedly. “Come on, you drama queen. I want to move in before the sun goes down.” 

Charles went full protection mode the second all your belongings had made it safely inside the apartment, intently checking every lock, window, door hinge, cabinet—not an inch of the apartment went uninspected by him. When he seemed fairly satisfied with his safety checks, he returned to where you were unpacking kitchen items over by the oven.

“Everything up to your standards?” You asked, pulling out a stack of plates wrapped in brown paper. Charles shuffled over, easing them out of your hands and unwrapping them to help put them up in the cabinet. “No one is going to break in through my window tonight?”

“Don’t even joke about that.” He grumbled, chucking the balled up paper at you gently. “Everything I checked is fine. You will be safe here.” 

Food was simple when it came time for dinner—takeout on the floor of your living room, because you hadn’t had the time to go shopping for a coffee table yet. Or a dining room table. Or even chairs, really. All you had were some pillows and an overturned cardboard box to put the food on. 

Charles had insisted on helping you furnish the whole place before you moved in but you’d declined, saying that you wanted to get a feel for the place before filling it with everything. The last time it would be this empty would be the day you moved out. 

He seemed a little quiet the rest of the night, but you didn’t press it until after dinner, whilst he was helping you with the washing up. Well, helping was a strong word. 

“You’ve been drying that plate for ages now.” You observed, tilting your head at him thoughtfully. Charles inhaled sharply, shaking his head like he’d been snapped out of a stupor. He glanced down at the completely dry plate, then back up at you blankly. “What’re you thinking about?” 

“You’re really going to be gone.”

“You say that like I told you I’ve only got days to live. I won’t be gone, Cha. I’ll be around.” You chuckled, flicking dish soap bubbles in his direction. Charles responded by flinging his towel at you, cracking a smile. You liked it when he smiled, hated it when he frowned. He was still unfairly attractive, but it wasn’t Charles’ scowl that made you fall in love with him. 

“We can spend the day together anytime, you can come over whenever you want, and if it makes you feel any better, I will give you your very own key.” 

That seemed to put him a little more in higher spirits. 

 “What will you ever do without me?” He wondered out loud, feigning a thoughtful expression. 

“Probably clean up a lot less. Be able to take a shower without running out of hot water halfway through. Oh! Have a bottle of shampoo last more than a month because someone—not naming names, of course, won’t use it because they’ve run out of theirs. Not have to fight for—” 

“Alright, alright, I get it!” Charles huffed, grabbing you by the shoulders and promptly shoving your face into his chest to stop you from talking. 

You grinned against the softness of his hoodie. “Shall I go on?” 

“No, no you shouldn’t.” His hold on you loosened, but you stayed right where you were, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Just admit it. You’ll miss me.” 

“I will miss you.” You said softly, pressing your cheek into the crook of his neck. If there was something Charles was unbelievably good at (besides literally anything he’d ever tried), it was giving the best hugs. Something about them made you feel safe, like nothing and nobody could ever hurt you as long as you were in his arms. 

“You already know how much I’m going to miss having you around.” 

“Yeah, I am pretty great.” 

A laugh rumbled through his chest. “You are.” 

“You’ve been the best roommate I could’ve asked for. Thank you for everything.” Your words were muffled between the two of you, and you were glad for it, because he didn’t seem to notice the waver in your tone. But he did squeeze you a little tighter, so maybe he did hear you. “I love you, Cha.” 

Charles’ voice seemed to waver just a bit too. “I love you too.” 

“Okay, okay, you really need to leave. Go before I change my mind and make you stay.” You blurted, pushing him away playfully. It was better than letting him see you get emotional. 

“Is that a promise?” 

“No, it’s a threat. Go home. I will see you soon.” You gave his hand one last squeeze, nodding reassuringly to rid him of the crease between his brows. “Don’t worry about me. Go, get some rest.” 

It was only then that he seemed satisfied enough to leave, but even then, he cast another backwards glance towards you on his way down the hall, as if he was waiting for you to beckon him back. You just smiled as best you could. 

You’d get over it. You had to. There was still a lot you needed to get done before you called it a night. 

It wasn’t until you were getting ready to go to bed that you started to feel lonely. You and Charles had your respective bedtime routines, but they always intertwined. 

You never liked being the one to turn off all the lights in the apartment because the switch was at the end of the hallway opposite from your bedrooms, so he knew to do it because you hated running back through the darkness after flipping the switch. 

He always filled a glass with water for late night sipping, but never remembered to actually bring it to his room until he was already in bed, so you always grabbed it for him so he wouldn’t have to make the trek back out the kitchen.  

The bathroom counter was where you’d find each other the most, terrible jokes and funny stories told muffled through toothpaste bubbles, even though you could’ve just waited until you were finished to tell each other. You’d flick water at him as you washed your face because he took up too much space at the sink, he’d turn off the tap in retaliation, things like that. 

Sometimes Charles would stay up later playing video games with his friends, or take some extra time to practice piano, so you wouldn’t get to do your well oiled machine routine, but he’d always take the extra second to pop into your room to say goodnight when he heard you bustling around, even if he was in the middle of something. 

The times you fell asleep on the sofa to Charles’ playing the piano, he’d camp out at the other end of the sofa for the night, or at the very least made sure you were covered with a blanket if he went to sleep in his own room. 

It was something you’d grown accustomed to over the years, oftentimes the well-needed end to a not so great day. Charles never failed to put a smile on your face, even with something as small and mundane as a bedtime routine. 

But there was none of that as you ran through your routine this time. 

You didn’t hear him shuffling around over in the other room, the muffled sounds of his shouts as he played his games, and most of all, you didn’t hear him and his piano. 

Because there was no Charles. Of course there wasn’t. You were in this new place that you hadn’t had quite nearly enough of a chance to get used to yet, alone, and it was finally settling in. 

Suddenly moving out and away from him seemed like the worst decision in the world. 

You knew it was only the first night. You had to give yourself a chance to reacclimate, and that would take time. So you inhaled a deep breath, trying to get as comfy as you could for a long, probably sleepless night ahead. 

It was nearing four in the morning when you finally decided to give up and call Charles. Part of you thought he might not even pick up the phone, because he was probably asleep. Any sane person would be sleeping right now. 

Much to your surprise, he answered on the second ring. 

“Why are you awake?” You asked, maybe a bit harshly. 

“Um, you are the one who called me? Why are you awake?” He replied, groggy voice still teasing. His accent always grew thicker when he was sleepy. You thought it was adorable. “You cannot sleep, can you?” 

“...No.” Your voice grew smaller. You felt embarrassed at the fact that you couldn’t even make it one full night without Charles around. “I just…I wanted to hear your voice, I guess. I miss you already, Cha.” 

Charles fell silent for a few moments, the only sound on his side of the line being his gentle exhales. “I miss you too. Do you want me to come over? I can stay the night, if you want.” 

“No. No, you don’t need to do that.” You said softly. “Can you just talk to me?” 

This was also something that had become somewhat of a ritual when either of you couldn’t sleep. 

You’d tiptoe into each other’s rooms quiet as a mouse, slipping into bed beside the other. Charles always stirred when he felt the bed dip under your weight, half asleep but still reaching out to pull you against his chest like it was second nature. On the occasions when he came into your room, you’d feel him tuck himself close to you, nosing against any part of you he could find with a content sigh. 

There was no rhyme or reason to the things you’d talk about in those moments, but eventually, somehow, you’d both end up asleep, usually fairly quickly. Maybe it was the extra added comfort of each other that helped, you could never tell. 

It wasn’t unusual to wake up a jumble of limbs tangled together, and neither of you ever addressed it either. Just went on with your business as usual, never talking about it because it was just something you did. To help each other sleep, of course. 

Another thing that really blurred the line between friends and more. 

Charles hummed a noncommittal sound, soft and fond like he always was around you. “I’ll do you one better. How about I play some music for you?” 

“Yes, please. Thank you.” You sighed, relieved. He knew what you needed without you even having to ask. 

You heard him get up, footsteps padding along until there was a thud and some shuffling coming from Charles’ side. A few warm up scales in and you were already feeling a little less anxious, letting yourself get comfortable. 

“Any requests from the audience?” 

“Been working on anything new?” You yawned, nuzzling a little deeper back into your pillow. 

“I have, actually. It’s still—fuck, how do you say it…a work in progress?”

“Anything you play is perfect.”

“You flatter me.” He snorted. “Alright, here goes nothing.”  

He began to play. You knew jack shit about music, so there wasn’t much you could think of to describe how it sounded, but you could describe how it felt. You could almost feel the emotion pouring from his playing, even through the scratchy quality of the speaker. 

It felt like something you’d hear in the background of a movie montage, lilting and delicate and warm notes swirling together to create a bright melody, and you couldn’t help but let your mind wander. 

Memories of good times with Charles flashed through your head—all the long days and even longer nights you’d spent together because you thrived in each other’s company, cooking together, binging Netflix shows until you both passed out on the sofa. 

Hushed laughing during dinners at fancy restaurants that Charles could get into by flashing his name, soft conversations accompanied with expensive food and even more expensive wine. 

Day trips up the coast with the top down on the car, pushing the speed limit just to feel an ounce of the freedom that it could give you. Walking through Monte Carlo on late night gelato runs, switching flavors because you both enjoyed each other’s choice more than your own. 

Most of all, you thought of the love you felt for Charles, ever since you’d first met him. You’d never been one to believe in the concept of soulmates, but fuck, it was so easy to think of him as yours. Never had you felt as much for someone as you did for him. 

God, why were you even thinking of those things? 

It would never happen. Any love that Charles had for you would be strictly platonic, limited to however much one could love their best friend. 

Surely he’d drawn inspiration from something else when he’d composed the beautiful piece. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know. 

Soon enough, you’d drifted off like you always did when Charles played, coincidentally right before he came to a lingering stop. 

Had you been awake, you would’ve heard him say that the beautiful piece had been inspired by you. Instead you were fast asleep, still none the wiser to anything. Maybe it was a good thing. You might not have believed it if you’d heard him. 

-------

Charles was on your doorstep first thing in the morning, coffee and pastries in hand when you opened the door for him. 

“Hello, good morning, your savior is here. And with breakfast!” He chirped, coming to just enough of a halt for you to slide an arm around his shoulders in a hug and grab one of the drinks out of the tray before he swept past you.

Bright morning sunlight poured into the open area, washing the whole place aglow. A warm breeze floated in through the ajar window, rattling the shutters only slightly, and you could hear the all too familiar sounds of the city in the morning coming from the streets below. It was a gorgeous picture of peace; one of the apartment’s many fun quirks that convinced you to go for it in the first place. 

The only thing that might’ve rivaled the beauty of the moment was Charles standing at the window, leaning against the sill drinking his coffee while the breeze ruffled his hair. His back was to you as he checked out the view, but even the mere image of him here was nice. 

You sipped your own coffee, smiling to yourself when you realized Charles remembered exactly how you took it. You didn’t even need to look inside the bag to know they were your favorite pastries from the bakery down the street from your former apartment that both you and Charles loved. He was always thoughtful like that. Things like remembering your favorite foods and drinks, and going out of his way to get them as a little pick-me-up. 

It seemed wrong to ruin the moment, but you felt like you had to say something. 

“I’m sorry for waking you up last night.” You sighed, taking a cross-legged seat on a pillow. 

Charles turned away from the window, shaking his head quickly. He took a seat on the floor next to you, long legs stretching out towards your crossed ones to nudge a sneaker against your socked foot. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, I’m glad you called me.” 

“Right, but it’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? First time on my own and I didn’t even last a whole night.” 

“Not pathetic.” He insisted, entirely firm in his words. He set his cup down as if it could strengthen his point. “It is a change, definitely. You can’t expect yourself to get used to such a big change immediately. It takes time, you know.” 

You messed with the lid of your cup, picking at the plastic with a scowl. “I know. But I can’t always come running to you whenever I need help. It’s not fair to you to have to keep rescuing me every time I need saving.” 

“Okay…” He trailed off, stretching out the last syllable in confusion. “I feel this is about something more than just last night. We can talk about it, if you would like?”

“I don’t know what it is.” You huffed. “I thought I was ready to be on my own, but maybe I’m not. Maybe I don’t know I’m doing and I’ll never figure it out, and—” 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. Where is this all coming from?” 

“I don’t know,” You repeated, bordering on a whine. “But what I do know is that I can’t always keep relying on you for everything. It’s not good for me, or for you.” 

“You know, you could always just move back home if you’re truly not ready to do things on your own.” Charles offered, taking a casual sip of his own drink.

Home. He said it so casually, like home was with him instead of this new place you’d chosen to make yours. In a way, Charles was your home. Safety, comfort, love—all the things that made something home, you felt with him. 

That was the problem. You didn’t feel right relying on him for all those things, not without him being aware of how you actually felt about him. It seemed like too much of a burden to put on a friend, even one as perfect as Charles. 

His eyes met yours over the rim and he shrugged. “I still don’t know why you were so insistent on moving out in the first place.” 

You sighed, again. There weren’t many ways you could make yourself any clearer. Other than telling Charles one of the real reasons why you had to leave, which again, was more of a last resort (hopefully not at all) type of thing. “It was time—” 

“It was time for you to venture out on your own, yes, I know. But it doesn’t seem to be working out so well right now, does it not?” The last sentence seemed to slip out of Charles’ mouth before he knew what he was saying, because his mouth snapped shut right afterward. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I don’t want to argue.” 

But what had been done was done, what had been said was out there for you to know. Your coffee suddenly left a bitter taste in your mouth, and the traffic from outside became glaringly loud. The once peaceful atmosphere had been shattered now that you knew Charles’ true thoughts on it all. 

You stood up, letting your feet take you across the room from him. “No. Tell me more, Charles. Tell me how you really feel.” 

His nose wrinkled at the use of his full name. You never called him Charles unless you were upset with him, which wasn’t that often. Even hearing it come out of your own mouth seemed foreign. 

That seemed to change his reaction, because he stood too instead, doubling down on his words. “Okay. Yes, that is how I feel about you leaving. You barely even talked to me about it, and the next thing I knew, you were packing all your things into boxes! I didn’t understand where this—this sudden desire to leave came from. I still don’t.”

“You don’t have to understand it. It’s already done.” 

“Did I—did I do something wrong?”

You almost faltered. Almost.

“Did you ever think maybe me wanting to leave had nothing to do with you?” 

“Honestly? No. It feels like it has everything to do with me. It feels like you moved out because you didn’t want to be around me anymore!” Charles exclaimed. “And I have kept my mouth shut, I’ve been trying to be supportive of your decision, but I think I have a right to know. Am I why you wanted to leave so badly?” 

“That’s…part of it.” You admitted. Charles froze, brows flying up towards his hairline. “But not because of anything you did. Not because of the reason you’re thinking of.” 

“I don’t really see any other explanation. And I am sorry, but that is a shit excuse. I would’ve thought that you of all people would tell me the truth.” He didn’t sound angry, just disappointed and a little hurt. Somehow that felt worse. You’d rather him be mad at you than hurt by you. 

“I didn’t want to move out.” You said firmly. 

“Then why did you?” 

“I had to! I—I couldn’t live there anymore.” 

“But why?” He sounded desperate, begging for you to clue him in to any reason, anything at all that would help him understand. And god, as scared as you were of changing things by telling Charles how you really felt about him, you were infinitely more scared of losing him for good if you didn’t. 

“Because I’m fucking in love with you, Charles!” You blurted, finally. “I couldn’t live with you any longer, keeping this huge secret all the time, because it truly made me feel like I was about to explode. I just couldn’t do it anymore—pretend like everything was alright when every time I looked at you, all I could think about was how I felt about you! How much I felt for you.” Your voice rose with every word, emotion lacing your tone. 

You could feel the tears burning your eyes, threatening to fall no matter how much you willed them not to. “I just thought, maybe if we lived apart, if we didn’t see each other all the time, maybe those feelings would go away.” 

Charles blinked at you slowly. He scrubbed a hand over his cheek, across his mouth, letting it disappear into the neckline of his hoodie as he continued the motion near his jaw. Still, he said nothing. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign or a bad one, but still you continued. 

“So no, it wasn’t because of anything you did. Or maybe it was, for making it so fucking easy to fall in love with you. I don’t know. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t say anything to me, but I’m not sorry for making the decision on my own. It was for the best.”

There it was, out there in the open at last. It felt like a proverbial weight lifted off your shoulders, but at the same time like a thousand rocks sinking to the bottom of your stomach, because he wasn’t saying anything. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how you’d fuck up the best friendship you’d ever had. 

Charles was silent for the longest time before he replied, and when he did, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it before. It felt unnerving. “You could’ve just told me.” 

“Told you?” You had to fight the urge to let out a bitter, watery laugh. “Telling your best friend you’ve fallen in love with him isn’t just something you mention at the bathroom sink one night.” 

“It is, if he feels the same way about you.” 

A coldness crept down your neck, shooting through your veins like you’d just had a bucket of ice cold water dumped over your head. 

“No you’re not—you don't...you can't.” You whispered, disbelieving.

Charles’ brows furrowed in confusion. “What, do you want me to prove it?” 

You couldn’t give him an answer even if you wanted to. You weren’t sure if you could trust yourself to say a damn word, just in case this was all a dream and you'd wake up any second, still alone, still without him there.

He must’ve taken your silence as a yes to his question, because he crossed the room in three strides, took your face in firm hands, and he kissed you. 

Despite your utter shock, you managed to kiss him back clumsily, fingers curling into his hoodie tightly. Charles kissed you like he was afraid to let you go, like you’d slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful enough.

A guiding hand curled around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could deepen the kiss, but only for a few seconds before he broke away, panting. His forehead stayed pressed against yours, soulful green eyes boring into your own in total seriousness.

“Do you believe me now?” 

“Maybe.” You breathed, letting your nose bump against his gently. This was not a dream. Charles was real and here and one hell of a kisser (just as you suspected).

“I am in love with you.” He murmured, stroking his thumb over your cheek fondly. “I have been for a long time. And I never thought you would feel the same way.” 

“I love you, Cha.” You were suddenly brought back to last night, when you’d uttered the same words to him. Only this time, they had a whole different meaning to them. 

This time, you knew Charles loved you in the same way you loved him.

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[sleepyparalysisdmon]

Touch Me I'm Going to Scream

Seungcheol and Y/N have never been friends. Never, not even when they started training at their new jobs on the same day. They’re competitive and they love to correct each other’s work in a brutal fashion. That’s what keeps them at work late one Thursday night.

Pairing: Seungcheol x female reader

Genres: enemies to lovers, smut, office au

Word count: 5k

TW/CW: MDNI, this contains explicit smut and no mention of protection. If you have some claustrophobia, this one might not be for you.

Y/N hates Choi Seungcheol. That’s the only explanation for why her head feels like it’s about to burst. She hates him for how massive his ego is. She hates him for how smug he is everytime he can one-up her. And she hates how she can’t read his fucking handwriting. 

That’s the biggest thing right now. The report he’s slapped onto her keyboard is redlined brutally, but she can’t make out a single word of what he’s written in the margins. It’s like he does it on purpose when he’s assigned to proof-reading something for her. His handwriting is perfectly legible on a whiteboard when it’s his turn to lead team meetings.

He’s already plopping back into his chair to continue spinning his pen between his fingers. That’s what he was doing before Y/N had slapped the report draft on his desk thirty minutes ago. While he was bleeding all over this report, she was busy working on another one. For some reason, her workload was more than his this week, as it often is. 

Y/N throws the report back down on her desk tempermentally, glaring at him cross the double cubicle. “You could at least make it legible. I don’t know what the fuck any of this says, Seungcheol.”

“We’ve worked together for four years, Y/N. You should know how to read it by now,” he replies boredly, not even bothering to turn his chair to face her. But she can see the smirk in his profile. Ugh.

Y/N huffs, rubbing her tired eyes. Her makeup is long gone, save few for a few crusts of mascara. It’s nearly 10pm and the two reports that have been cycled between them are due tomorrow, along with a presentation. Which reminds her. She whips around to him. “The least you could do is start the slide deck. The finalized graphics are in the shared folder.”

“Slide deck is pretty much done,” he says, still sounding bored. “Just waiting on you to fix your wording so I can add it to the slides.”

Y/N resists the urge to bang her head against the keyboard. It would do as much good as trying to understand his handwriting. But she refuses to ask him for help. She only asks him to markup and review things for her because it’s part of his job description, same as hers. 

They’re both junior team leads for their department. The company’s structure attracted her initially when she accepted the role. Each department has a senior team lead, but this senior team lead is supposed to hand down assignments for the juniors to deliver. There are two of them because they believe in learning through collaboration here. 

She liked the idea until she met Seungcheol on her first day. His competitiveness killed any sense of teamwork. 

Y/N puts on her glasses and squints at the paper, making the edits that she believes make sense. She knows he’s not dumb, far from it. If he’s marked something up, that means it needs some attention. She just doesn’t always know what kind of attention, so she guesses. 

With some satisfaction, Y/N slaps the report fresh off the printer onto Seungcheol’s desk. She walks away before she smacks him when he grins, “So you can read.”

“But you can’t write. Work on that so I can bleed all over your report next time.” 

“But you’re so good at it. That’s why you get stuck with so many reports and I get stuck with all the slide decks and presentations.” 

The comment burns her up inside. She must not be so good at it if he bleeds all over the pages everytime she hands him something to review. And the slide decks and presenations are a sore spot for her. He’s far better at public speaking than she is, but everytime they step foot in the conference room, it looks like Seungcheol’s done all of the work. She doesn’t reply to him and she hears the pen click behind her. 

When he hands it back to her, there are only a few markups, and those have blessedly legible notes. Maybe he’s in a rush to get out of here. She makes the edits quickly and prints the copies for the meeting tomorrow. She’s done asking him to review it. It’s gone through three editing cyles and it will be never be perfect enough for him, but it’s nearly midnight now. She opens the slide deck as soon as he drops it into the shared folder, and a single flip through has her shrugging. Good enough. This is his part of the job anyway.

Without any announcement, they stand up at the same time, gathering their things. Despite their constant arguing, they do have a system and can read each other after four years. Y/N rushes to the elevator, pressing the button. Seungcheol strolls leisurely behind her. “Hot date or something?” He teases. 

“More like a hot bath,” Y/N huffs. “What the hell kind of date would start at midnight?” Seungcheol gives her a suggestive look and she scoffs. “I see. Go have fun with that.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. They step in and Seungcheol presses the button for the first floor lobby. The doors slide closed and Y/N is so tired that the little vibration of the elevator gliding down nearly puts her to sleep standing up, kind of like a car ride would. 

Until it lurches violently to a stop. Y/N grips the railing and curses, wide awake again. They’re on the 8th floor, not the first. And the doors don’t open. 

“What the fuck?” Seungcheol hisses, stabbing at the button for the first floor. When it does nothing, he stabs at the buttons for any other floor. He sighs, glancing over at Y/N. “Stairs it is.” He peels back the doors and… there’s a wall. They’re stuck somewhere between the 7th and 8th floor.

He’s cursing loudly now and Y/N has put her head in her hands. “Security should still be here,” he mumbles, stabbing at the alarm button a few times. The blaring is short and shrill and when he steps back they wait in silence. But Seungcheol’s impatient. Minutes pass and he periodically presses the button. Nothing.

Next, he presses the emergency call button. A dial tone rings in the small speaker on the panel. It rings, and rings, and rings. When they hear a robotic ‘Disconnected’, they both curse. Y/N pulls out her phone. Their swearing is becoming creative because neither of them have signal. 

“Might as well get comfortable,” Y/N sighs. Seungcheol doesn’t listen, repeatedly trying the alarm and call buttons. 

~

It’s nearly 1am and they’re both sitting on the floor of the elevator, facing each other with their legs stretched out. “This is your fault,” Y/N mutters in the silence. 

Seungcheol’s head snaps up from the metal wall, pinning her with a glare. “My fault? Write a good fucking report and we wouldn’t have been here all night.”

“The report was fine. What kept us here so late was you bleeding all over my pages,” Y/N said, monotone. This is an old argument and she can’t find the usual energy to give to it. Normally, she gets fired up as soon as he opens his mouth, but she’s exhaused.

Seungcheol scoffs. “As if you haven’t ripped apart my slide decks before.”

“That was deserved. You slapped some graphics on it that made no sense. And who leaves the background plain and white? Pick a fucking theme, there are hundreds to choose from,” Y/N finds herself heating, despite her tiredness. 

“I told you, it distracts from the graphics,” Seungcheol cries, standing up to pace the small space. He’s been a pacer since day one. It’s something he can’t help it when they argue.

“It’s lazy. Pick anything but white and move on. Or better yet, use the template the media departement constantly asks us to use,” Y/N is standing too now. She doesn’t like that he can hover over her. She still has to look up at him when she’s standing, but it’s better than the looming he can do if she’s still sitting down.

“Nothing is ever good enough for you,” Seungcheol hisses.

“It isn’t for you either,” Y/N bites, getting into his face to stab a finger into his chest. “How many red fucking pens have you gone through in four years? And then you turn around in the presentation that I gave you the content for and give me no credit.”

“What are you talking about?” Seungcheol raises his voice. “Your name is always right there next to mine. Get up and present it yourself tomorrow if you want all the credit so badly.”

“What? So you can ream me out later for how poorly I did? No thanks.”

He’s closing in on her, crowding her space, fuming. She backs up into the elevator wall only because she has nowhere else to go. But she’s not scared of him, never has been. She’s angry. 

“Try not to stutter in front of the entire board then,” Seungcheol shouts. “You’re supposed to be the fucking expert, so act like it and say literally anything with some confidence.”

“We’re both supposed to be experts, Seungcheol! We have the same title and job description. Yet I’m stuck with all the grunt work so you can waltz into the conference room, throw up a slide deck, and dazzle them with your charm.” She’s stabbing him in the chest again with her finger. 

“Then get some fucking charm, Y/N. Stop blaming me for that,” Seungcheol hisses, face close to hers. 

She glares back at him. “I hate you so much.”

The words seem to make his eyes harder. “The feeling’s mutual.” Then his lips are slamming into her. His hands find her hips roughly and Y/N’s hand find his tie, tugging hard. He folds to her height, hands groping fast. Her waist, her back, her breasts, her ass. His hands fly to the buttons of her shirt and she smacks them away, pushing him back hard. 

“Don’t you dare rip it,” Y/N scolds, her fingers loosening the top buttons. 

His fingers smack hers away this time and he’s quickly unbuttoning them down to her stomach.”You’re too slow,” he scolds back against her lips, hands tugging the material out of her skirt. 

When his hands land on her bare stomach, she hisses and wants to smack him at how satisfied he looks at the sound. “Don’t get cocky yet. I doubt you’ll be able to make me come.”

Something shifts in his eyes. He’s still angry, but he likes the challenge. “I’ll make you eat your words.” He spins her to face the metal wall, but her whole body isn’t there for long. His hands roughly tug out her hips, leaving her upper body against the cool metal. He’s shimmying up her tight skirt and she can barely adjust to the chill before a hard smack lands on one of her ass. A gasp flies out of her mouth and she hates how wet she is already. His hand gropes at the reddened spot, repeating the process a few times. He leans in close to her ear. “Still think I can’t do it?”

Y/N tastes blood from how hard she’s biting her tongue. “Yes,” she hisses. 

He releases a dark chuckle, and his hands are crawling across her body. He pushes her hair to the side, burying his face in her neck. The kisses and love bites are a distraction as he pulls her upperbody away to shove her bra up, roughly groping her breast and rolling her nipple between his fingers. She’s already keening when his other hand slides between her legs. He doesn’t hesitate to pull the string of the thong to the side and bury two fingers in her heat immediately. The intrusion makes her cry out and he’s chuckling into her neck again.

“For someone who hates me, you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he says patronizingly. 

“Still hate you, but your hands and mouth aren’t bad,” Y/N bites but it’s losing any strength she had before. His fingers are pumping fast and the fingers on her nipple have her mind scrambling. She struggles to keep her reactions under control because she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He sucks on her neck, surely leaving a mark, but she doesn’t stop him because the feeling has her clenching on his fingers. “I offer more than my hands and mouth, but you’ll have to be a good girl and come on my fingers first before you can find out.”

Y/N wants to be strong. She’s determined not to let him have so much power of her body, but his hand slides from her breast to her neck, gripping lightly. She clenches hard at the touch and he’s kissing her cheek patronizingly. “Sweetheart, I had no idea you liked it like this. We could have been doing this for the last four years?” His fingers flex against her neck as the ones inside her curl, making her eyes roll back a bit. “All the late nights here over the years that I could have taken you on your desk after everyone left? Or have you on your knees for me? All the missed opportunities.” His lips find hers and it’s shockingly soft compared to what his hands are doing to her body. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Be a good girl and come all over my fingers.” 

She hates how everything about him makes her shake, orgasm slamming into her. He’s groaning into her ear, hand tightening around her throat. His fingers keep a brutal pace inside of her until she’s hurtling towards another orgasm before really recovering from the first one. It makes tears prick her eyes when she comes again and he sees them. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t cry just yet. You haven’t even had my cock yet.” 

He’s pulling away from her and she clings to the railing on unsteady legs. He grabs her hips, hands still rough as he turns her around. He lowers to his knees in front of her and her eyes widen. But she doesn’t have time to think about it because he’s yanking her thong down her legs, helping her out of it. Then he’s throwing one of her legs over his shoulders. “Seungcheol, what are you -“ Her question cuts off with a gasp as his tongue laps at her intently. She’s already so sensitive that it makes her whole body jerk. She grips the railing with one hand and and the other flies to his hair, gripping the locks hard. But she knows he’s doing most of the work holding her up. 

Three fingers are sliding into her and she can barely wrap her head around the stretch before he’s lapping at her clit. The intensity makes her climb fast, coming hard again. He doesn’t pull away and she realizes he’s going for another one. She yanks his head back hard by the hair. “No. Fuck me now.”

He’s smirking hard at the demand as he tosses her leg off his shoulder, standing up. When he kisses her and she can taste herself on him and it makes her clumsily reach for his belt, ripping it open. He lets her, still smirking against her lips. 

Y/N smirks at him instead when her hand wraps around his cock, because he’s gasping softly against her lips. “Sweetheart, for someone who hates me, you’re pretty hard.” The fire in his eyes is back when she throws his words back at him and Y/N is glad to see it. It means she’s getting under his skin just as much he gets under hers. “I thought you said you’d have me crying on your cock. Was that all talk?”

“You drive me insane,” he grates, voice deep and scratchy. His hands are roughly turning her again, pushing her to her previous position, upper body pressed against the cool metal wall and lower body pulled out, back arched. He kicks her legs apart and his cock presses into the plush of her ass. “You talk too fucking much.” He grips his cock, sliding the head of it into her folds repeatedly and it has her sighing. “Dripping like a faucet for some one you hate. Letting someone you hate make you come over and over. All but demanding for someone you hate to fuck you. Make up your mind, sweetheart. Do you really hate me?” The head of his cock notches into her opening and the stretch is teasing.

Y/N glares over her shoulder. “Yes. Now change my mind.”

He slams into her and she cries out loudly. He sits deep inside her and stays there. There’s something sweet about how his hand brushes back her hair and he kisses her cheek, like he’s letting her adjust for a second. But then he opens his mouth. “Beg for it.”

“No way,” Y/N spits in his face. “Your ego is way too big already.”

“We have all night, sweetheart,” he coos. “Security doesn’t show up until 6am. I can stand here all night inside of you if I have to.” His hand creeps up to her her breast, teasing lighly, refusing to give her any of the impact she craves. She squirms in his arms and he’s chuckling again, holding her still. “Come on, Y/N. I’ll give you exactly what you want, but all you have to do is say please.” He presses light kisses to her neck.

Y/N huffs. “Why do you always have to win? Why can’t you ever let me have what I want?” 

“I’m selfish when it comes to you,” he mutters into her ear. “You drive me up the wall. You’re so fucking beautfiul, but you open your mouth and tell me how much you hate me. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to resist you for the last four years?” He’s smirking against her skin because he can feel how she clenches at his words. “Maybe you do. I’ve seen how you squeeze your legs together sometimes and squirm in your seat when I come over to your desk. Tell me, were you wet all of those times, even when I didn’t touch you?”

He’s right and she can taste blood in her mouth again from biting her tongue. The smell of his cologne lingering behind her is enough any day. He keeps going, hand skating around to lay flat across her stomach. “It’s okay if it did. You make me rock hard at the most inconvenient times. I’ve thought about bending you over my desk at least a dozen times.” Another gentle press of his lips to her cheek. “Would you like that? Me pounding your cute little cunt?”

“I don’t know. Try it out and I’ll let you know,” Y/N bites. She feels his fingers flex against her stomach at the dare. “I won’t be begging until you make me.”

“Such a smart mouth,” he tsks. “Have it your way.” He slides out of her and her head falls back at the drag against her walls. Then he’s slamming back into her, the force making her bump back into the wall. His fingers crawl into her hair, tugging her head back. His pace is hard and fast and it has her seeing stars. There’s a bit of an ego boost for her in how he’s groaning into her ear loudly. “Fuck, can’t believe I waited this long. You feel so good, sweetheart.” The words have her clenching hard around him and he hums in her ear. “Like when I talk nicely to you? Not used to it?”

Y/N doesn’t really have an answer for him because she doesn’t know how to take anything he’s doing right now. The feeling of him hitting her cervix is overwhelming and the praise makes her chest warm. “You look sweet when you aren’t mouthing off to me. I'll give you whatever you want as long as you look like this. Just tell me.”

“More,” Y/N mumbles weakly. He doesn’t comment on how that’s dangerously close ot begging, but instead speeds up to a nearly impossible pace. It has her crying out, tears rushing out of her eyes. He cranks her head to face his again, gripping her throat tight. “Fingers.” This one is another plea disguised as a demand, and the hand on her stomach starts sliding down but she shakes her head rapidly, grabbing at the hand on her throat. She takes two of his fingers into her mouth and he’s groaning loudly now, curses echoing against the walls. His fingers press into her mouth roughly and she gags a bit, but it’s exactly what she needs to fall over the edge, coming harder than she ever has. Her mouth falls open and it makes the orgasm drag out even more that he doesn’t remove his fingers right away. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Can I come inside of you, sweetheart? Please?”

She’s coming again at his desparate tone, but not before saying ‘yes’ around his fingers. As abruptly as he started earlier, he halts deep inside of her, fingers popping out of her mouth to grip her shoulder and pressing his face into her neck with a broken moan. They stay like that for a long time, trying to catch their breath. When he finally pulls out, Y/N can’t help a whimper and he gives a soft apology. He gently turns her, redressing her with care. He guides the thong back up her legs into place, and flips her wrinkled skirt back down, doing his best to smooth out the material. Then his fingers deftly button her shirt back up, helping her tuck the edges back in. 

The gentle touches make her eyes leak again and she wipes them away, smoothing down her hair. He’s watching her with an expression that she doesn’t understand because she’s never seen it before. It unnerves her because this is the sobering moment that she realizes what they’ve just done. 

Rather than thinking about it, she reaches out to zip and button his pants, then buckling the belt back up. Then she’s smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt and tie and straightening his hair up. He lets her. 

~

It’s 4am when they try the alarm and call buttons again. Just like before, there’s no response and they come to terms with the fact that they’ll have to wait until security comes in at 6am. So Seungcheol and Y/N sit next to each other against the metal wall, shoulders touching. She’s been dozing off against him when he speaks up, breaking the silence. “I don’t hate you.”

Y/N feels herself tense, slowly raising her head to look at him. He’s got his eyes closed. “You don’t?”

“No,” he sighs. “You seemed to hate me right off the bat when we started here. We were already fighting on our second day. I didn’t know what I did, and eventually it just made me mad. But I don’t hate you. I never did.”

Y/N smiles a little, looking away from him as she leans her head back to match his pose. “I don’t hate you either. You frustrate me to no end, particularly because of how our work is divided, but I don’t hate you.”

It sounds like Seungcheol starts to say something, but there’s suddenly yelling outside of the elevator shaft. A few minutes later, they’re stepping out of the elevator on the 7th floor to face a very apologetic technician. “My damn phone died,” he said lamely. “I hope you guys weren’t here for too long.” He seems to know the answer already, but Seungcheol and Y/N shrug and wish him a good night, or rather a good morning. 

They’re parked a couple spots from one another in the lot and Seungcheol simply tells her to get home safe. He waits for her to pull out onto the road before he backs out of his spot. 

~

9am comes early. Y/N rushes into the office to throw her stuff into her cubicle and grab the reports on the corner of her desk. Seungcheol’s computer is locked but still lit up, so he must already be here. She finds him in the conference room, schmoozing the execs that they’re presenting to today. No one really acknowledges her as she takes a seat off to the side, pulling out her notepad. 

Seungcheol glances at his watch during a lapse in conversation. “Let’s get started. I’m sure all of you have busy schedules.” 

Y/N glances at the slide deck that was built last night and a small change catches her eye. Report and content by Lee Y/N. Presentation by Choi Seungcheol. He’s making a joke about forgiving him if he looks a little tired because he spent half the night stuck in the elevator, but she barely hears the chuckles becaue she’s blinking back tears. He gave her credit.

Blessedly, the exec team has very few questions following the presentation and compliments her report while looking directly at her. Back at her desk, she falls into her chair, sighing. She’s squinting with tired eyes to read her email when a mug is placed in front of her. Seungcheol simply says, “A little cream and three sugars.” Her eyes follow him as he walks to his side of the double cubicle and sits down, logging into his computer. 

She wants to say something to him - about the change to the slide deck, or the fact that she didn’t know he knew how she took her coffee, or about last night in the elevator, but her phone rings and they’re being called into another meeting. Seungcheol makes sure she takes her coffee with her.

~

Seungcheol waits for her to gather her things right at 5pm. They pass by the elevator bay without a word and head to the stairwell. Somewhere around the 5th floor, Seungcheol turns to her. “Hot date tonight?” His tone is a little teasing.

Y/N scoffs. “Yeah, that hot bath that I didn’t get to have last night. My rushed shower this morning didn’t cut it.” Seungcheol chuckles. “What about you? Hot date tonight?”

“Not unless it’s with you.”

She nearly misses a step and his hand flies out to her waist to steady her. They’ve stopped somewhere between the 4th and 5th floor. “What?” He’s standing on the step below her and they’re basiclaly eye to eye. She’s perplexed when he looks a little sheepish.

“I would have asked you on our first day four years ago, but you were mean to me.”

She shoves at his shoulder and he barely moves. “You were mean first.”

Seungcheol laughs. “Maybe,” he admits, both hands holding her waist. “What do you think? Do you still hate me too much to go on a date with me right now?”

Y/N laughs too. “No, I think I might even like you a little bit now.”

[askinkiskarma]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝟙 | ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀: 𝔹𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕊𝕒𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕐𝕖𝕤 𝕀𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕠𝕗 ℕ𝕠

pairing: Neteyam x f!Human/Avatar Reader

warnings: angst, tragic love trope, the one that got away trope, some fluff, all the feels

wc: 5k words

a/n: surprise??? today's actually the 3 months anniversary of cruel summer being finished, so i thought, what better occasion to drop the sequel than this?? i hope you enjoy besties, i'm so happy to write for neteyam and vol again, they own my whole heart now and always. i'm not sure if people who were tagged in cruel summer want to be tagged for this, so i'm only tagging the people that specifically asked for this series x

to clarify: this series will be following oceans and engines mostly, but both endings will make and appearance and play a part in this story x smooches x

♥ series masterlist ♥ cruel summer ♥ series playlist ♥ masterlist

“I can’t believe you’re mine. And I’m yours, Vol. I’m yours, I’ve always been yours. I’ll always be yours.” 

I'm doing good, I'm on some new shit Been saying "yes" instead of "no" I thought I saw you at the bus stop, I didn't though

“Is everyone ready?” Neteyam was violently pulled out of a memory that he couldn’t shake, that still haunts him every night, watching as his father fretted in their once-shared marui, that he hasn’t spent that much time in recently. He sighed as he looked outside and saw his beautiful ikran that he has neglected in the past year, that was now waiting dutifully for him to bond with her so they can leave, that was another bitter reminder of a life so far removed, it didn’t feel like his own anymore.

He missed Seze, and the feeling of freedom that was so exhilarating, it felt almost wrong for a mere mortal to be able to feel, the feeling that only came with flying far away from the ground, from his problems and worries, from his responsibilities and all the sacrifices they entitled. He tried to ignore how his heart was in his throat, and the layer of sweat that accompanied the anxiety that has settled in his chest weeks ago, as soon as his father announced that they were to temporarily return to the forest, to be there for a special number of ceremonies. Norm and Max let him know that, after a few months of rigorous training, the both of them, as well as Spider... and you... were ready to take your Iknimaya and Uniltaron and become part of the Omaticaya.

It hurt, just like everything about it did, how life moved on despite it all, that it went on and on, and everything changed. It hurt that there he was, having to go back, back to everything he left behind… to everyone he left behind, to witness the life he could have had, a life that felt like a fever dream sometimes, especially now, with the pregnant mate he just kissed goodbye a few hours ago.

Neteyam’s stopped himself thinking about you for so long, it’s become second nature, to push the intrusive thoughts aside, to rummage through his increasingly deteriorating will in order to not allow his mind to bring the images of you in the front of his eyes like a movie on a screen, showing him every moment you shared, culminating in that last day, that still managed to somehow knock the breath out of him and make him dizzy and disoriented. Your touch still lingered on his skin, marking it like the tattoos that now adorned his arm and thighs, except the memory of you and your fingers tracing the freckles on his skin hurt more than any tattoo ever could. Neteyam excelled at everything he did, and so he never thought about you. Except today, when you were all he could think about, when the thought that he would be there to witness your Iknimaya, your consciousness transfer, when the talk he had with Kiri was the catalyst for it and was now ringing in his head, like unceasing echoes. 

“Do you think they’ve moved on?” Kiri, much like her brother, shared so much with a human, so much more than could ever be said out loud or expressed into words, only to have it taken from her as she moved to Awa’atlu. Unlike Neteyam, though, Kiri wasn't willing to throw in the towel just yet, stubborn as she always was, especially now that the person she loved got an Avatar, now that he was working towards becoming Omaticaya, now that there seems like a second chance was bestowed on them by the grace of Eywa herself. Neteyam has always admired Kiri, and her joie-de-vivre, her ability to always speak her mind and do whatever she felt was right without infringing on their parents' rules, but also without sacrificing her own happiness, and her overall ability to thread the middle line between her two brothers, which were the two extremes of the same spectrum.

“Do I think who has moved on?” Neteyam knew very well who Kiri was referring to, but half-hoped if he acted oblivious she would just drop it. He should know his sister better than that.

“Stop. You know very well who.”

A sigh so deep it felt like it was exhaled from the pits of Neteyam’s soul escaped him, and he had to think about his answer, something he didn’t want to have to do. 

“I don’t know. I hope she did.” I hope she didn’t. 

“Do you?” 

“…No.” 

“Doesn’t it kill you? Knowing they have Avatars now? Because it kills me. it kills me to know I could have had all this time with him, if only I just waited, or fought harder. If only I tried a little more. If only I just went to mum and dad and just told them the truth. But maybe this means something, the timing. Maybe it means we had to leave and learn and see the world, to know that no matter what, for us, it will always be them. For me, it will always be him. Maybe this was the second chance at love I never even knew I could ever have.” 

The news of your new Avatars reached Awa’atlu months ago, while Neteyam was having dinner with his now extended family, including his father and mother in law, as well as his mate, and for the first time since the night after you left, Neteyam needed to excuse himself and leave, taking his ikran and flying away, flying for hours, coming so close to just leaving it all behind, just so he could at least catch one glimpse of you again, just so he could hug you and tell you how happy he is for you, how much he hopes this Avatar can finally give you the life you’ve always wanted, the life you were always meant for, so he could watch the tears gather in your eyes and drop down your face and know that that very image would be enough to confess harsher truths that he should never think to say out loud again, like how he’s still in love with you and always will be, how nobody would ever be able to replace you, how he wishes every day things would be different. 

In those months passed, Neteyam learnt to accept that much like he’s come to know in his life, and especially after you, some things just are not meant to be. That no matter how much love there is, how much desire to make it work, some things are beyond control, beyond any fight he still had in him. He believed in Eywa, and trusted her judgement and her will, and Eywa chose this for him. And he was happy, as happy as he could be, with his current life, with a mate that was strong, and intelligent, and kind and sweet, and incredibly beautiful, and the little baby that she was currently carrying in her womb, the little baby that would make Neteyam the happiest man in the world once they were born. Some things just weren’t meant to be. And your life together, the one you’ve left behind, the one he’s left behind, was one of those things. 

“Stop. I have a life now, Kiri. A different life. I have a mate. I can’t think about things like this anymore.” 

Kiri puffed and rolled her eyes, before getting up from her spot on the floor and leaving, but not before she said one last thing. 

“Just because you can’t think about it, doesn’t mean you don’t.” 

Neteyam couldn’t argue with his sister anymore, not when she was right, not when regardless how much his sheer force of will denied him visions of you, memories of you, at his most vulnerable, in his dreams, your smile was all he saw, your transcendent alien beauty his own personal sun, his own personal guide post and his light all in one. He couldn't deny you when, still to this day, the reminder of your eyes that shone like stars in the night sky, that were the mirror to your soul he could drown in and be thankful for the chance to be overcome in you and in the love that he used to know so intimately, in the laugh that still echoes in his ears, in the strength that informed his, in everything you were that he didn’t have anymore that still held power over him, was still able to empty his brain of every other thought that wasn't this, and wasn't you.

I hit the ground running each night I hit the Sunday matinée You know the greatest films of all time were never made

“Kid… are you ok?” 

A hand on your shoulder pulled you out of your focused rumination, a state you found yourself in more and more these last few days, as the mostly exciting and somewhat dreaded arrival of the Sullys approached, a state that culminated today, as you were only a few hours away from seeing them again, from seeing him again. Your head snapped to the man who talked to you, a man who sympathised with your pain more than anyone else. Norm tried his best. After finding out about you and Neteyam’s relationship, he has kept the updates about the Sully’s lives to as much as he felt you needed to know, and you were grateful.

Still, you couldn’t help hear some things, huge things, monumental things, things that shifted your world on its axis and emptied whatever was left of the contents of your ribcage. It’s not like you didn’t expect it to happen at some point, and yet, expectations meant nothing when your mind still tried to cling on to every single ounce of delusion it could in order to survive. In your mind, you were still 18 and Neteyam was still your best friend and the dreams that plagued you every night, of an alternate reality you couldn’t help but still yearn for, one in which he was still yours and you were still his, one in which he never let you go and you were overwhelmingly happy and sickeningly in love, didn’t stop when you woke.

But that’s all they were, just dreams. Because in reality, you had a different life - a good life, a life you couldn’t really complain about, one in which you had an Avatar and friends and loved ones, in which you could finally breathe the air that poisoned you for the majority of your life, one in which you were about to become one of the people, the way you’ve always wanted… one in which Neteyam’s mate was pregnant with his child, one in which every last delusion you had came crashing down into the ground, forcing you to leave the past behind once more and wake up to the world surrounding you, that despite his absence, hasn’t stop moving on and along. 

In the few months since you found out, you tried… you really tried, every day of your life, to take a page from the book of the rest of the world, and move on. You focused on training and on yourself, you threw the necklace Neteyam gave you that meant so much to you once, you put all the stuff that reminded you of him in a designated box that you never touched, that lay safe from sight beneath your desk, correctly labeled so as to not mistakenly pick it up and rummage through it. 

You spent most of your days in your new Avatar body, testing the limits to which it can be pushed, working harder than you ever had to belong, to learn, to see, to leave your human self behind and embrace this body which will soon, with Eywa's will, be your only one. Having this body came with a lot of advantages, too many to count, one of which you never really considered, but now were trying to embrace: dating. Being openly courted, and wanted, the possibility of spending your whole life with one person, that chooses you every day, the possibility of mating, of experiencing tsaheylu with someone else, of having a family, it was all new to you... all new and overwhelming and bittersweet. You've never allowed yourself to think about the future before, because you knew it would only lead to heartbreak. What was the point, when the only man you've ever loved was out of your reach, when your body wasn't made for this world, where the possibility of bringing a tiny human to life only to watch them suffer the same fate of struggling between two lives, neither of which you truly belonged in, terrified you.

But now, you had to think about it. You needed to think about it. Did you want it, all of it, any of it? A family, a mate? Did you want to feel love again, could any love feel the same way, as poignant or powerful or earth-shattering as the one you had? Could anyone's touch or smile or laugh, anyone's eyes or hands or tahni, anyone's voice or embrace or beauty ever elicit the same emotions in you? You wondered if they did for him, and his new mate. You wondered if he moved on after all. You hoped he did.

You hoped he didn't.

You watched as Spider gobbled down the food that was placed in front of him, with enough ferocity to really buy into a notion that he has, indeed, never seen food before in his life. You rolled your eyes as you pushed a paper napkin on his tray, laughing at the way he hurried to brush the stray crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand instead. Spider was very excited about today. You couldn't help admire this boy you grew up with, that you had to watch turn into a man and mighty warrior, and the simplistic way he approached life. Life was black and white to him, and more and more, you were jealous of the shades of grey that always plagued you, making everything a lot more complicated than it ever needed to be.

To him, life was simple: when him and Kiri were together, they were together and it was love, and it was all he needed. When they left, he realised immediately that it was outside of their control and that there was no other way, and understood them and moved on. That simple. Now that they're coming back, and he has an Avatar, and he will soon be one of the people, life is once more simple in his eyes - all he has to do is just... go for it. And he will. And you knew there was enough stubbornness and impulsiveness in Kiri that she would drop everything and join him.

Life had never been simple in your eyes. Your relationship with Neteyam... never simple. It was wondrous, and magical and unique... and it was sad, beautiful and tragic. When he left the first time, when they left, they took everything with them. When you went to Awa'atlu, and he confessed, he gave everything back and more. And then all you could do is watch as it was cruelly plucked away from your grasp, before you even had a chance to hold it tightly against your chest, before needing to let it go... forever.

Life was never simple in his, either. There was so much, too much to do, to achieve... so much to strive for, so much to make up for... so much to sacrifice. And it didn't matter. The love didn't matter, because there were bigger worries and bigger responsibilities. And in the end... maybe he found it was for the best. He might have had to give up being Olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya, but Eywa rewarded his new life within the Metkayina with the privilege of leading a new tribe. Of being the father of the next Olo'eyktan, the first child born of a forest Na'vi and a reef Na'vi. It was a blessing. A miracle. Your nightmare. And one you'd have to face again, in a matter of hours.

It was strange, going through the village, seeing the grandiose garlands, fires and displays that were being put forward for the arrival of the Sullys. You weren't surprised, not at all, although it was easy to forget sometimes, when you remember the warmth and tight family unit, the intimate moments being buried in Neteyam's chest as he purred lightly as he drifted off, how in those moments, he wasn't the prodigy of the Omaticaya, nor the son of the greatest warriors on Pandora, but just Neteyam, your best friend, your confidant, your everything.

He was never yours to lose.

I guess you never know, never know And if you wanted me, you really should've showed

"Ma Tawtute!"

The voice of Tarsem cut through all the commotion and perked your ears up, your newfound heightened senses still something you were getting used to slowly. You smiled at the sight of his smile, always wide and sincere when it looked at you. You were grateful for Tarsem. He somehow did for you and Spider what neither Jake, Neytiri or Mo'at ever did. He made you part of the people. Even before you got an Avatar. He showed you that the human proverb was indeed true - where there's a will, there's a way, and much to your infinite sorrow over the matter, more and more it seemed the Sullys had very little of either, when it came to the two human children abandoned here after the war.

But he did. Tarsem did. He took you both in, and trained you and allowed you to know a real family, a real sense of community. It was a bit surreal how quickly the other adapted after seeing how their new leader behaved. It was also surreal to think that you could have had this your whole life, and yet you didn't.

"Oel Ngati Kameie, ma Olo'eyktan!"

"Agh, I told you not to call me that. It's just Tarsem."

You watched carefully how his tail undulated wildly behind him, knocking into his thighs haphazardly. You were still trying to understand your own tail and decode the few patters you have noticed in others. Erratic tail meant excited... it meant happy. Was he happy to see you? Was the purple twinge in his cheeks just the result of the busy schedule he was forced to undertake in the past few weeks, the unrelenting duties of the chieftan that tired him? It had to be, because there's no way that-

A loud cacophony of war cries interrupted the moment, and right now, for just a second, you were almost glad. Only for a second, only until you remembered what the yells meant, and as you did, so did your mind start racing and your heart gallop in your chest, and you were glad, as you have been for a while, for the fact you no longer required a mask to breathe, because it would have been fogged blind by now, and you needed your senses - you needed to be acutely aware of your surroundings, of your own body, if you were going to come face to face with the family you once thought was your forever home, and the man you once couldn't imagine existing without.

You recognised their ikran immediately, the incandescent beauty and unmistakable colour patterns hard to forget, even if you didn't spend nights dreaming about them. Seze was last to land, and as soon as she did and he dismounted, you saw his gaze scanning the crowd awaiting him.

Your eyes meet and in a second, a sea of memories flooded your mind, flashing before your eyes like the stereoscope Norm and Max gave you on your last birthday. A thousand images, some that made you want to smile, others that made you want to wail in agony, all that tugged sharply at the string of your heart until it reminded you of all the loose stitches keeping it together.

As he approached, his eyes never leaving yours, you saw in them the same emotions you were going through, and it was easier than you thought it would be, being in his presence, and you realised you didn’t really want to die anymore, and the pain of his soul spilling all around you like endless rays of sunlight and all he meant to you had dulled slightly in time, but still, nothing changed, you realise sadly. Despite all the changes in his appearance, he was still Neteyam, still the man you loved and would always love, still not yours anymore. 

“You’re a lot… taller than I remember.” his smile was soft and tentative, and you were grateful that he talked first, so that you didn't have to. He's always known you, down to the darkest corners of your being, and while it was a hard pill to swallow now, you appreciated it in the moment, his intrinsic ability to know exactly what to do or say, in order to get you to relax.

“And you’re a lot shorter than I remember.” you laugh and just like that, the tension dissipates slightly.

“It’s good to see you... Vol.” 

Vol… the nickname electrified your every nerve, and you felt a whole year of progress slowly being undone, but unlike before, you knew how to put yourself back together again... you were forced to learn in time, and you were grateful for it now. 

You smiled a little, and you took him in, all the changes a year brought forth that you weren’t there to witness. He was leaner, all the swimming streamlining his body a lot more than being in the forest ever did. He had a big, intricate tattoo on his left arm, and one on his lower abdomen. His signature braids were gone, replaced by half braids that opened up into soft curls. He was handsome, so handsome, but you missed his braids, and his more muscular appearance. He looked a lot less Omaticaya now, which you knew he would, but it still filled you with a sense of sorrow, the departure from his roots, from his true home… from you.

“It’s good to see you too, Teyam. Seems like the reef agrees with you.” 

You let out a big exhale as he covered the ground between you and enveloped you in a hug, his head finding the crook of your neck, and you found tears haunting you at how well your new body fit in his, how you were the perfect height for the perfect hug, how your face almost moulded into his chest like the missing piece of the puzzle you’ve both tried to solve all your life, but will now never be able to. How unfair the universe, you found yourself asking again, to give you this avatar just a few weeks too late to matter, to change anything. 

You tightened your arms around him and you stood there, in the silence, just listening to his breath and your own, and trying to ignore the small drops falling down your back. They weren’t tears, you told yourself. Not his tears. And neither were the droplets falling down your face.. Not tears. Not your tears. 

Before either of you could say anything else, a sea of people, all who knew and loved Neteyam, all who wanted to greet him and talk to him and be around him, pulled you away from him and gave you a chance to greet your lost siblings. Lo'ak was taller, so much taller, and you were amazed to see his progress, not just physical, but mental - too. He looked confident, and happy. He looked like he found his home, his purpose, his people. Kiri, on the other hand, had eyes for no one other than one person, who, in time became the embodiment of this tribe you both loved so much - strong, valiant, forged in fire. Spider was as much Omaticaya as the people born here, and soon, he will be born again, a true man of the tribe, and gain his place amongst the Na'vi forever.

There were moments, infrequent and far apart these days, when you craved the intimacy: to be loved, to be revered, to be cherished once more. It hurt, right now, looking at Kiri and Spider, at the unspoken conversation they were having without a single word, that felt so intimate, it almost felt wrong for you to be able to witness it. You had that too, once. You wondered if anyone would ever look at you the same, ever again.

Neteyam felt overwhelmed, a feeling he didn't experience too often in life. He was being pulled away in all directions, by people he's known all his life, with wide smiles and words of congratulations and elation for the mateship, for the incredible new progress made with a powerful clan they've never been close to prior to this, for being the next Olo'eyktan, for news of his approaching fatherhood. So many opportunities, once greater than the other, he realised, and he was grateful - for the attention and the love, the care that never diminished even with his family's departure. He tried to listen and engage, but his eyes couldn't stop themselves from being drawn to one figure, and one alone.

It was surreal, looking at you, the you that didn't quite look like you, and yet, even twice as tall and a different colour... a different species altogether, even as you stood right now, back turned to him, talking to his family, you were still someone he would be able to recognise instantly, for the rest of his life. Your tail, a now clear window into your emotions, gave away the anxiety and alertness that mirrored his own. It was good to know this wasn't affecting only him, that much like your whole lives, as long as you had each other, neither of you ever had to go through anything completely by yourselves. He was sad, so sad, that he knew nothing about your life anymore, except for the small snippets he overheard or the few pieces of information he sought out in the few moments, far and few in between, when his heart didn't feel like it was crushed under the weight of your momentous memory, that was still too heavy to lift proudly, with a head held high.

Before his mind could wander in waters too deep and dangerous to safely swam in, the voice of the new Olo'eyktan pulled him out of his musings, and it was almost contagious, his celebratory demeanour.

"To celebrate the return of our Toruk Makto and his family, the brightest feathers in the bow that is the Omaticaya clan, and the upcoming Iknimaya and Uniltaron of our four Tawtute, I now declare the official start of the festivities. May the hunts of life forever bring you back home, Jakesulli, Neytiri, Neteyam, Kiri, Lo'ak, little Tuk. And to our little humans, may Eywa bless your endeavours and allow you to join us as part of the People, forever and for always."

He was good at this, Neteyam noted. Being a leader. Tarsem wasn't much older than Neteyam, but, right now, he felt like there were mountains separating them. He was poised and intrepid, he commanded everyone's attention in a way that only his father ever did, and he realised in that moment that, despite being heartbroken about it at the time, he had been right to choose him, instead of his own son.

The celebration was as exuberant and exhilarating as Neteyam remembered, and with the nerves plaguing him for weeks gently out of the way, he was able to enjoy himself and relax, catching up with his grandmother and his friends, all people he's missed dearly. The one he missed the most kept busy with his siblings, almost making a point to avoid him, which he couldn't blame you for, although the effort was not enough to prevent the way your eyes met regularly, subconsciously searching for each other, even now, after all this time. So many things have changed, monumental and forever-altering, and yet, somehow, he didn't think this ever will.

"He will need a mate soon. The Tsa'hik is tired, Jakesully."

It was way past eclipse when his grandmother's words pulled him out of the pleasant conversation he was having with an older friend, and he turned to her and watched as she smiled a sly smile, giving a pointed look to his mother. "And since my daughter decided to abandon me, I need a new Tsakarem. The clan, now more than most, needs stability, they need to know they will be in good hands."

"Ah, Mo'at... he's still young, give him time. He will find a mate soon enough. He's good looking, intelligent... a good warrior, a good leader. I wouldn't be surprised if women were throwing themselves at his feet."

"They are, but he doesn't have eyes for any of them. In fact, there's only one person he sees, and it's obvious to everyone but her."

Neteyam followed his grandmother's gaze and felt his breath hitch in his throat at who it landed on.

As he dug into the food that he missed so much, that he loved with all his heart, that was so carefully prepared by the best hands in the clan, it all tasted spoiled and rotten in his mouth, as soon as his eyes locked on your figure on the other side of the fire, laughing wildly in an intimate display of affection, while Tarsem's hand was placed carelessly on your thigh.

And if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow And it's alright now

taglist: rebeccao03 @i-live-in-a-fantasy-daydream @eywaeveng @midnight1812 @fanboyluvr

[writeblrfantasy]

around six years ago, i started writing seriously for the first time. it was fanfiction. (glee fanfiction if you're curious.) i wouldn't write something original for the first time for another year.

i loved writing fanfiction--i put my whole unashamed heart into it, i didn't even think about whether it was good or not, because i was having a blast. i wrote for many different fandoms, i wrote one (short) fanfic a day during december based on one word prompts, and i would send them to my friend each night--a routine which got me through a very hard week of my life. i wrote buckets and buckets of fanfiction.

and then, i'm not sure when and why that changed--i read and still do read something on ao3 almost every night for dozens and dozens of fandoms, after all. but the more i wrote original books, i stopped writing fanfiction, and over the years, writing fanfiction seemed like an impossible task.

i tried a few times, i wrote a customized fic for my bestie's birthday, but i could never get far usually. it felt alien and intrusive to try and write someone else's characters. it would always end in shame and this feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong.

i don't have any of those early fanfictions from six years ago because i deleted them, convinced they were hot garbage (and they were, but i still would've liked to have them!)

i continued to write originally, still reading fanfiction almost every night and participating in fandom in other ways. and then in late 2021, i wrote and finished a good fic as a herculean labor of love. in spring of 22, it took me an incredible effort, but i took one of my old surviving fanfics and edited it to new standards, and then encouraged by my victory, i wrote 2 more fics and started a bunch of others.

i made an ao3 account and posted these all, and was encouraged like never before by the comments i received, the love i had never received because i'd never posted my fanfics before. slowly, the shame wore off. i could write fanfiction again. it became something i could do while sitting on my phone in a waiting room having an anxiety attack, something to do before i went to bed, something i could do when a fic i wanted didn't exist--i could finally just write it!

and now, we come to this year. in 23 so far, i've written and posted 11 fanfics adding up to 100,805 words in total, in two fandoms, with several fanfic wips in the works. two weeks ago i wrote, without meaning to, 7k of a fic in one day to finish it, a week after finishing the source material. i'm still hesitant to share snippets of fics with friends not in those fandoms, but i did in this case and was told by a friend that it was some of my best writing ever--original and fanfic combined. period.

in january when i watched my favorite movie too many times to get anything more out of it, i turned to fanfiction, where i had a fic i mentioned was inspired by my favorite fic in the tiny ass fandom, which the creator then saw and was flattered by, and continued to read all my fics in that fandom!

this would turn into a 7 part series which i would post once a week, whipping up 5k minimum fics in a matter of days. i was shameless. i was carefree. i was living for the familiar usernames in my comments, and the serotonin of pushing that "new post" button. i was having fun.

in moments where i would wonder if the fic i was writing was cringe, if anyone would like it if i posted it, i reminded myself that i read fic every night. fic is often the first place i turn after finishing a source material, and what i look forward to while consuming that material. if everyone who thought like me about their fics didn't post, i would be without fanfics to get me through my fandom experience, and i would hate that. so i kept writing and posting.

now: my relationship with writing fanfiction has never been healthier. i am better than where i was at six years ago, because my overall writing skills have improved about 1000%, and because i'm posting now. writing fanfiction now often provides me a break from the stress and complexity of writing original novels, and it's a lovely wind down bedtime activity.

so, i suppose if there's a takeaway from this post, it's that fan content creators, no matter what you create, and no matter how small the fandom you're creating for, even if you're the first work in your fandom, keep creating. what you're doing is real and worthy and just as important as original content, and keeps the heart of fandom alive. i am so happy i repaired my relationship with writing fanfic, and it's made me happier this year than i thought possible, due in large part to the incredible commenting communities in fandom. i wish the same for all of you <3

[lia404]

Get to know me better game—2 in 1 because I'm 6 months late

Tagged by: @baratrongirl and @missmewachu

Thanks for being so patient while I was figuring out how Tumblr works again and why I had a blue dot beside "Activity" (as in, notifications about tag games I've been sent 6 months ago. Better late than never 🤦‍♀️) Thankfully the tag games you sent my way are very similar so it won't be hard to do 2 in 1!

Last song I listened to: Chipzel - Courtesy - YouTube

The 1st track of Super Hexagon, composed by Chipzel. Chipzel's music has been a pick-me-up since 201...4 I think? And since I fell back into Super Hexagon around a week ago, the music has also found its way back into my work playlist.

Currently reading: Trick question! There is what I am MEANT to read, and what I am ACTUALLY reading.

What I am MEANT to read is To Shape a Dragon's Breath, by Moniquill Blackgoose, which has absolutely all the elements I need to love a book. The problem is that my brain absolutely refuses moving further than Chapter 1, and I've been stuck for MONTHS. The good news is that when it happens, I usually struggle until the moment my brain finally snaps and I read the whole book in an afternoon. Wait for me, Moniquill Blackgoose, I'll soon be raving about your book.

What I am ACTUALLY reading is... well, it's more re-reading, but I'm going through Happy Hour by Inkflavored and Keep the Light Shining by Clydeside, two Yu-Gi-Oh AUs that have been incredibly healing for me in the past months, for very different reasons. I wanted to re-experience them to see if I could turn them into fanbinding projects (if the authors give me the authorisation of course, but I haven't reached this level of confidence yet, let's give it time.)

Currently watching: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS.

Do you believe me if I tell you that it was an accident? It kinda was though! I wasn't the one who played the first episodes I just kept going afterwards. That said, I have fully adopted Yusaku. I kind of wish he could meet Philip from Kamen Rider W. Things would go so well.

Currently writing: this one is plain cruel, because after a drought spell of almost 2 years, I finally feel like getting back into writing (thank you, current obsession.)

I have 3 WIPs, one PWP because I like a challenge, one backstory of a character that has basically become my OC, and one AU that @wisyhana created and that I'm using as a wonderful sandbox. I am between 2k and 5k into each, nothing is complete, I'm losing my mind. But at least I'm writing again, right?

Spicy/sweet/savoury: Okay yes no it's cruel again and you will not make me pick just one.

If you've followed me these past years you know that I have completely lost my sense of taste between 2020 and 2023. I was lucky enough, and honestly even the specialised doctor said it was a miracle, to have most of it come back to me abruptly in March 2023, after 3 years unable to enjoy a bit of chocolate or a nice gratin. Some tastes are lost forever, but so few compared to what came back that I just can only be very very grateful and very confident in saying SPICY SWEET SAVOURY I'LL TAKE THEM ALL. I LOVE TASTES. ALL OF THEM.

Relationship status: I have been told polyamory looks good on me.

And I am lucky to have the most patient and tolerant lovers ever. EVER. I love them so much and I'm so bad at showing it because I am a mess. There isn't a day where my heart doesn't overflow with gratitude that they are in my life and agree to putting up with my bullshit.

Current obsession: Listen, Mew put it SO ELOQUENTLY I can help but quote:

mentally ill traumatised japanese teenagers and their ancient egyptian guys who hang out in their jewellery all playing card games.

So, yeah, current obsession is Yu-Gi-Oh!, and with it Duel Links, and everything children-card-game-adjacent. I am currently trying to figure out why everyone in this kid's show is so hot and delightfully traumatised. Characters after my own heart, all ready to be projected on and used for cathartic writing purposes. Other obsession is MEW'S FAULT TOO ACTUALLY since it's my newly founded Clan in Flight Rising. Ask me about my dragon Atem.

Favourite colour: I like my colour like my wine—burgundy. (I actually like all sort of shades of purple, violet and red, but I don't know how to list them.)

Tagging: Wow uh who do I know around here who is still active?

@twilightknight17 for sure (although I'm sure you already did it), @wingsonghalo maybe? Uuuh, I think @the-wanderer-of-thoughts and @istadris? You know, considering how inactive I am here, I think it's already a lot, but if you're not in the list and want to do it too, be my guest!

[ferventrabbit]

Ao3 Fics

Hello hello! I thought I'd pin a post of my works on Ao3 :-). Here are the pairings I write:

Hannibal: Hannibal/Will Good Omens: Aziraphale/Crowley Interview with the Vampire: Lestat/Louis Our Flag Means Death: Ed/Stede Red White and Royal Blue: Alex/Henry

Fic Key

🤝 Collaborations

Series

🐭 Hannibal: Disney for Cannibals

🏡 Our Flag Means Death: Tales from a Seaside Inn

Completed longer works (>5k)

Hannibal

🐭 Tale as Old As Time (M): "I would consider very carefully before moving any further, Will," says Hannibal. Will can feel the mirth dancing in time with Molly's pulse. "What am I considering?" A great perhaps," he says. If he could learn to love another, the spell would be broken. But who could ever learn to love a beast? (24.7k)

Our Flag Means Death

🤝 Ariadne with art by @babykittenteach (E): While out thrifting for furniture and decorations for the inn, Ed comes across a painting that leads him on a journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance. (17.3k)

Down to Fall (E): Stede decides he wants to expand their repertoire, so to speak. Like all things worth having, it's worth working for. (5.9K)

High Point (T): Documentary videographer Ed Teach retired at the top of his game five years ago. An odd request from documentary producer Stede Bonnet has lured him back into the field to join a film crew in the mountains of India. Ed and Stede are looking for a snow leopard, but end up finding something unexpected along the way. (9.6k)

🏡 Old Friends (T): The crew of the Revenge pay the innkeepers a visit. (6.7k)

One Day You'll Awaken (T): A sea witch gives Edward Teach a gift - Blackbeard, a shadow, a sentinel - to keep him safe and strong. Her condition? He must keep Blackbeard close, or she will make sure he sleeps soundly forever. Stede Bonnet threatens to ruin her plans. (32.6k)

Red White and Royal Blue

Once in a Century (E): After the kiss everything goes to utter and complete shit. OR COVID-19 interferes with best laid plans. (23.7k)

Completed one-shots (<5k)

Hannibal

A Terror Quiet Calm (E): Will makes up his mind during Mizumono, when things could have ended differently. A Mizumono fix-it. (1.2k)

Conversion (T): The woodsman notices a presence in the wilderness. A giver of gifts. (2.5k)

Hot Stuff, or The night Hannibal realized he was well and truly whipped (T): Hannibal wakes up to find Will is missing. His search leads to some surprising discoveries. (2.1k)

Into the Dark (G): "In the dark Will looked like a shadow. Hannibal felt the soft sound of Will’s breathing on his skin, tasted it in his throat." Prepare for super creepy times! (1.3k)

Raindrop Prelude (T): Will and Hannibal, on a boat, feeling feels. (1K)

🐭 Poor Unfortunate Soul (M): Will would sell his soul to be rid of the nightmares that plague him. Or, at least, his voice. (4.9k)

Surge (E): "He remembers that look in the kitchen, tries to place it. He’d seen flashes of it in Baltimore: the night of Clark Ingram’s arrest and maybe even the first time they met, glimpsed from the corner of Will’s eye. Then in Italy, seated together at the feet of spring. He doesn’t think about the cliff – can’t, or else his lungs tighten and he feels like he can’t breathe, like he might be dying." (2.3k)

The Tide (M): Based on this prompt: I can’t shake this idea: Hannibal and Will being intimate for the first time and being utterly overwhelmed by it. (1.5k)

🐭 Trust in Me (G): Will is lost in the jungle. He finds refuge in a familiar place. (2.1k)

Until (M): Will is desperate for an end. Hannibal will fight him every step of the way. (1.8k)

Interview with the Vampire

Room for One More (E): Baby Vampire's First Night In. or: Louis is feeling some type of way about sleeping in a coffin, but after some finagling he and Lestat finally get it right. (2.3k)

Good Omens

Hush (M): Aziraphale has returned from heaven, but there are things still left unsaid. Crowley has finally had enough. (2.1k)

Our Flag Means Death

A record of the kingly duties of Maximilian, cat about town (T): Maximilian may be a new cat on the island, but it looks like he'll need to teach these clueless human innkeepers a thing or two. This fic is a remix of "Leave a Mark" by dance_across. (1.8k)

Anchor (E): Ed assures Stede that their first time was not a mistake, which Stede desperately needs (AND DESERVES) to hear. (1.7k)

🤝 Canvas(s): Not just for sails anymore with @the-widow-olivia (T): Stede is newly divorced and ready to turn over a new leaf. Ed is trying to escape the monotony of his day-to-day life. Sparks fly when they are paired up at a "Get Out The Vote!" event. (6.4k)

Captain's Quarters (G): Ed and Stede platonically share a bed and feel feelings, like pirates do. (2.3k)

Daylight (E): Ed doesn't know what to do with himself when Stede comes back, until he does. (2.1k)

🏡 Filled (E): Stede thinks about what it would be like if he could carry Ed’s child, which leads where all roads lead during Bottom Stede Week. (3.6k)

🏡 Filled Out (E): Ed tries to figure out how he feels about his body post-piracy. A post-season 2 inn fic. (1.6k)

The Finer Points (G): Stede expands his fancy pants curriculum to include a simple waltz. (1.9k)

🏡 First Night (E): Truly just an entire fic of Ed and Stede making out in this shitty house. A post-season 2 inn fic. (2.1k)

Five Kisses (E): A chronicle of five important kisses on the good ship Blackbonnet. (2.3k)

🤝 Forever's Gonna Start Tonight with @shieldmaidenofmithrilhall (G): As the total solar eclipse approaches, two strangers meet at the top of a mountain, one with a telescope and one with a picnic basket full of eclipse treats. (5k)

Holdover (E): A PWP in which Stede wears a nightie for one reason and one reason only. (3.5k)

I Feel Pretty (E): Stede engaging in body worship of Ed, his preferred occupation. (1.4k)

Interlude (E): A PWP missing scene from 2x08 because BOYFRIENDS. (1.7k)

Leather and Silk (E): A PWP based on the “leather and silk” bts we received from Samba 🙏. (1.6k)

Midnight on the Revenge (G): Literally just a smol fic about Stede holding Ed until he falls asleep because I need that, okay? (1k)

🤝 Milkmaid with @dracothelizard (E): Stede remembers the little song he and Ed sang at the floating market, and Ed decides it’s as good a day as any to show Stede the true meaning of “all things milk.” (4.6k)

🤝 Perfectly Ordinary Tuesday with @petrichorca (M): Dave just wanted a place to sleep for the night, but he gets a lot more than he bargained for when the owners of a seaside inn make him an unwitting participant in their wedding. Will he make it through the ceremony unscathed? And what’s that seagull doing here? (4.9k)

Pinned (E): Ed has been thinking about Calypso's Birthday since they arrived at the inn, specifically about Stede shoving him up against a wall - the strength of his arms, the look in his eyes. Maybe it's finally time to ask for a repeat performance. (2.5k)

Reset (E): Ed notices Stede looking at him more than usual, leaving them both a bit hot and bothered. He proposes a failsafe plan to give them both a reset. What could go wrong? Set sometime between 2x05 and 2x06. (5k)

🤝 Row Your Boat with @petrichorca (T): A missing scene following the events of season 2, episode 4, “Fun and Games.” Ed’s agreed to come back to the Revenge with Stede for the night, but they’ve got two dinghies to row back to the ship—will the distance between them linger? (3.3k)

Skintight (E): Ed wears a set of lingerie that he's kept in the back of his closet before now. Stede does what anyone would do after seeing Ed in lingerie, bless him. (3.7k)

🏡 Soft Open (T): Ed and Stede start sprucing up their inn and welcome Mary and Doug for a soft open. (3.3k)

Storm (G): Stede helps Ed through his grief in the season 2 finale. (1k)

Taking it Slow (E): As requested, Stede takes it slow. (2k)

That Ship Has Sailed (E): My interpretation of what happened after Calypso's birthday. (2.1k)

The Lube That Fell to Earth (E): A fic in honor of the Astroglide lube-along, in which Ed and Stede are in receipt of a gift from outer space. (4.1k)

🏡 Threshold (T): Ed and Stede take turns carrying each other over the threshold of the inn. Eventually, they cross it together. (2.6k)

🏡 Tucked In (E): Discussion of first times and new discoveries under the Wee John blanket. A post-season 2 inn fic. (2.7k)

Wanted (T): The fuckery after their inevitable discovery at the inn, and what it means for Ed. Written for the #13DaysofCrimesmas! (2.7k)

Wide Awake (M): Five times Stede wakes Ed up, and one time Ed returns the favor. Set throughout seasons 1 and 2. (2.2k)

Works for Spiders, Works for Men (G): Stede rescues Ed from a formidable eight-legged foe. (575)

Works in progress

Good Omens

The Second Coming and Other Heavenly Tales (T): Aziraphale is the new Supreme Archangel of Heaven, and he's made a huge mistake. As Aziraphale navigates a tricky heavenly web, Crowley tries to find a way forward - is there one? - while being periodically interrupted by wishful Bentley songs and transmissions from Alpha Centurai. Can the ineffable duo save Earth from "Plan C?" Will the ducks in St. James' park ever get the good bread again? Join my headcanon for season 3 to find out! (16.5k, 15/20)

[sensitively-taken]

just you, the moon, and the stars — enhypen

synopsis. since you were a child, hushed whispers had flurried around you about The Bordered Forest. the whispers weren’t of ghastly tales of people getting torn apart by a ferocious beast, nor were they warnings of a haggard witch who ate children’s hearts for youthful beauty. the whispers were mere wonderings of what could reside in such an ominous forest. everyone in your village knew of it and was curious of what dwelled inside, but no one had dared to venture within an ear of the place.

except for you, of course.

featuring. you & enhypen (sorta).

genre(s). fantasy, horror, supernatural, thriller.

warnings. bodily fluids (blood & bile), death, explicit gore (like rlly extreme descriptions of gore that get a bit disgusting at times... so beware), sacrilegious themes, violence & all these warnings imply. 

note: for the sake of not ruining the plot, i haven’t gone into depth about how often these things appear, to what extent they’ll appear, and/or what forms of them will appear (e.g. gore) but if it’s mentioned above please know that it will come up and it will be an integral part of the fic. for example, with gore, i’ve purposely not specified how it will appear, but please anticipate gore of all forms & types since that’s what is implied.

word count. 5.3k (5385)

taglist. @soobin-chois​ @acciomylove​ 

listen to! given-taken, enhypen ⭑ drunk-dazed, enhypen ⭑ fever, enhypen ⭑ eternally, txt

notes. not going to lie, i’m a bit nervous bc this is my first post on here in Months and tbh the teaser didn’t do too well so i really don’t know if anyone will read this but! if you do, i hope you enjoy!! i always love to hear what u guys think so don’t feel shy to give me some feedback if u want to! ❤️ 

p.s. even though i expanded the playlist this time around, this fic was inspired by given-taken alone LMAO. i wrote this back when border: day one was their only album out & we were getting teasers for the 2nd album. and when i tell u i was obsessed w this song!!! it rlly is such a good song that it, alone, made me write 5k of pure horrific content that made me, the writer, genuinely so uncomfortable i was looking over my shoulder while writing this at night. like what a good freaking song! we love her! so yea this is just given-taken promo 😎 enjoy 😎

p.p.s ty sage @jaeyunverse​ (almost wrote ur twitter @ instead LOL) for beta-reading this for me!

ok im done fr . time to get traumatised 😎

It was a normal night. The moon was high in the sky, as round and as wide as anything. The stars pranced around the moon in a circle, praises falling from their lips in the form of twinkles and shimmers. While the winds were harsh and cold, biting at anything they could sink their teeth into, they remained a solace as you set out into The Bordered Forest.

Since you were a child, an innocent babe, hushed whispers had flurried around you about the forest bordering your village. The whispers weren’t of ghastly tales of people getting torn apart by a ferocious beast, nor were they warnings of a haggard witch who ate children’s hearts for youthful beauty. The whispers were mere wonderings of what could reside in such an ominous forest. With such a heavy blanket of mist resting upon it, it seemed like even the Gods had turned their backs on it—and everything inside. Everyone in your village knew of it and was curious of what dwelled inside, but no one had dared to venture within an ear of the place.

Except for you, of course.

The first time you’d neared the forest couldn’t have been more than a few years ago. You’d been playing a friendly game of catch with your friends until your ball had rolled away. Your eyes and legs had been so set on following the ball’s path that you hadn’t realised it had stopped in the opening of the forest until you got there. By then, it’d been too late to turn back, so you’d marvelled at the beauties of such a mysterious place. Fruits you’d never seen before grew from twisted blossoms and tangled vines. Animals, with eyes so big and claws so small, had scurried about. There had been the sound of winds rushing through hollow chimes with every step you had taken. It had been absolutely magical.

So, you’d wanted more.

As you grew older, and less reckless, you learned to feed your curiosity in a safer manner. About once a year, you would hover around the edges of the forest with all the charms and crystals you could adorn and pray for a glimpse of a stray creature. Your prayers were never answered—why would the Gods bother with a prayer seeking an abandoned forest?—so your hunger and thirst for more had only grown and grown. They’d grown to the point that one day you had made up your mind to walk all the way to the heart of the forest.

And, here you were. With layers of charms and crystals laid on your neck, potions in your pouch, and memorised spells in your head, you were ready. You were finally ready to discover the secrets of The Bordered Forest.

You inhaled deeply, sparing your village one last glance. The rows of quaint houses seemed to grow as if they were trying to warn you of something. Don’t go further, they bellowed, but you laughed to yourself and turned away instead. A last prayer slipped past your lips when you pressed your fingers against the rough bark of the first tree. “Your child has come before you once again to ask for grace, mercy, and prosperity in this journey. No evil will come near your child, nor will your child fall prey to the enemy. By the will of the Gods, your child prays.”

A short breeze swept past you, and you nearly cried tears of relief. After years of unanswered prayers, the Gods had finally listened. The little worries that’d resided in your heart were quelled, once and for all, and you took your first step into the forest with good faith. Surely, after all you’d done to ensure your safety, nothing would happen to you.

You walked for what felt like hours. You marked the trees you passed with the blade of a sharp dagger, begging Mother Nature for forgiveness as you did so. Even if you didn’t believe anything would happen to you, you’d heard too many stories of adventurers who met their early demise simply because they lost their path. You didn’t plan on meeting the same fate, so you made sure each etch into the bark was deep. It was when you marked what felt like the hundredth tree that weariness crept into your bones.

You didn’t understand. Not once had you seen one of the beautiful fruits that you’d seen all those years back. Nor had you encountered a wild creature, scuttling along the path in front of you. Even the mist, which was all that could be seen from the edge of the forest, was nowhere in sight. It was just you, the moon, and the stars.

“Or is it?” A quiet voice whispered in your ear. It was fleeting, so quick that you ought to have imagined it, but you were sure of the hot breath that left the hairs on the back of your neck at alert. Your instincts told you to turn around, to pierce whatever was perching there with a singular thrust. But when you pushed away the growing fear in your heart and gave in, there was nothing there.

“Just me, the moon, and the stars. Me, the moon, and the stars,” you whispered to yourself,  sparing your surroundings one last, wary glance. There was nothing that stood out to you, nothing that should cause you worry, but there was still a storm brewing in the depths of your stomach.

You shook your head. Despite what you’d imagined, there wasn’t anyone there. It was just you, the moon, and the stars.

After that, your pace quickened. You still carved a few lines into the bark of the trees with precision and care, but you didn’t take the time to admire the rotting foliage around you anymore. The winds’ sparse blows through some branches no longer excited you. You didn’t turn around to see if there was a creature approaching at the sound. Instead, you made your strides longer and made your glances over your shoulder more frequent.

You were starting to understand the tones of fear in the villagers’ whispers. A deep rumbling was churning in the depths of your stomach, and you regretted not heeding the warnings of the houses.

“Why listen to them when you can listen to me?”

Your long strides halted, and you whipped your head around frantically. Like before, there was nothing behind you. The forest—with its vines, branches, and moss—was the same as it was the last couple of times you’d glanced over your shoulder. There was nothing dangerous in sight, but your heart didn’t see what your eyes did. Your heart saw danger, and it was already running away in your chest. It was trying to claw its way past your ribcage, but you swallowed some deep gulps of air and told your heart to still.

It did not.

“Poor thing. Your heart is so eager to jump out of your chest.” The voice was patronising, yet saccharine. Its lilt was meant to soothe you, warm you, and butter you up, but it set your heart racing at a faster pace instead. Your heart nearly stopped when it continued with, “Let me take it from you. I’ll take good care of it; I swear on it.”

“Who… who are you?” you yelled, looking over both your shoulders. Your hand trembled as it clasped the ivory charm draped around your neck. “I mean no harm.”

There was no response, except for the whistle of the winds brushing through the trees. You didn’t realise your mouth was agape and panting until your warm breath turned into vapour in the air. It was then you noticed the mist—the one your heart had so greatly desired. Filled with fear and trepidation, your heart forgot to gasp with glee.

Shutting your mouth, you continued along your way with a tightened grip around your dagger. You wouldn’t let an imagined voice make a fool of you. You inhaled deeply and marked another tree. No, you most certainly wouldn’t.

This time around, your strides were long, and your face was grim. The mist licked at the leather boots hugging your sore feet, and the winds whistled in the night. You were sure you’d been walking for hours. Blisters were forming on your feet, and your grip on your dagger was slipping, but every time you thought of resting, the strange voice’s words came back to unnerve you.

Why listen to them when you can listen to me?

Listen to me.

“No, no.” You shook your head and resisted the itch to look over your shoulder. “Me, the moon, and the stars. Me, the moon, and the sta—”

A sharp crack cut through your self-assurance. You whipped your head around immediately and scanned the dark forest for any sign of a threat. Your chest was heaving quickly, and your blood was rushing in your ears as you checked the forest once, twice, thrice. There was nothing there, save for the overgrown moss and the intermingling of the trees’ roots. There was nothing there, yet your heart was still pounding with anticipation. It was a wicked anticipation—fuelled by fear in its purest form, but edges lined with sweet excitement.

Something was coming, and your heart raced to announce its arrival.

You swallowed thickly and hesitantly turned your head back. You were on a journey to the heart of The Bordered Forest, and you wouldn’t let anything distract you any longer. Nodding to yourself, you whispered, “No more distractions.”

The forest had other plans in store for you.

Just as you marked the next tree you came across, a loud wail rang throughout the forest. It sent a streak of terror down your spine, while the muscles in your neck ached as you ignored the urge to glance over your shoulder. No matter what, you couldn’t waste more time with terrified glances. An adventurer on a journey towards a wicked witch or a malevolent wolf had no time to waste on feeding the fears growing in their heart. And, neither did you.

It was just one step you’d taken when another wail weaved between the trees. This one made your resolve falter. Through the whispers of the winds, you were sure the wail you’d heard belonged to a babe. An ominous feeling began to feast on your stomach.

You were reminded of your first instance in the forest. Young, naïve, and innocent had you been when you had chased your ball into the forest’s opening. For you, things had ended well. You’d ventured into the forest’s opening, filled your eyes with the pleasures of the forest, and returned to your village with your being intact. But, what if that hadn’t been the case? What if a gruesome, horrifying creature had trapped you against a tree? What if you had cried in terror and received nothing but the wind’s whistles in return? What if you had died?

Another wail reached your ears, and you turned on your heel. Let being a fool be damned. You were not going to have the blood of a babe on your hands.

The marks you’d etched onto the numerous trees blended into one as you dashed in the direction you had come from. The mist chased after your quick heels and the wind beckoned you back towards the heart of the forest, but your heart was set on the child. Their wails seemed to be receding—or was the wind blocking your ears?—as your strides grew longer and faster. You feared the worst, and it kept your legs moving, even as they screamed with the deep-set ache within them.

You had to save the child, you had to save the child, you had to—

“Never turn your back on the heart.”

Before you were even able to understand the words whispered down your spine, a snarl sounded behind you and a searing pain crept up your right leg. Your dagger slid out of your grasp, the pain digging deeper into your flesh. It muddled your senses and disoriented you so greatly that it took you several moments to realise the pain wasn’t an enchantment cast by a hidden mage or the lull of the forest. Your eyes grew wide, as you realised the pain was the sharp bite of a wolf. You stumbled to the ground, the rushing winds swallowing your scream.

You gasped for air, your ankle screaming in agony, while the wolf kept its jaw locked on your calf. Your body was twisted at such an angle you hadn’t even known mortals could twist in—with your back laid against the forest’s vines, but your legs turned to the side as the wolf kept gnawing on your calf. Another scream was ripped out of your throat when the wolf removed its sharp canines from your flesh, only to return them with a frightening strength. The sound of bones shattering accompanied your cry.

“P-Please,” you sobbed, vision blurred, “Gods, please, p-please make your… y-your child’s death swift.”

You wept, and the moon and its ringlet of stars gazed at you with pity. The wolf kept its jaw locked around the mangled flesh, and occasionally lapped up the blood that leaked from your limb. Death loomed over your head and drew closer with every lap the wolf took.

The winds, which had only whispered in your ears and brushed the trees with their delicate touch before, seemed to take glee in your suffering as they counted down the minutes till your death. Their comrade, the mist, fanned out against you and the wolf, creating a stage for the trees to spectate. Not only were you going to die, but the forest you’d admired so much was eager to witness your demise.

Yet, even as your head swam and sunk, some part of you was aware that the wolf had yet to deliver the finishing bite. It remained by your limb, not fully tearing it off nor biting it, but licking up the streams of gushing blood—almost as if it were… a feline. You squeezed your eyes closed, tears pooling up on your eyelashes, as you prayed to the Gods that the wolf would deliver your fate already.

But you should’ve realised that the Gods had abandoned you long ago.

A bittersweet solace lay in the way the wolf remained steadfast to your calf. Its laps drew sharp bursts of pain—not just from the limb, but everywhere: behind your eyelids, the forefront of your head, your ribcage, your heart. Yet, they also reminded you that you were still alive; you were breathing, albeit haggardly, and your end had not yet come. That soothed you as alcohol soothes a wound.

The wolf was cruel. It gave you hope when you both knew your death was certain.

Then, almost as a distraction from your pitiful death, a cry tore through the night. You were almost sure it was your own until your half-conscious mind managed to recognise it.

The babe. How had you forgotten about the child?

Your eyes shot open, and the moon’s terrified face greeted you. There wasn’t much you could do, with the amount of blood you were losing and the state of consciousness you were in, but your heart raced for the screaming child. So, with the strength of a faint bird, you thrashed your leg around in hopes that the wolf would release you.

It didn’t. Instead, it gnawed down harder on your limb, teeth sinking down deeper than they had before. You jolted up and released a cry of your own. “Gods!”

The child chimed in with you, the tones of desolation and terror ringing out in their cries. It was almost like you could hear the child wail your name amidst the sound of your blood rushing in your ears, your heart pounding, your tired breaths, and the forest howling with glee. Your heart ached, and you thrashed once more as spots danced in your vision. Or were they stars?

Weaving between the trees, the winds taunted you. Their silken words hissed, “How does one expect to save a babe when one cannot save oneself?”

As much as you hated to admit it, there was only truth to that question. You were twisted into a ghastly shape, bleeding from a torn limb, and at the mercy of a wolf.

Almost as if to remind you, it retracted from your calf, stalked up your body, and plunged its teeth into your torso instead. Any cries left in you died on your tongue as you choked on copper. It was blood you choked on, you realised too late, watching the tell-tale rouge bloom across your abdomen. The wolf’s mouth was stained, with your blood, as it feasted on your soft flesh. It switched between its feline laps and carnivorous tears at your muscle, while you could only gaze at the moon and stars through teary eyes.

“P-Pl… Please.” You had never thought you would beg for death the way you were begging now.

The Gods seemed to spare you, their precious child, a drop of pity.

Without any warning of any kind, the wolf abandoned its feast. Blood dripped from its snout, as its ears twitched in every which way. Its ears perked towards the shrouded trees you hadn’t touched with your dagger—the trees in the middle of the forest. A low whine rumbled from its throat, almost as if it’d been scolded, before it rushed off into the heart of the forest.

The Bordered Forest went silent. The winds weren’t blowing, the trees weren’t watching, and the moon and stars were still. It was all so hushed and quiet that even the mist hung in the air, petrified in the presence of impending anticipation. The hesitance in the forest trickled into your heart, as the silence stretched on. After all the wretched forest had done to you, it still managed to harbour fears of its own. Sweat beaded along your eyebrows.

“Beware,” the trees around you sang when the winds started up again and flurried between their branches. It must have been your deliriousness creating images in your eyes, but the trees appeared to be dancing in a ring—moving away from you with each step.

What was the forest scared of?

The winds escalated in volume once again, this time without their previous taunts. They chanted, and chanted, and chanted—filling your mind with noises so loud and images so grim. The excruciating pain waltzing throughout your entire body meddled with your ability to hear the winds’ message. It was only when you raised your head ever so slightly that you realised what they were saying. “Make way for the witch. Make way for the witch. Make way for the witch—”

“Silence!” Out of the heart of the forest, The Bordered Forest’s one true fear emerged. They were a tall figure, with feminine curves that dipped and rose in all the right places, but limbs so hairy you were sure they were a beast. Their face remained shrouded from you with the velvet hood of the dark robe they were wearing. When they spoke again, you recognised their voice as the sickly sweet one that had begged for your heart. “Child, did my impression amuse you?”

Your head swam. The agony behind your eyes, tickling almost every ending of your nerves, intensified as the figure levitated closer to you. There was no way you could focus on anyone else besides yourself, while your body was leaking so much blood and pain slithered into the crevices between your flesh, but there was an allure to this figure—this witch—that tempted you. “… W-What?”

The trees whispered, and the winds gasped. For once, the two worked together to whisper a frightening tune, “The witch is here. The witch is here. The witch is h—”

The whispers faded into a mere buzz, as your body lifted off the ground. You screamed when your disfigured calf gave way and fell onto the vines beneath you. Blood watered the moss, vines, and all the foliage of the forest’s ground, and they all watched your body float closer to the witch. When your remaining leg was an ear’s breadth away from their chest, they turned you vertically, and you nearly spluttered out a fountain of blood.

The witch’s crafty smile escaped the shadows their hood cast on their face, as they wiped the blood that managed to dribble out the sides of your lips. “My impression of a babe. It was quite a performance, wasn’t it? I do applaud myself for it, as well.”

Your heart lurched into the depths of your stomach. “A… b-babe?”

Instead of replying, the witch whistled a seductive tune. Fallen twigs snapped, and the wolf appeared again. Its mouth was still bloodied, and so were its paws, but there was a renewed fervour in its eyes. Whilst it stalked up to the witch’s side, it purred and whined lowly. The witch patted the creature’s head with their claw-like fingers and murmured, “Good pet.”

You could only watch as the wolf sauntered to the ground you were hovering over and carried your limb in its mouth. You shuddered and focused your eyes on anywhere else but the wolf’s disappearing figure. At least it would feast tonight.

With the image of the wolf carrying part of your leg in its mouth, everything began to fall into place. Somehow, this wicked witch had orchestrated everything that’d happened to you. The voice had been them, the child had been them, even the wolf had been sent in by them to feast on your tired form. After luring you into the forest, befuddling you with their voice, and sending in their beast of a pet, the witch had you right where they wanted you—too tired and faint to refuse your heart.

“Yes,” the witch whispered, licking their lips with the tongue of a serpent, “You are finally being enlightened.”

With the little strength you could muster, you moved your hands to rest over where your heart was. Your fingers trembled with tremors, and you shook your head. “N-No.”

“No?” The witch didn’t seem angry in the slightest. Instead, their lips curled up incredibly, revealing their grotesque set of fangs. “Child, I believe you have no choice.”

You began to protest, but the overwhelming taste of copper filled your mouth and choked up your words. You retched bloody bile out of your mouth, and all over the front of the witch’s robe in one go.

The witch shivered and purred, while the putrid scent filled the space between you two. Your eyes grew wide when they drew a line through the fluids splattered on their robe with a sharp claw and brought it up to their lips. You retched again when they licked off your blood from their talon and moaned in ecstasy. “I knew you would be delicious. Your blood was far too tempting, so I just had to have a taste first. Excuse my manners.”

Your stomach was churning, and you were certain that if the wolf had bitten off the flesh covering it, the acidic contents in it would tumble out right now and decorate the mossy floor. A grimace marred your lips, as the witch licked up some more of your blood from their robe.

“Although,” the witch paused to roll their eyes back in bliss, “I wasn’t completely mannerless. When you entered my abode, I did request for your heart.”

You shuddered at the feeling of their wet talon grazing your face. “I did request it, did I not?”

Their earlier words played a symphony in your mind you simply did not want to listen to. “I’ll take good care of it; I swear on it.” You bit your lip and relished the copper taste in your mouth. Truly, there was nothing you could do to keep your heart, yet a strange hope still blossomed in you. Perhaps the Gods would save their child. They would never fail you.

The witch scoffed and stroked your cheek slowly. “Your Gods have failed you, and they will again.”

A burning rage bubbled up inside you. It threatened to spill over in angry words, but your mouth was too exhausted to utter anything more. Instead, you fought past the pain in your eyes and cursed the witch out with them. The Gods would surely strike the witch down as soon as they caught wind of the witch’s blasphemy.

“Oh, little thing, don’t get too angry now.” They withdrew from you and started floating around you instead. You were still in the air, but now you were spinning slowly as the witch held out a hand in the direction of The Bordered Forest. “As much as it would delight me to say so, the fault doesn’t fall solely on them. Those beings have no access to my forest, nor does any other form of magick.”

Their forest?

More rage burst forward from your heart. It was more than jarring to hear the witch’s pride in what they’d wrongly stolen and claimed as their own. After all, the Gods created and owned the land every mortal walked on. If a fool were to read The Scriptures, that’s the least they would pick up from it, and yet this witch didn’t seem to have any regard for such truths. You scowled.

“The Gods created everything? Is that the trickery they’re preaching nowadays?” A cunning smile laid across the witch’s lips. “Did they forget to teach the babes the power that resides within each one of us, if we so much as desire to unearth it?”

You ripped your eyes away from the witch’s figure and hungry lips. There was something about the witch’s words that rang with truth, yet you didn’t want to hear more. As a child, you’d been told enough tales of the ends of those who desired more than the Gods blessed them with.

“At the very least, you know it’s true.” The witch stopped in front of a particular ring of trees, as the winds slithered between their branches. Their smile grew, and two fangs pierced their wine lips. A shiver ran down your spine at the sight and you realised you’d looked back up at the witch.

When they spoke again, their serpent tongue made an appearance. “We, mortals, have so much power. The Gods wish we remain ignorant to it because they fear a mortal with power.”

You shook your head, even as it protested with furious shouts of agony. Even if you were too faint to cover your ears with your hands, you wouldn’t allow some lowly witch’s blasphemy to infiltrate your heart. Who were they that they could spew such blasphemy, without the fear of the Gods weighing on their heart?

“Who am I?” The witch’s claws twitched as they neared the hood of their robe. “I hold many names, child.”

With a simple tug of their claw, their hood fell and revealed one of the most enchanting sights you’d ever seen. Their almond eyes shone with mirth, as they twinkled between a deep blue and shades of brown. Their nose slanted down their face smoothly and complimented the sharp ridges of their face. They must’ve been a magick creature of some sort because their pale skin shimmered and sparkled under the moonlight. The witch was gorgeous.

They smiled, bemused at the obvious admiration donning your face, but they made no comment on it. Instead, they sauntered closer to you and extended a hand in your direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, child. I’m Sunghoon.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach when their face melted off and warped into another one. This face was equally beautiful and similar to the first one, but the eyes were rounder, the face was softer, and there were more touches of youth to it.

The witch’s brown eyes twinkled with glee. “This is Jungwon.”

Yet again, their face morphed, and the witch reintroduced themselves with another name—Sunoo. A pit carved out a hole in your chest, as the witch kept morphing and you realised that the faces seemed to be growing younger and younger. The Jay face, the most serious one out of them all, made your heart tighten, as a revelation struck you. These were the faces of the children who’d had their hearts ripped out by the witch.

“Yes, yes!” The witch clapped, with the face of the most youthful child you'd seen so far—Riki. They sauntered closer to you, with their tongue flicking out at you over their lips. “Children just have the most delectable faces, and their hearts—oh, their hearts—they’re quite sweet. They taste of the sweetest of honeys.”

Their talons dug into your shoulders, and you were too horrified to even scream. You only began to struggle against their hold when desperation leaked into the irises of the child’s stolen eyes.

“Oh, you must let me have your heart.” The witch cupped your cheeks with one hand, squeezing your flesh there with a frightening strength. Their tongue flicked out over the dried blood splattered around your mouth, and you recoiled at the heavy scent of rotten beauty reeking from their mouth. “Your bone structure is simply marvellous, and it fills me with much envy, just seeing your flesh stretched across it, instead of mine.”

You shook your head frantically and thrashed around, but their magick held strong against your faint form.

The witch smiled again, and it was at that moment that you noticed the flecks of flesh hidden between their fangs. “I’ll take good care of it, child. I swear on it. I may even reserve it for special occasions if you so much as wish for it.”

A scream fought to erupt from your throat, but you were much too petrified to do anything. Not only was the blood loss taking its toll on you, but the witch’s sharp claws were still sunk into your shoulders and drawing more blood. Your body danced between the thudding horrors of your realisations, and the sting of the constant pain as you waited for something, anything, to save you from this monster.

“Don’t fret, child.” The witch finally retracted from you and hovered close to some of the trees instead. Their smile was mad, as you were sure they were. “I’ll take good care of your body too. You can even decide your fate. Will you be a moss? A tree? Dancing vines?”

Their words played in your head for a few moments, until your heart stopped. Sparing a tree a glance, you retched the coppery liquid in your mouth yet again.

The witch hadn’t been lying when they said they’d created the forest with their might alone. Everything—the moss, the vines, the trees, everything—was the magicked carcasses of their previous victims. Your scream finally spilled out of your mouth.

The witch drew close to you, something akin to pity in the depths of their eyes—in the depths of the child’s eyes. They shook their head brusquely. “Don’t cry, dear child. Don’t cry.”

A long talon traced its way from your chin to the base of your neck, drawing blood there. “There had been something you’d said, hadn’t you?”

You writhed and sobbed as the witch lapped up the blood pooling around your collarbones. Their shiver rumbled through you, and you wanted nothing more than to slay them right there and then. But, you couldn’t do anything as their claw and mouth made their way to your chest, and they licked the skin protecting your heart.

“It’s just you, the moon, and the stars,” they paused to gaze up at you with a malevolent glint in their eyes, “so, swallow up your screams, for the moon and stars can’t save you.”

Then, their fangs sunk in. It was a sharp and paralysing sensation for a moment, and then you could feel the life trickling out of your flesh. Your screams died in your throat, as you spared the moon and stars one last glance. The stars cried, and the moon mourned, as the last bit of your life trickled into the witch’s mouth.

copyright 2022 soobisms, all rights reserved. no translations or reposts of any form allowed.

[quiet-nocturne]

answer your 30 questions please and thank you!!!

WOO. HERE WE GO, YA'LL:

ao3 wrapped [writers edition]

How many words have you written this year? Published? 22,685. Unpublished? A loooooot ahaha.

How many works did you publish this year? Currently, 3. Hoping to have 4-5 by christmas though. 👀

What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)? definitely cause i'm lovesick. That thing was a labor of love. My first fanfic baby in a loooong time.

What work of yours has the most hits? currently cause i'm lovesick (I ain't even ashamed), which is at 735 hits. But it's kind of biased, considering I only came back to fic writing in like october.

What work of yours got more feedback than you expected? nothing in particular - I'm just happy to have any engagement!

Favorite title you used honestly, no favorite as of yet. All the titles I've used come from song lyrics that are super royai coded/important to me, so I like them all. That answer could definitely change in the future though!

If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most? most recently, taylor swift (hopeless, breathless, burning slow), but also banks (cause i'm lovesick and you're all that matters to me anyway - she's SO GOOD for angsty love songs). Lyrics are so, so important to me. I have a ~300 song royai playlist (which I'm going to slim down and post here at some point) that I listen to constantly, lol, and a huge notes file on my phone filled with potential song lyric titles. I have a music degree and it's literally so important to my writing process aajsaksjljasjl.

Pairing you wrote the most for this year? Royai. lol. That's not going to change any time soon. The extreme hyperfixation is REAL.

Favorite pairing you wrote for this year? Again royai. They're the best. My babies. 💖

What work was the quickest to write? Surprising, chapter 2 of hopeless, breathless, burning slow. started it last night and i'm already nearly done the first draft. That thing flew out of me, especially considering chapter 1 was much more of a journey lol.

What work took you the longest to write? definitely chapter 1 of hopeless, breathless, burning slow. it wasn't the writing that was the issue - it was the editing. I really dragged my feet on it, and could have had that thing out like 2 weeks ago. 🤦‍♀️

How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year? oh god. my wip's currently include: - chapter 2 of hopeless, breathless, burning slow - sequel to cause i'm lovesick (I ain't even ashamed) - a christmas fic - angsty, hurt/comfort, character exploration, ishval restoration multi-chaptered fic (I'm REALLY excited to work on this!!! yay angst) - roy and riza returning to her old father's house post-cannon and STUFF HAPPENS, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc (also really excited for this one! i've been daydreaming about it for MONTHS. Even just thinking about this fic feels like sinking into a warm bath. That's the vibes I want it to give) - ANOTHER post-promised day fic, because I'm a broken record, but this time more humorous/cute. - aaaand yet another post-promised day fic, but one where Riza REALLY ISN'T DOING WELL/almost dies like a million times at the hospital and roy is sad (!!!). - briggs angst/sick fic - does that make sense? no? it will. Yeah. yeahhh. That list is only going to get bigger. 🤷‍♀️ Some of these will also, shockingly, not have smut lol.

What’s your longest work of the year? So far, ch. 1 of hopeless, breathless, burning slow at a whopping 9, 792 words. It really ran away from me.

What’s your shortest work of the year? mmm, you're all that matters to me anyway at 5,954 words. apparently I can't write anything below 5k lol. 🤷‍♀️

What WIP are you taking into next year with you? Oof, I mean probably most of what I had listed above. I aim to have some of it done - but it's already December 7th, so yeah.

What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag? Smut. lol.

Your favorite character to write this year? Surprisingly, Roy. I almost find him easier to write than Riza. Normally I don't enjoy writing from the male perspective. But Roy Mustang is just 🔥. I was so surprised lol.

The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year? No one, as of yet. But we'll see what I say once I start working more on the multi chaptered fics. 😬

What’s one pairing you want to explore next year? More Royai, maybe with a dash of Roy/Maes. Maybe I'll try a bit of Ed/Winry? Who knows!

Which work of yours have you reread the most? chapter 1 of hopeless, breathless, burning slow. I am so fucking sick of it ahaha helppp.

How many kudos in total did you get this year? Currently at 142! You are all so sweet. 😭

Which work has the most comments? I think cause i'm lovesick at the moment!

Did you do any collaborative works this year? nope! Definitely something I'd consider doing in the future though!

Did you write any gifts this year? maybe! 👀 we shall see

Did you receive any gifts this year? nope!

What’s your most common category? ...Smut. lol. 🤷‍♀️

What do you listen to while writing? ahhhh I love talking about music with my ships! like I said, my ridiculously huge royai playlist. also all of my top songs on spotify were from it, which includes: 1. Say Yes to Heaven - Lana Del Ray (i've got my eye on you / i've got my mind on you) 2. Work Song - Hozier (no grave could hold my body down / i'll crawl home to her) 3. I Wanna Be Yours - Artic Monkeys (secrets i have held in my heart / are harder to hide then i thought / maybe i just wanna be yours) 4. Night We Met - Lord Horan feat. Pheobe Bridges (i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you / take me back to the night we met / i don't know what i'm supposed to do / haunted by the ghost of you) - that ishval restoration fic is definitely going to use a lyric from this song SOMEWHERE Honorable mentions: Die First - Nessa Barrett (someone dies or someone gets hurt / but if one of us dies / i hope i die first) Ya'aburnee - Halsey (i'll never know / if there's danger in confession / or it's memory that presses / like a blade against my throat / another word and i could choke / but what's worst? / tellin' you my feelings / or to die without revealing / that you got inside my head / and set a fire there instead?) Dress - Taylor Swift (there is an indentation in the shape of you / made your mark on me, a golden tattoo / all of this silence and patience / pining and anticipation / my hands are shaking from holding back from you) 10000/10, would play at royai's wedding.

Favorite work you wrote this year? cause i'm lovesick. Again, it was my baby. I loved writing it so much.

Favorite line/passage you wrote this year? mmmm, probably: "She'd planned to stay angry at Mustang for longer, but then he'd surprised her by sauntering into her apartment basically the second his train had arrived, eyes blazing with desire as he collected her in his warm embrace, murmuring you have no idea how much I've been craving to taste you against the soft skin of her throat." (I tried to find one that was mostly sfw lol).

Biggest surprise while writing this year? Just being able to write, in general! It's been so much fun. 💖

[thedarkmistress16]

Hetalia x Fem!Pronouns!Reader- (Literally) Dropped Into Anime

Found the last APH thing I wrote about (years ago) and since I threw myself full-force back into the fandom again, I expanded this overdone concept for fun. And I was so happy with the writing style that I made myself write up to (at least) 5k words before posting this chap as a neat lil' personal challenge. Otherwise, I would've had this up a few days ago because holy shit I originally completed this part in two days??!?!!!?

Anyway, fem!pros here because that's how I roll with male characters x reader things, so substitute away~! Reader's life is kept vague on purpose but that may change in the future, and nothing about personal appearance is mentioned here. And reader swears because reader is an adult and is tired.

Chapter 1- Okay, So, I’m Here Now…

You were at home, content that you had a few days off to your name and a stomach filled with a delicious breakfast. Today, you would put yourself up to the task of completing work you had put off for quite a while. No social calls allowed! You had that luxury last week. This time, it was going to be all about what you will accomplish for the next few days. You happily rolled up your sleeves- figuratively, of course, it was summer after all- and got to work.

You got around to completing half of the first job’s workload until you suddenly felt an extreme bout of tiredness hit you.

You tried to fight it off, desiring to get back to what you were initially doing, determined to actually follow through on your own promise to yourself this time. You were an adult after all, with loads of different responsibilities that were all waiting to be finished when you clocked out each day. It was just depressing how many things you had to take care of now, compared to when you were a carefree adolescent who, ironically, only had to worry about growing up.

The supplies you were just using with ease completely fell out of your hands as your shoulders slumped. You started to walk out of the room to find an energy supplement.

Sometimes you wondered how you even had a lick of time for yourself anymore.

A weak groan escaped your lips, and your hand rose to your forehead to massage the irritating thumping that began blossoming there. Okay, maybe you needed to pop some aspirin, too.

Life really sucked sometimes.

Did you overwork yourself again?

Your pace slowed to a sluggish shuffle.

Did you remember to stock your groceries this week?

Fuck the drink, you were way too tired now for it to even take effect. Your feet pivoted in another direction, feeling yourself start to surrender to your own body’s wills.

Still, who were you to complain?

How were you so careless to do this to yourself again?

You struggled to keep your balance as you reached the doorway of your bedroom. You don’t remember being so tired you could barely walk.

You had a job, buddies, a family, your own place… you were doing good for yourself! 

You should’ve just gone out with your friends or treated yourself today. Why did you have to go and spoil it with work? Now you can’t even function properly and the whole day will be skewed now.

Your eyes caught the proximity of your bed and they immediately drooped, almost closing completely on you and your head bobbed dangerously.

Others had it worse than you… probably…

You really suck at taking care of yourself, huh?

And despite your best efforts to fight off the looming cloud of exhaustion that was trying to overtake you, flopping onto your bed and crashing into a dreamless state of mind became entirely inevitable. You vaguely feel yourself free-falling through your mattress before losing consciousness completely.

When you were on the verge of waking up, you heard muffled voices buzzing over your head, all a jumbled mess and becoming way too damn noisy as the seconds ticked by. You cringed at the uptick in loudness and made a sound between a moan and groan in a displeased protest. Your body reflexively turned away from the disturbance to your sleep, rolling over to turn your back to that side. Only you felt hardness on your body where you suddenly remembered that’s where your soft bed was supposed to be. You sat up with your eyes still closed, mumbling to yourself at how you probably fell off the bed again, silly, and thought it none the wiser. And you yawned yourself awake- stretching your arms upward as the sound moved past your throat and dropping them when you felt content.

It took a second for you to open your eyes and really see what you were actually looking at, but when you did, you froze in place. You cautiously moved your head around in different directions to find that all of the characters of a certain anime you once watched were staring right at you in utter silence- and you realized that you were in the conference room of the United Nations, sitting smack-dab on their table in the middle of their meeting.

While everyone was shocked into silence as you finally woke, a sole clearing of a throat could be heard down on your right. You all turned to see the character known as Germany straightening himself, shifting his posture in the chair he sat in. In doing so he gave away how uncomfortable he clearly felt, and turned to you. His eyes, while ice cold in color, held no hatred or disdain- but rather a strong curiosity, from what you could detect.

“I’m sure everyone’s wondering this, but, who are you?”

You never liked this question exactly; not whoever said it, particularly, but you never really knew how to answer it. How much information are you supposed to give? What were they looking to hear?

Never mind that this was the English dub of Hetalia you were currently in, apparently- how were you going to describe yourself to these people when you were still trying to figure it all out for yourself? Not to mention getting around to explaining how you even got here?

You didn’t notice that throughout your thinking session, you had been staring blankly at the German and letting out a very unattractive “uhhhhhhhhhh…” for god knows how long.

Someone’s fingers snapped in front of your face while a voice shouted at you irritably. “Hey- you! Ragazza! Speak, dammnit!”

“Uh?!” The sudden outburst from the brunette shattered your thoughts so badly that you yelped and fell back onto the table. You blinked wildly as your heart pumped harder from the adrenaline, feeling more shocked and startled than before. Your eyes struggled to refocus from the blind-sighting motion.

If you weren’t awake before, you definitely were now.

“Were you even paying attention?!” the same voice chided.

Really?!

Oh, like he wouldn’t be just as dumbstruck as you if he was in your shoes.

You had half a mind to-

Before you could muster a response that your brain was itching to let you unleash, another similar, accented male voice piped up. “Ah, fratello! Be nice to her! The poor bella doesn’t know where she is!”

You were still breathing heavily as you were slowly pulled up from laying down on the table, now with your legs loosely tucked beneath you as you shuffled with the movement. You now found yourself leaning toward one side as your shoulders were embraced by a certain Italian who smelled like an assortment of spices, but mainly oregano. You were too ashamed at your earlier display to even entertain a look- even if you had only watched one episode of the series in your life, you knew who he was.

 “Wow, you’re really pretty! I’ll call you bella!” He squished you even tighter and you flailed on instinct as your balance had faltered when he pulled you closer. You weren’t sure if you wanted to melt into a puddle due to your own embarrassment or from his expressive adorableness. And while you weren’t stellar at the implications of him considering you as a pet, you really couldn’t find it inside yourself to be mad at him for it.

Despite all this, and being treated kindly by one of the anime’s protagonists out of all the nations in the room, you still felt uncomfortable being hugged by a Hetalia character that shouldn’t even exist. It was unnatural to even feel him, let alone have him talking to you directly.

You almost felt as if you were breaking a law of some sort.

Speaking of, you were hyperaware of the stares you were still getting around the whole table, and they weren’t helping matters, either.

“Uh, that’s not my name…” you start awkwardly, suddenly not sure how to talk to him. You chanced a peek at his face then, catching a glimpse of that iconic strand of hair curling away from his head.

“Oh?” Italy slackened his grip to tilt his head and look at you. “What's your name?”

Whether he actually had his eyes opened or not as he addressed you, you felt flustered for a reason you couldn’t explain and looked down again. “_. My name is _.”

“Ve~! That’s such a pretty name, _!”

Classic Italy.

You softly laughed with a blush at his behavior feeling a little lighter at his genuine fondness. You began trying to wiggle out of his tight grip a bit, partly from being watched so intently by the others and partly because you needed some space to breathe and not think about Northern Italy’s touch.

You failed, but hey, it was the thought that counts.

“_? Where did you come from?”

Your soft smile from Italy’s attitude died with the question that was spoken somewhere behind you, which you correlated to China. You didn’t care enough to look, as more of the reality of your current predicament carelessly unraveled itself in your head.

What the hell were you supposed to say? That you were from a world where everything that was currently happening wasn’t real?

Or what if it was fact and you’ve never known that these characters were walking on the very streets you walk on for your entire life? Did you cross paths with them without yourself knowing?

Was this a vital secret that could endanger your very existence if you told?

Were you even in your world anymore? How many things that you’ve lived your entire life by have altered or ceased to exist here?

“I wish I knew,” you absentmindedly whispered, eyes roving over the individual grains which made up the table you were kneeling upon. If you squinted, you could barely pinpoint your blurry reflection contrasted with the muddy blue form of Italy’s uniform on the glossy finish.

Your mind had blanked then; afraid of the future and all its possibilities.

What was the use of marveling at fiction coming to life and being a part of that experience when you had no idea what would become of you here?

And how would these personifications actually treat you? Would they be as the canon depicted? They seemed to act like it so far, but how could you really tell if it was a facade unless you knew them more? On top of that, would you even be accepted?

Did you even exist at all as another version of yourself? Did you end up switching with that person?

How did you end up here in the first place? What triggered this?

…

Could you even go back?

England, who was seated a little ways from you on the opposite side of the table, inspected your slouched form intently. Italy had rephrased the earlier question China posed, in a softer tone laced with worry and apprehension. He nudged you lightly as he still held you, treating you as if you were now made of something fragile. You had heard him but did not visibly react. You were still too lost in your own head to focus on your surroundings.

The British nation spoke up in an expressionless fashion, his chin resting in his hand as his fingers tapped rhythmically upon the table. “No. She doesn’t have any magical properties, but I know for sure that she isn’t from this world…” He sensed his magical friends hovering next to him with curious looks, turning their heads back and forth between the two of you as if willing the answer to suddenly appear before them.

The other nations moved their focus to England, spouting their own opinions that quickly overlapped into a loud discussion and lessened the attention on you. You perked up at Englishman’s words, about to say something, but the vowels fizzled out on your tongue with an ashy aftertaste that had you grimacing.

It was true, of course. But you had no idea if he meant it as a good or bad thing, and whether that knowledge would cause the nations would take pity on you or keep you under constant scrutiny was uncertain. And that apprehension won over any potential excitement felt from the opportunity of interacting with the countries.

At least, more than necessary, that is.

“If that’s true, England, then we should decide where _ is going to stay for the time being,” Germany declares, cutting through the murmuring. He met your eyes briefly before surveying the rest of the room. “Any suggestions?”

“She will become one with me, da?”

Everyone shivered in unison and you actually felt the temperature in the room change drastically. You willed yourself to look in the direction of the nation, even as your instincts screamed at you to do anything else but that.

“Um, I think we should hear what other countries have to say first, Russia.” A meek, European voice toward the Russian’s left replied, vibrating so badly that you wondered if he would explode on the spot if he was touched ever so slightly.

Russia was expressionless for a moment, seemingly glaring at the opposer, before facing the others again with a pleased smile and responding ominously.

“Very well. I’m patient.”

You couldn’t suppress the shiver if you tried.

The awkwardness in the air heavily permeated the room until another nation broke it.

“Well, what about me?”

And then a chorus of every opinion under the sun reached your ears like an uproar at a concert. A lot of the same phrases, colorful insults, and familiar names looped occasionally past your ears, not unlike a skipping record with some deep scratches that were beyond fixing yet still in a state playable enough to justify keeping it.

It felt… odd, to refer to them as their names, you realize. Even in the safety of your own thoughts, it was too personal. You cringe at yourself, feeling very out of place, as you kept picking up tidbits of the bickering around you.

“Italy! Let her breathe and get down from the table!” Germany chastised, contributing to the other voices and making Italy plead like a petulant child. Upon Germany’s intense insistence, which consisted of raising his voice to an aggravated shout, Italy quickly relented in fear, quaking in his boots.

Though you weren't sure if he caught it, you sent the Italian an apologetic smile as he dejectedly detangled his arms from you and clambered off the shiny wood surface. You almost thank Germany for pulling you out of the spiraling thoughts you started to have again, before stopping yourself. You let out a breath and closed your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself as overlapping accents from all kinds of lands buzzed around you.

Feeling more refreshed, you brace yourself for any future animated shenanigans before focusing back on the world around you. When you opened your eyes, a palm shoots forward right in front of you, stopping inches away from your body. As your eyes trailed forward and up the protruding arm, you quickly pieced together that it belonged to the Italian who was shouting at you earlier. He was now looking red in the face, refusing to meet your gaze yet flickering his eyes to you every so often as he addressed you.

“Well, ragazza? What are you waiting for?” His tone was still harsh-sounding, but softer now with how he was grumbling his words.

Right. He was offering his assistance in getting you down from the table.

You took his hand gently, moving to sit in an empty chair right next to him. After settling yourself, you turned to Romano to find him peering at you from his peripherals. You smiled at him gratefully, the appreciative words flowing easily past your tongue. “Thank you, sir.”

He somehow turned redder, sputtering like a faucet, as if indecisive on what to say before finally settling on, “prego, dolcezza.”

You had no idea what that meant exactly but felt happy all the same at his attitude toward you now. If this was his way of apologizing for scaring you earlier, he was doing a great job of it so far.

Well, for him, that is.

Among the uproar of conversation around you, the Italian spoke up again.

“Call me Romano, ragazza. Si?” He seemed to add this as an afterthought and didn’t look at you as he did so.

You were surprised he chose to introduce himself to you at all, blinking at him before expressing your happiness at his permission to use his name. Though it wasn’t his real one, it was still progress. “Grazie, Romano, please call me _, then,” you softly respond with the minimal amount of Italian you knew from fans' contributions, hoping the slight accent you put on it wasn’t choppy and unpracticed as it actually was.

Thank you Hetalia fandom!

He mimics your expression as he whips his head around, his long curl bobbing and swaying with the motion. He likely didn’t expect you to respond in his language, you conclude as you stare at his persistent curl. He sharply turns away and grumbles incoherently. You softly giggle to yourself so as to not offend him in case he heard you. You didn’t remember his tsundere side to be so adorable.

“... _ will not be staying with them. Who else?” Germany announced, and you were quickly tuned back into the current conversation.

You had no idea why your appearance became a discussion of which country you would be staying with at a world meeting so fast, especially without trying to get to know you first, but you were grateful enough to not complain about it. Figuring out a place to stay now eliminated most of the stress from your situation. It would also give you some mental and physical space to breathe from the other nations, and allow you time to decide on your next course of action.

“Well obviously,” England declared, shifting in his seat and crossing his arms haughtily, “she will be staying with me. I clearly know more about her situation than you lot.”

Okay... that was, presumptuous of him…

And while that smug look he sported was attractive in his own way, you were hesitant on sharing a home with someone who thought so highly of himself. You weren’t looking to be demeaned just for something out of your control, like being unknowledgeable in magic or something.

There was a collective beat of silence, and then one soul announced his thoughts. “She’s not eating your food,” the person deadpanned. The others silently nodded in a strange sense of unity.

Even though you didn’t say anything, you definitely agreed with that sentiment. You didn’t mean to judge him from the creator’s blatant stereotyping, but that was the bread and butter of the series, which meant England’s food would pose a real risk to your health if you dared to try it here.

And you felt a twinge of guilt toward the Brit at the thought, knowing it was a sore subject for him from the constant ridicule he got on it. That was until you heard his rebuttal.

“I’ll have you know that British cuisine is eons ahead of what you gits call ‘food.’ You lot are just unappreciative, uncultured-”

Okay, just because he’s objectively outnumbered doesn’t mean he needs to insult-

“So England’s out and he doesn’t get a vote. Who else has recommendations?” Germany resolutely cut through England’s sentence and your thoughts with a tired sigh, and you got the sense he wanted all this to be over already.

Wait. Did your appearance extend the time of their meeting?

…

Whoops.

Out of the corner of your eye, you amusedly watched England’s expression morph from cockiness into flabbergasted offense, before switching to mock indifference. He huffed and turned his head away. You thought he was also muttering something, likely a few choice words a gentleman probably shouldn’t say, before you stopped analyzing him in case you were caught staring.

Though their options were more limited now, it seemed the nations were at a loss of who to elect next, as there was a long stretch of silence that stretched throughout the room after quickly denominating England.

You almost forgot how savage they could all be when they tried…

“Since our guest won’t be staying in the hideous country of Britain, she is more than welcome to stay with me in the beautiful city of Paris!” A male clad in purple and red spoke up with a dramatic swish of his head, flaunting his long, blond hair as he winked at you.

The response was immediate.

“There’s no bloody way she’s staying with you, frog! Knowing you, you’ll try to pull something disgraceful on her, and I won’t allow it!”

You stiffened a bit and blinked at the loudness in England’s tone, surprised at how quick he was to be angry at France’s suggestion.

England hating France was a given, but…

Was he trying to defend your honor or was he that hurt at being shot down by the others?

No one else had volunteered to speak up despite them collectively deciding England had no say anymore, and let the argument between the two nations play out like two actors on stage.

 France pouted at England’s outburst. “Seriously Angleterre,” England bristled at the nickname, “you really think so lowly of me? I thought we were friends, non?”

The Brit thinned his lips in disapproval before responding lowly. “Being allies doesn’t make us friends, you bugger. I’m only saying that there are far more superior lands for her to occupy than your poor excuse for a ‘classy’ city.”

France, while clearly agitated by the underhanded insult, then smoothed his expression elegantly before he specifically turned to you with a smile, his eyes roving over what he could see of your form. It was then you realized he has been the first to do so since this conversation about your living situation started- not counting Germany, as he didn’t throw his territory into the mix.

“Well, since my beautiful homeland is being unjustly slandered by a classless fiend who thinks drab colors are fashionable,” he paused to sharply glare at England, who exhaled indignantly, before turning back to you with a warm expression. “Would you like to stay with my dear Canada, mon amie?”

Wow.

That… was perfect, actually.

Holy shit why didn’t you think of that?

The murmurs around you died down a bit, anticipating your answer, but you couldn’t pick up any of it, having all of your attention on France’s gracious offer. While you knew he did so because he wouldn’t have been nominated otherwise even if he was there, you had a good intuition that Canada would be kind to you- even if he was opposed to the idea of your intrusion in his space. It would give you time to think about this whole mess, and staying out of the other nation’s ways with a country they barely remembered at the same time was a bonus.

And the fact that France put your consent into consideration?

Was it possible to love someone within five minutes of meeting them?

You looked at France like he held the moon and stars, feeling your heart soar with relief. “If he doesn’t mind and you really think it’s okay, then I’d love to stay with him.”

He visibly brightened, “bon! C'est merveilleux! I’ll tell him rapidement and see you off! Tres bien!” France jumped from his seat, utterly giddy with delight and falling more into his natural tongue as he pulled out a phone and fiddled with it.

For some reason, your ears picked up some select, dejected groans at France’s words and you wondered if they were upset they didn’t get a say-

Wait. See you off?

…

Looks like you’re going to Canada, then.

~

France continuously gushed about you and his younger brother the moment you stepped outside of the meeting’s doors and after fully updating Canada on the situation. He was done so quickly that the other nations didn’t have a chance to properly interrogate you before France moved into your personal space and whisked you out of the room. He was now gliding through the halls with unbridled excitement and you almost thought he would break out into a dance, once again imagining him as a performer in his element.

You would’ve been annoyed by the constant chatter if he didn’t also include you in the conversation just as often, actively inquiring about your preferences in various topics. You appeased him and you both shared anecdotes of your life when appropriate, sharing laughs at your misfortunes and his recounts of fighting with England paired with their creatively petulant jabs toward each other.

His overuse of cologne was more tolerant the longer you stayed in his presence; your nose attributing the distinct smell of fresh rose bushes and lavender crops decorated in a morning’s dew became- to you- a mental signifier of France’s outlook on life. As he explained to you how he saw and embraced the beauty of the world around him, you felt as if you were learning about him for the first time with a pair of new eyes. It was admirable how he could express himself as such without any effort on his part, and you concluded that his soul was gentle- and his heart was bursting with such a strong amount of genuine love that it could not be contained and overflowed into all aspects of his daily life.

Then you remembered his pitiful attempts to stand up to Germany and you laughed to yourself.

You realized you were having such a nice time in the Frenchman’s presence that you had no idea how much time had actually passed as you two traveled. You also figured out where you were this whole time, which was right before the Canadian border. And the trip itself wasn’t long at all, because you were just a couple of cities over from where France’s little brother lived in.

France actually didn’t stop talking your ear off until you were both standing in front of Canada’s plot of residence; and as you followed his lead in approaching the quaint building, you grew curious as to why France had suddenly grown quiet now of all times.

“What’s wrong, Francis?” He had elected to give you his name almost immediately after leaving the conference room, insisting that you use it. He clarified that there was no need to be formal when you would be close to him and his family from now on, and that admission had you smiling stupidly and feeling a lot more at ease.

France seemed to realize he was thinking pensively and cleared it away by shaking his head with a sad smile. It was an expression that had you sobering from your relaxed state due to the bought of nostalgia his face brought to your memories.

“You just… look sad, cherie.” The seriousness in his words threw you off. When he turned to look at you, you also caught some sympathy glistening in his eyes.

Oh. The closest he could’ve seen you smile was when Italy was comforting you earlier, or perhaps as you swapped stories.

Was he able to figure that much out about you with just one look? Or were you accidentally playing your emotions for everyone? How many of them actually knew what you were thinking in that room?

You tried to manage a half-smile at France, but it was entirely too weak and wobbly on your muscles to hold properly. So you dropped the expression and settled on a casual shrug, avoiding his gaze to watch your foot carelessly scuff itself across the sparse grass that decorated the dirt. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Even if you could sort through it and unpack it all right now, it was the completely wrong time to do so.

Ha. Where would you even begin?

France hummed, as if taking your words into consideration before trekking toward the front porch. He reached out to rap on the front door in a one-two pattern. Silence hung heavy in the air before a creak from inside the house broke the atmosphere.

As the door was opened, you were faced with a male who looked very similar to France. The strong smell of maple wafted from him, followed by a spicy or smokey undertone that felt refreshing. Apart from his more violet eyes, round glasses, his comfy style of dress consisting of a red flannel and plain, gray sweats, and the single curl drooping from the parting of his hair, he resembled more of France’s features, not unlike the Italian brothers.

Canada looked tired but perked up the moment France’s exuberant greeting caught his attention. When he looked over and realized you were standing there as well, he became more alert and bashful for some reason.

“Matthieu! Bonjour mon frere, this is the lovely _ I told you all about.”

You waved on cue from France’s welcoming flourish, smiling pleasantly at your new roommate. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, Canada. France told me a lot of good things about you.”

You knew a lot more about Canada than France ever told you on the trip here, of course, but he didn’t need to know that. The last thing you needed was to make things more awkward than it already was, especially with someone like Canada, who would likely combust on the spot out of nervousness if you did.

“Nice to meet you, _.” Canada spoke, in a much softer tone and higher pitch than France. It was clearly hard for him to hold eye contact with you and not warble with his words at the same time, but you thought it was endearing.

You attempted to match Canada’s aura as you responded, trying to sound as accommodating as you could. “I hope my staying here won’t be too much of a bother, Canada. I know this is short notice. I’ll do what I can to try not to annoy you or get in your way. I don’t plan on intruding in your own space during my stay, and I hope we get along.”

Canada flinched and shuffled in place, and the shift in his expression told you he was more surprised than offended at your words. He seemed to actively attempt to maintain eye contact with you now, even smiling slightly. “Oh, you can call me Matthew if you like. And I think we’ll get along too, _. I actually hope I won't be a bother for you. I know some people don’t like my company and would rather hang out with others instead…” He raised his arm to rub the back of his neck bashfully.

He was probably the most normal nation you could ever hope to room with in this predicament and you couldn’t be happier at the thought.

“Not at all! I think you’re very easy to talk to, Matthew.”

And as you gaze at the Canadian, you see past scenes of him from the anime he belongs to flashing through your mind like an edited short film. You realize then that while those words had completely slipped out of your mouth on accident, you truly meant it now just as you did then as a first-time viewer.

You both share a laugh at the ease of tension any first, awkward meeting brings as France observes the scene contently. He beamed at the praise you gave him and was delighted to witness your politeness towards Canada, further cementing that letting you stay with his beloved younger brother was a great decision on his part.

You will definitely be visiting his home next.

That black sheep of Europe can suck it.

France bid you adieu, quite literally, and skipped away like a giddy schoolgirl. You could almost see the flowers and sparkles surrounding his body from the pure elation he emanated. You giggled at France’s departure as Matthew invited you inside.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

~

[borealopelta]

🌿💝💋💘💫 for the fic asks!!

🌿how does creating make you feel?

all sorts of ways ngl. i write for very different reasons, all of my fics i could probably point out why i wrote them and they would all be very different. but when i'm done i usually feel AWFUL about it. so then i'll take a break and come back to reread half an hour later, fix two things, and then i'm really happy. creating something new is a GREAT feeling but the moment i'm done my first instinct is to hate it because what i remember is the struggle and not the great solutions i came up with and ended up writing down.

💝what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

my first ofmd fic, i was something made for god etc got a LOT of love and still does to this day. people LOVE this fic so much it's insane to me. it's my most viewed fic by far and i love looking at my stats on it, brings me joy. i wrote it more than a year ago, when steddyhands was at less than 100 fics and stizzy just barely hit 50, and it took OFF. it's a cute little fic and one of my favourite Signature Style Showcase Fics (i enjoy the writing style ok) but i never dared to dream it would get so much attention :)

💋when you leave comments on a fic, do you want to hear back from the writer?

ABSOLUTELY. i'm yelling my thoughts out into the void, sometimes i have questions, sometimes i'll just say things that might elicit a response, even if it's just a "glad you liked that bit" or "good catch!" or something. either way i love knowing what the writer thinks about what i think :)

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

yeah! my epic large mchuge (5k words.) gloryhammer sick fic between light and shadows really deserves a makeover. i reread it recently and i LOVE IT SO MUCH it's some of my best writing where things actually happen, but it has a bunch of repeating phrasings/sentence structures that i want to get rid of, and the dialogue can be a tiny bit confusing at times (as in who's talking) so. if i had to do one i'd do that but despite my little unhappy thoughts i do treasure that fic. it took a lot of effort to write and it holds up VERY well despite its age and my own developing style.

💫what is your favorite kind of comment/feedback?

i LOVE it when people quote lines/paragraphs at me and tell me how it made them feel or what they thought about that bit specifically. like yes PLEASE go through the details with a fine comb i want to know what you think of even the smallest little details.

[writingmochi]

no pressure at all. i look forward to the day in which i can finally indulge in isobel ~

i hope there comes a day, one day soon, where you no longer feel icky about that name. you deserve to be free from the weight of it.

and that is perfectly fine. conversations with depth are always good since they have so much substance. it was very wise on their part to have you understand this kind of conversation early on. light hearted conversation can be good, but also burdensome sometimes. like small talk. i know of no one who truly enjoys this kind of conversation as it is often empty and void of substance…

the premise of this fic seems rather interesting. it can be hard to fit so many events into one fic. may i suggest breaking it up into a few parts? i know that a word count so large can often look daunting to others, similar to a really long movie. i believe many people prefer to binge watch television shows rather than sit down for a really long movie because they have the option to stop whenever they want. even if they do not plan to, having the option changes a lot. perhaps after you have finished the grand story, you could determine where you wish to break it up depending on the events in the story. 10k fic? maybe a three part 3k fic or two part 5k fic might look more appealing to a general audience? just a suggestion of course ~

i think it is nice that you chose an “unconventional” fandom interest. it makes it that much more interesting and unique ~ the genre reminds me of a horror fic i read for enhypen and bts a few years ago. i love the genre, no matter how obscure it can be ~

signed, 🩻

lissie: take your time by the way cause isobel is such a long read!

i mean, i'm okay with people using the shortened nickname of my name. but to me, it's just reserved for people who i know personally and who i know in real life. so it's icky for me if an internet person who i don't really know uses it. as much as i wanna indulge in many banters with people behind a screen like you, i also have to make my boundaries too. especially because parasocial relationships are becoming a common thing with social media and also create real-life problems.

i've uploaded it around the same time as you send me this ask! i divided it into smaller sections cause it is very helpful for the pacing, especially since i divide them based on the hours so people can stop at the end of one of the hours if they want! i think a one-shot with divided sections is the right format for me and i've been using it since the beginning of my writing journey! thanks for the suggestion though :D

oh definitely, especially since the five night's at freddy's movie trailer has been released and #fnaf is currently trending in hellsite! i like the mystery of the story/lore and it's interesting for the general public to know more but warning though: not all of it is canon. even in my finished fic, some information is still fanon and my own interpretation of the current story that is being told...

ooh, do send me the link if you found either or both of them! i would love more stories to read :]

[slothgiirl]

an understanding

morpheus x reader. 5k. no use of y/n. yearning. the only thing i know about video game development comes from mythic quest. dont feed ducks bread (its bad for them) morpheus.

“You know feeding ducks bread is bad for them right,” you pointedly tell the stranger in black. The man was wearing 30 layers of black under the midday sun. You had no clue how he could bear wearing a wool coat in this heat. Sweat was already gathering around your forehead and you were in a gauzy shirt. 

“Oh.” His voice was deep, an alluring quality that would’ve made him a perfect audiobook narrator. He doesn’t look up, still hunched over his loaf of french bread: the good kind that was made fresh in store at some local bakery. 

“Mind if I sit here?” You didn’t want to sit on the grass. Lugging a towel on top of your laptop and bag was bad enough so you were really hoping for a bench, even one with no shade. It was just too nice of a day to spend working indoors. 

He doesn’t respond. Tearing another piece of bread, he pops it into his mouth, finally looking up, looking out at the park contemplatively. 

You decide that it’s okay. He didn’t say no.

He was obviously incredibly awkward or maybe didn’t get out much judging by his pasty skin. It was rather unfortunate too. Now that you’d gotten a good look at him he was cute in a way that would’ve thrilled you at twelve when you were wearing studded belts and obsessed with Mary Shelley and Trent Reznor. His hair was a hopeless mess: it’s color so black it seemed to destroy any sunlight that shone on him.

Too bad he was about as interesting as a pet rock.

Even the beta testers who were chronically online, still figuring out women at the ripe old age of twenty six (which you understood as your dating life was no better and all your hopes rested on Hinge) were livelier to talk to.

You were probably being too hard on him, you thought as you opened up the company issue computer. It was the fancy type that bent completely backwards. There were so many dialogue trees to work through. So many paths.

Sitting cross legged on the bench, you get back to work and try not to think about the man on the other end of the bench. 

He managed to make eating bread an incredibly depressing act; gaunt as he was, with a forlorn expression in his clear blue eyes. 

Clearly the guy was going through something. 

Refocusing on your work, you turn up the screen brightness and pull up your saved files for Project: Dracul City.

There were notes.

Bottle: get sent to old lady Constancia and gain +1 luck token 

Newspaper: uncover school turned shelter LORE 

Right. 

“Thirsty now, are we dearie,” you utter under your breath. You worked best like this, saying the lines out loud. At the office, no one batted an eye, but you’d gotten plenty of looks at cafes. 

No. That was too fairytale-esque. This was more survival horror. The words rich and velvet were also on the moodboard. 

“A bottle of wine to soften the blow eh?” You frowned. It sounded too young, too flirty. Old Lady Constancia ran a black market shop in the game. 

“Well then, a bit of liquor for the road? Better than anything in the tavern.” 

Again, it was wrong. The wrong feel for the setting.

“No need to ask how your night is going then.” There. You grin a little, reading over the dialogue tree that led here, skimming over Lady Constancia’s lines. There’d be no voice actors for this so the diction would have a lot to convey.

“What.”

“Huh,” you look up from your screen. You’d completely forgotten you were sharing the bench, speaking too loudly. 

“You were saying.” The man looks over at you for the first time. His gaze is no longer distant as he studies you. It was obvious you held his full attention in spite of how cold his demeanor was. 

“Nothing,” you laugh nervously, “I just-it’s something I do while working. Say what I’m writing to see if it makes sense. It’s a really good trick for dialogue. Sometimes what sounds good in my head sounds really awful to my ears. It was advice I got years ago in school. Really fucking helpful though.”

“You are a writer?”

“Ha, I wish,” you scrunch your nose feeling yourself blush. “Well, sometimes. I don’t know. I always wanted to work in video games and thought writing for them would be cool. And yeah, every now and then I think I’ve got a novel in me but I like my job. Sure-I’m not lead in anything yet but it’s fun to flesh out these characters and help build a world where people can escape into. Just look at early fallout, Kentucky Route Zero’s a really good one. . .” Your own sincerity embarrassed you. “I know,” you look down at your screen, the blinking | waiting for your next words, “most people play to blow things up and kill lines of code but, I really do think it means something to people. Give them a world to play in, create, dream. . .yeah.” God you rambling so bad. “I can stop if it bothers you?”

There’s the slightest hint of interest in the subtle relaxation of his expression, “Not at all,” he replies, putting aside the bread he had left, “There is nothing frivolous in striving to inspire people.” 

His words catch you off guard. He’d been so distant before, you were expecting a brush off. “Well maybe this line won’t impact someone but you never know what characters players latch onto.” Mariska Lutz’s tapes haunted you for months after playing Bioshock for the first time. 

The man does not reply again, watching the ducks hop into the murky water. 

You return to your work, making an effort to keep your mumblings quiet. 

It’s not until the battery low notification pops up on your screen that you look up again, shutting your laptop and stretching your legs out. Your left foot tingles hellishly, having fallen asleep. 

You look over, only to find that the man had left without a word, without making a sound. It was unsurprising. When you worked you got tunnel vision. That was the reason your pot of pinto beans had burned before. No enfrijoladas for you that day. 

Well, he had certainly been a character. 

*****

 You escape a hectic office where you’d spent the past week during crunch time as the demo went live, a short teaser of the gameplay for corporate who would never even play the game but wanted to see evidence that money would be made when the game released in time for October aka when everyone would be over school and the spooky month would fit the game’s design. You’d brought a tote bag with your lunch and snacks from the office. Nothing hit the same as lays with salsa valentina though you would like to know who kept using your bottle. You’d labelled it. As a last resort you’d taken to stashing it in your desk when you knew you’d be working from home. 

July. 

Kids were chasing the poor ducks back into the pond. A woman in leopard print roller skates took on hills like a pro. 

You liked the warmth of sunlight on your skin. 

You still wore sunscreen though. 

It’s Thursday but the park is packed. You try to look for any spot that has some shade, an open seat so you can enjoy a hard earned lunch. Your fingers have cramped from all the typing you’ve done in the last few days. You haven’t checked in the mirror but you feel like roadkill. 

It was about three in the morning when you’d started using eye drops to keep going, but the meeting was happening. You’d done everything you could for your team.

No luck.

The moms were out in full force today, phone in hand as their kids ran wild. 

Then- 

You spot the same man from your last visit to this particular park. He looks the same, only his coat is longer. It was like he was trying to get heat stroke. 

Well, the trick to adulthood was just going for it. Sharing a bench wasn’t the end of the world. 

You walk over. 

“Hello again,” you wave, “mind if I sit here?” You could always keep looking. There was plenty of time before you had to rush back to work. 

“No.”

You plop down, leaving space for not only Jesus but all his homeboys too. “Thanks. I feel like everyone keeps having the same idea as me, but I guess it’s summer and unless you take the ferry west we don’t have the best beaches.” You open the bag of chips and liberally pour salsa on them, “want one?” 

You hold out the bag, offering up your snacks to the man. He seemed less morose than last time, but was for sure managing to sulk under clear skies. 

He doesn’t acknowledge you. Instead he reaches into a white paper bag and slowly grabs a pinchful of birdseed to toss over to the ducks. 

You’re left holding the bag of chips long enough for it to be awkward before you shrug and dig in, sucking the salt and salsa from your fingertips. 

This is why you’ll never have a flat stomach. Five minute abs workouts from tiktok were not enough and you sure as hell were not giving up gansitos. There were some in your freezer waiting alongside a pint of ben and jerry’s. 

“You got birdseed,” you note, amused. He had been listening to you. A thrill of excitement bubbles up in your chest. 

He nods, the motion small. 

Your companion was not an expressive man.

“No fat pigeons,” he states neutrally.

You’re puzzled but shrug it off. “I’ve heard you can feed them oatmeal. But I’d probably double check that.” 

Finishing your tiny chip back, you fold it up neatly into a square and pop it back into your tote bag until you can toss it into the trash. Your actual lunch was  a cold tomato and fresh mozzarella pasta. 

Nothing exciting. 

You’d been at the office for practically a week, only going home to have a quick shower and pick up food. You were overtired. Food was fuel. You’d treat yourself tomorrow to breakfast at your favorite cafe. 

You idly eat as people bike by. 

It could use some more sauce. 

Your melancolic acquaintance continues to feed the ducks, lost in his own thoughts.

You stab a grape tomato, deciding to make conversation because what was there to lose. “I didn’t catch your name last time.” Last time, ha. You were really going on like there would be a next time. What was the chance you’d see him again? There’d been students in your same major you’d never shared a class with. 

The question hangs in the air. 

You chew the tomato, the juice spilling out into your mouth. It was tart.

You didn’t think he’d reply and were already considering fleeing. You could finish eating at your desk. 

“Morpheus.”

“Morpheus,” you repeat so you don’t forget, “like the Greek god of sleep?” At least, you think he was the Greek god of sleep. It had been a while, he might have been a mythic hero. 

“Of dreams,” he pauses, turning to you, his clear eyes peering into yours intensely, “and sleep. Yes.” 

It’s only polite to introduce yourself properly now. You wipe the corners of your mouth clean and reply, “Nice to meet you Morpheus,” feeling silly and giddy (flip flopping between the two similar states) as you give him your name. 

Blandly he states, “We have met before.” But with his attention on you, you catch the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.  The corners of his small mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.

“All the same,” you beam at Morpheus, and finish your long lunch in quiet companionship.

*****

When you’re exhausted, you don’t even dream. Depending on whatever game you are working on, there’s weeks when you’re so mentally drained that you don’t even get under the covers before you’re out like a light. 

You’re pretty sure this is a dream. Your mind rested enough to dream.

It’s usually in the middle of the dream, in the middle of the scenery changing from a party in your grandmother’s house where a bird offers you a peach to you sitting on a trampoline that you remember from summer days at your childhood friend��s house before the trampoline broke and sent you both to the ER where you only had scratches only your friend isn’t there but a programer from your internship and hey maybe this was sign from your subconsciousness that you should text her-

You let out a breath.

The sky turns pink.

Yup, this was a dream.

You lean into it, letting it happen around you, letting your mind wander as the trampoline bounces lightly with Nina’s movements. It jolts your body, your brain swings around in your skull pleasantly like being in those massage chairs. 

A breeze runs over your cheeks.

You look at the blue of the trampoline border. Blue like the waters in instagram pictures. Blue-

The black trampoline washes away into dark waves and your favorite aunt lays in an innertube sipping on a cocktail, “I’m really glad we came to Hawai’i.”

“Me too. Though I’m still waiting to see a mermaid.”

“It’s great. I’m glad Lady Gaga approved the highway from San Diego to Hawai’i.”

“And we got to see those sea dragons!” 

“Exactly!”

You feel something by your leg and stick your head underwater. The water is so clear, you can see everything around you, including the dolphins swimming around you, leading you somewhere. Minecraft dolphins. You grab onto it’s fin, wondering where they want to lead you. Atlantis? Too see a mermaid.

From under the water you tell your aunt, “I’ll be right back!”

“Yeah-”

And your alarm goes off. Your dream rapidly fades as you wipe the sleep from your eyes and blindly grasp around your nightstand for your phone. “Shut up!” The alarm was so annoying. Shrill ringing in your ears when all you wanted to do was go back to sleep.

You send Nina a heart emoji on discord, followed by let’s grab some shaved ice. 

Then, you flop back on your bed and doom scroll for a few minutes before you have to sign in on Slack.

*****

It becomes a habit. 

Even as the weather takes a turn as fall sets in, you try and make it out to the park once a week, and without fail Morpheus is there. He’s not always feeding the ducks. But he’s always there and always leaves without saying a word.

You’re not offended when he barely acknowledges your wave as you sit down next to him. That was just what he was like. Morpheus suffered from perpetual resting bitch face because of his pouty mouth. You’d yet to see him smile. 

It didn’t matter. You liked his presence. You enjoyed having company as you got fresh air. 

He listened but rarely had much of a reply.

“It’s nice to go into the office and touch base with the other writers,” you muse, sipping at your drink, “make sure everything is coherent and I guess it helps to talk to people who are also living with this whole world in their head. It helps. The entire story’s been fleshed out by James, our lead.” You let the words hang in the air. Working from home was nice too. It lets you wake up at noon and crawl down the rabbit hole of your own imagination until three in the morning. 

Morpheus’ tilts towards you as he continues to watch the wind sweep through the trees. A trio of teenage girls had brought an entire charcuterie board and flowers for their park day. 

“Not to mention James does have to sign off on my work. I’m still pretty low on the totem pole.” This was your first full time gig out of school. Not an internship with terrible pay and long hours or freelance, but an honest to god full time job with benefits and pay that meant you could finally rent your own studio apartment. “Do you game?”

“No.”

You glance at him in profile. He remained as pale as the first time you’d seen him, but the gauntness in his cheeks had receded. There’s lines under his eyes that led you to believe he was closer to forty than your late twenties, closing in on the big 30. The Cut loved to post how everything changed at thirty. 

“It’s fun. I didn’t really get into them until high school but that was only because my parents bought into the whole video games cause violence schtick but like, I wanted to play pokemon not Call of Duty, at least when I was nine.” You smile, thinking back on fond memories, “then I started going over to Michael’s house after school and we’d play Zelda and Fallout. His parents were complete nerds who knew Klingon so they were cool about us playing whatever they were also playing.” Your parents would not have approved of Left 4 Dead. 

“I will take your word for it,” Morpheus tells you, sitting back against the bench. 

You sip your tea. It’s still warm enough that the ice is melting away, watering down the taro flavor. “Or you could come over sometime and play Stardew Valley?” You pick a tree and stare at it. You were nervous about his reaction. But it had been weeks. At some point you had to make plans and grab a burger or a drink. That’s just what friends did and if you left it up to Morpheus it would probably take a year. That’s all. It had nothing to do with how your heart sped up the moment you spotted his familiar head of hair in the park. It had nothing to do with the anticipation that had you smiling like a fool on Wednesdays when you routinely went to the park. 

He doesn’t respond, his expression dour. 

After a beat of silence, you find it within yourself to look at him. 

Morpheus meets your searching gaze with his own. You could see the emotions playing out in his blue eyes, but you could not read them. Like the eyes of a bird of prey, you could see the intelligence, the life and consciousness within, but lacked the ability to understand them the way you could read other people. 

The corners of his mouth lift, his smile a precious thing you couldn’t turn away if you wanted to. “Perhaps,” he allows. “Once the image of an avenging Mina Harker fills the minds of dreamers around the world.”

Smiling softly you reply, “Only if it’s successful.” You could never be sure with indie games. 

“It will be,” Morpheus states.

“I try not to focus too hard on what happens after it’s released and out of my hands. What will be will be.” 

He nods. 

You finish your tea. 

It was a lovely day. The August sun was not so harsh after four. There were less people as families planned for a return to school. The tourists stopped visiting the Northwest in droves. 

And maybe Morpheus would come over. 

That was more than you’d had yesterday. 

You could even show him the demo of-

You bite your lip, trying to think if you had let anything slip about Project: Dracul City. Developing games came with a strict gag order. Nothing could leak before it’s time, not the gameplay or plot or any of the concept art. Usually, you were pretty good about keeping quiet. 

Surely you hadn’t told him. 

And yet he’d known. 

You frown. 

“Do you wish to feed the ducks as well?” 

His words break your line of thought. You hadn’t even noticed the crinkling sound of the paper bag as he opened the birdseed up. 

“These ducks must be the most spoiled in all the public parks,” you muse, smiling at Morpheus before grabbing a handful of feed and tossing it lightly into the grass. 

It was exciting to see the ducks and birds come over. The shyer animals waited to see if it was safe. They all had their own personalities. 

You’re not bothered by his lack of response, the conversation stilling. You’d grown to like his taciturn ways. It gave what he did say more weight. He wore black like a uniform and over the course of the weeks in which you had been meeting up with him (undiscussed by either of you) he had become beautiful in your eyes. You wanted to run your fingers through his unkempt hair. You wanted to steal away his smiles for yourself: to know you could make such a dour man smile because he couldn’t help himself around you. 

You reach for more birdseed only to find that Morpheus had left. 

Figures. 

*****

Unsuccessfully, you try to wipe away the number written on the cup of hot apple cider, otherwise known as the perfect fall drink as the leaves grew into vibrant array of reds and oranges with the change in seasons as the days grew cold. 

The cashier had been nice, but you were only interested in one man. 

The sharpie doesn’t budge at all. 

You give up trying to get the sharpie off when you spot Morpheus. “Hey I got you a drink since it’s starting to get cold out.” It wasn’t coat season for you yet, but you’d started wearing a sweater while running all over town. 

You hold out one of the cups, the one without the number scribbled on it. 

His eyes widen, pink lips parting in surprise. But he makes no move to reach for the cup you’re offering. 

“It’s apple cider,” you tack on, “warm you right up.”

He blinks. 

You roll your eyes, “just take it and say thank you.”

It works. Morpheus nods, taking the cup from you, his fingers cool when they brush against your skin. “This was not necessary.” 

“I know,” you say, plopping down next to him. “But I wanted to.” 

“Thank you,” he inclines his head toward you. The sincerity in his voice is clear as a bell. 

Heat blooms on your cheeks. “You're welcome.” Again, you smile at him as you take a sip of your cup, “I can’t wait until the street vendors start having roasted chestnuts.”

“You enjoy winter.”

“Yeah. Some of it,” you laugh, “The snow can get annoying at times but more and more I find myself taking the time to enjoy the little things. It’s not like I’m working towards getting into college, getting a degree or anything anymore. I’m just enjoying life, yeah?” You flush. In your head it sounded wise, but out loud you just sounded naive. 

“My sister shares your thoughts.”

You arch a brow, “you have a sister! Older or younger?”

With a slight smile, Morpheus answers, “older.” He must be fond of her. 

“Well she’s right. It’s hard at first. I’d pick up flowers for myself and then think about what a waste of money they were but why not. I like having flowers. Or I’d make up excuses not to go out with my coworkers to stay in but if you do that enough times they’ll stop inviting you and you fall into a rut and that’s no way to live. And some people are so different outside of work.” The older you get, the easier being content becomes. 

Stop and smell the roses indeed. 

Then you ask him, deviating from your unspoken plans, “do you want to walk around?”

“If you wish to.”

“I do, but we don’t have to.”

Morpheus stands, and you take that for the answer that it is. 

******

The grass tickles your calves as you wander through the meadow. The sun paints the sky in hues of orange as it sinks below the treeline. 

It’s lucky it’s not raining. 

On your first trip to this national park, it had rained the entire time. Not surprising. Rain was a constant companion in this city, but it was more than worth it when you got this lovely meadow all to yourself. Wildflowers were sprinkled throughout the grass. 

You’d always wanted to come back, splurge on the fancy lodge instead of being in a tent and hoping the rain wouldn’t get through the plastic. Plans to come-

You blink, looking around slowly. 

Was this a dream?

You try to string your thoughts together: trying to remember how you got here. It was fall. Not spring. It’s hard, your brain feels like it's sinking into a thick comforter, the way it always feels when you’re on the border of deep sleep. 

Taking in the scenery, the solace, you let your train of thought dissolve and you give into the nonsensical logic of dreams, letting yourself fall back into deep sleep. 

It’s lovely. 

You sit down in the grass as the leaves take flight, butterflies in the air twirling in constellations before settling back down in the branches. These trees were unmatched by anything you’d seen before. It only made you wish to see more, go to more places. 

“You are fond of the natural world.”

Turning, you find Morpheus sitting next to you. His long coat is no longer black but a starry night. Stars twinkle in the depth of the fabric as you take him in with wide eyes. 

“Morpheus,” you’re delighted to see him.

And because this is a dream, you don’t hesitate to reach out, crossing boundaries without a thought, you brush your fingers over his shoulder, half expecting your hand to go right through and slide into an abyss of night. That doesn’t happen. 

Sheepishly, you meet his gaze. 

His eyes are black unfathomless pits with a sole pinprick of light for a pupil. At this, you draw back. 

Morpheus says nothing, regarding you carefully. 

You blink.

And when you can bear to meet his waiting gaze again, his eyes are clear as ever. It must have been a trick of the light. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you note lamely. The national park wasn’t exactly close. 

“I have business to contend with,” Morpheus replies, which leaves you with more questions than answers. You didn’t even know what he did for work. “We will not be able to meet in the Waking world for some time.”

“Oh,” you answer, crushed. It was ridiculous to feel so intensely about someone who was the equivalent of a classroom friend. You didn’t even have his number. Lin, your coworker, would call that a red flag. 

His words sink in and, “the waking world?” Now you’re just confused.

His brow furrows with concern. “We are in The Dreaming.”

“I don’t understand.”

Morpheus frowns. “This a dream, your dream.” The sky goes periwinkle as snow starts falling. “And I am King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms.”

“Oh,” you go, “should I bow or something?” 

Your words elicit a rare smile from the dour man. 

It made your smile grow, to know that you had made him smile. 

“There is no need,” the small smile stays on his pink lips. 

“No off with her head” you joke, accepting dream logic and not questioning it as you quote the Queen of Hearts. 

Morpheus frowns. “I would not be so crude.”

“Oh so I should be worried,” you wiggle your brows. 

“Not of me.” He utters softly, his eyes become glassy. “Not while you are under my protection.” Morpheus reaches for you. The back of his hand ghosts over your cheek. 

You lean into his touch without a thought. 

You meet his gaze unabashed. 

He blinks slowly, peering at you through dark lashes. There was a sedate romance to him that the Brontë sisters could only dream of. 

“I cannot stay,” he confesses with remorse.

“You did say you had stuff to do.” 

“I do.”

His hand is soft against your cheek. Neither of you move, resting in the moment, holding the pause for as long as possible.

Morpheus draws away, standing. Snow falls around you but the temperature remains pleasant. Snowflakes fall on your arms and do not melt. 

You stand. 

It’s the awkward point where you’re waiting for him to leave but don’t want him to leave and he’s dragging it out too. You’ve been through this plenty of times on friends' doorsteps as you chat and say goodbye and wait. 

He stuffs his hands in his coat. It touches the ground, melting away the snow around the hem with its soft red flames, more ember than anything. 

Morpheus makes no move to leave. 

You wait, taking in the sight of him. Snowflakes fall in his unbrushed hair. 

“Here,” Morpheus draws something from his pocket. 

“Oh.” 

He drops it in your outstretched palm without ceremony. Morpheus looks away as you study the object.

It’s a necklace. The chain is simple gold. It’s the pendant that catches your eye. 

Encased in glass are grains of sand. They swirl inside the glass on their own. 

“Thank you,” you look over at him. 

Morpheus nods slightly. “It allows you to enter The Dreaming at will.”

“A standing invitation then,” you wink.

“Yes.” He has a talent for filling words with a weight beyond their common vernacular. Morpheus’ gaze is heavy on you. 

You can’t parse out why this is so important, but it obviously is for him. 

You unlock the clasp, wrapping the chain around your neck. With your fingertips, you try to lock it. The clasp is impossible when you cannot see it.

The hairs at your nape get in the way.

“Allow me.” Morphues closes the distance between you. 

“Yeah, that would be great.”

He takes the chain from you, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck. He works swiftly, making quick work of it. 

The pendant hangs in the middle of your chest. 

Your heartbeat is hummingbird quick. 

Morpheus’s breath tickles your nape. 

You don’t dare move, fearing this is all a dream that will end if you do anything.

“I shall be expecting you.”

“I’ll be sure not to disappoint. Though it’s about to be crunch time and I’m not looking forward to-” 

His actions cut you off. 

Morpheus leans forward, his lips brushing against your neck chastely. 

You draw in a breath. 

The moment is over in the blink of an eye. 

Something witty, sure to ruin the moment, is on the tip of your tongue as you turn, looking over your shoulder. But he’s gone. 

****

The sand continues to swirl, defying gravity inside the pendant, when you wake. 

You play with it as you scroll through files, read through work emails, and desperately try to recall the details of your dream. 

You’ve never been more excited to sleep in your life.

[piastrinorris]

The Buffer

Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!Reader (no gendered terms/pronouns)

Genre: fluff, tiny little smut mention at the end

Word count: 5k

Summary: Chrissy just wants to play wingwoman. If only the two people in question weren't so clueless.

A/N: Writing Chrissy is so fun. I hope I've done her justice.

Being friends with most of the school newspaper had its perks and its penalties. Pro: you get all the hot gossip before it hits the shelves of the school store. Con: whenever there is a big scoop and they have to work through their lunch break, yours becomes far more lonely. Usually you can find someone to sit with, but today you just so happen to prefer your own company.

Coincidentally, today is the day Chrissy Cunningham decides to sit at your table. "Hi!" she beams, setting her tray down, sitting down and then offering her hand out to you. "You don't mind if I sit here, right?"

Eyes narrowing, you take her hand warily. You've never heard anything bad about her, but you wonder why now, in your senior year, would she finally extend the olive branch? "You already made the trek all the way out here," you muse, and she giggles.

"Yeah, it's not my table but I thought, it's been a minute since we last talked and since your friends aren't here, I figured I could keep you company!" You can't get a read on her. She's the human equivalent of sunshine.

"That's sweet of you," you smile. "Yeah, it's the one downside of being on the outskirts of the school paper team," you shrug, and Chrissy nods in understanding. "Normally I'd find someone else to hang with, but I dunno, something told me to just sit here anyway."

Chrissy's eyes widen. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, if you need some alone time I totally get that, I'm so sorry I assumed -"

"It's fine," you hold your hand out with a reassuring smile. "I'm actually glad you joined me."

She gasps exaggeratedly, pressing her palm to her chest and putting on a voice, "Who, li'l ol' me?!" You laugh, and she joins you. "Well, I would offer for you to sit with more of us, but some of the other girls are…"

"Say no more, I know how a lot of cheerleaders feel about me," you roll your eyes. "Nah, usually I'll go and sit with, like, the theatre kids, or those Hellfire boys, if I need a good book to read, they'll know."

"Oh my god, can I tell you something so bad?" She asks you with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth.

You look from side to side. "Bad, like… Like, scandalous or -?"

"Oh, no! Not at all! This is about me," she giggles. "Did you know that, up until a few weeks ago, I had no idea that Eddie the Fr… The one who plays Dungeons and Dragons," she quickly corrects herself before leaning in to whisper to you, "I had no idea that was Edward Munson from middle school."

"Girl," your eyes widen as you lean back and she holds her cheeks, laughing silently. "You mean to tell me you couldn't tell that Edward the metalhead became Eddie the metalhead?!"

"He had buzzed hair, I don't know!" She presses her fingers to her temples as her face cringes. "When he started talking about his band, it all came flooding back, and I felt so bad!" Her face starts to soften, though. She rests her elbow on the table and sits her chin on the palm of her hand, her fingers curling against her cheekbone. "He's kinda cute now, wouldn't you say?"

Of course she'd say that as you were taking a sip of your drink. Taken aback, your breath catches at just the wrong moment and you start sputtering and coughing. She grimaces, though you can tell she's trying really hard not to laugh. When you finally catch your breath, you say, "Can't say I've noticed any difference." 

That's not technically a lie. You liked Eddie in his buzzed phase. You liked him in his half-grown-out phase. You even liked him in his irons-his-hair-straight phase, though you're grateful that it looks far healthier now that he keeps it curled. And sure, maybe your heart skips a beat or two when he calls you over personally to sit with you, or points to an empty spot next to him (provided one of his "baby sheep" hasn't taken it already). So there's never been a difference to whether or not you'd thought him cute. But if Chrissy Cunningham is into him? Any shot you might have had if you'd had the confidence to do something about it is definitely out of the window.

And so you come to your conclusion. Clearly, Chrissy has seen that you and him are still somewhat friends, and clearly she wants you to play wingman. It'll sting, sure, but it's not like you were planning on making a move anytime soon.

"You don't think he is?" she asks with a slight frown. You're perplexed. Do you chase her off his scent, would that make things too obvious? Or do you encourage it, and risk her questioning your enthusiasm? Either way, the risk is there, and at least now you can live vicariously through her.

You shrug, "I mean, I didn't say that, he's just… I dunno. He's always been Eddie," you allow yourself a small, wistful smile for a few seconds, which is cut short by Chrissy noticing something behind you.

"Oh my god, shh-shh, there he i- Eddie!" The tonal change from being so hushed when she started talking to yelling and waving by the end hurt your ears. 

Tray full of food in hand, he saunters over to you both. "Well, hello to you both," he balances the tray in one hand while doing a funny salute-bow motion with the other. "To what am I owed this pleasure?'

"Well, we were just catching up, since someone was sitting here all alone," Chrissy starts with a pout, and Eddie frowns, turning to you.

"Well, hey, you know there's always room for you with us, right? I know the boys tend to… Get excited and forget other people exist, but you just gotta be just as loud," he explains, his head shaking slightly.

You giggle, "It's been fun, actually, just me and Chrissy here. She's real fun to be with." You didn't realise quite how much saying things like that would sting, but you're here now. Hopefully it'll get easier with time.

"You should come sit with us!" Chrissy pats the table at the spot next to you. You turn your gaze quickly to your own meal, poking at the parts you're yet to eat. You conveniently miss Eddie and Chrissy's silent conversation of eye flashes, tiny gestures and facial expressions.

Eventually Eddie caves and slides into the seat next to you. Chrissy waves her hand towards her, "No, no, come closer! I don't want to have to yell." Even when making her demands, she's adorable. He should be putty in her hands within seconds. Then your work will be done.

Eddie slides his chair over, so his leg barely grazes yours. If you lean even the slightest amount, you can feel the chain on his jeans press into you. "So, what hot topic are we catching up on, then?" he asks.

"I was -" Chrissy collapses into laughter, which makes both you and Eddie smile. There's that sting again. "I was just talking about yo- how I didn't know you were you from middle school!"

"I mean, can you believe." Eddie deadpans, looking at you while gesturing with his open palm to Chrissy.

"Even you said, didn't you!" Chrissy continues, now also talking to you. "You said even you knew he was the same guy from middle school, it was just me!"

You shake your head in disbelief. "I can't believe it's just the hair that fooled you! I remember you in middle school having to move your ponytail so you didn't sit on it! This doesn't even look half as long!" You gesture towards her hair, and she giggles even more.

"Yours doesn't seem to have changed much though," Eddie muses, mouth half-full of food as he points his fork at you. You hate that you don't even find that repulsive.

"Nah, I've pretty much looked the same since the age of six, just stretched out in certain places," you shake your head, to a chorus of laughter from the other two. "Except for the few months I was missing a chunk out of it because I tried to bleach that one part with toilet cleaner." The pair of them hiss through their teeth in sympathy.

"I can do you one better than that," Eddie smirks. "Though it's not my story, guy I met at the Hideout one time. He had tried to bleach his hair at home, was told to wrap it in plastic and heat it up. So he takes a grocery bag -"

Your hands fly up to your face in shock. "Not one that had a logo on it!" Eddie presses his lips together and nods.

Chrissy whines, "Oh, no! So did it transfer onto his -" Eddie interrupts with another nod. "Noooo!"

"I so wish I could have seen it," Eddie laughs. "In Chrissy's defence, though, I didn't think I was all that memorable," he glances over at you.

You shake your head. "I’ll never forget the day you dressed up as a Hobbit for Halloween wearing sneakers with hair taped to them," you laugh, and Chrissy looks at you wide-eyed.

"Sorry, what?! Where was I?!"

Eddie laughs behind his hand. "Oh god, I thought nobody had noticed that! So - I wanted to give the outfit my full devotion, which meant walking around barefooted with extra hair on my fe- You asked!" Eddie exclaims as Chrissy cringes. "But the teacher told me I couldn't not wear shoes, so I had to keep it canon somehow. God, that teacher sucked," he groans under his breath.

"Oh, yes. How terrible it must have been for you to get dress-coded," you deadpan, and Chrissy joins in, once again trying not to laugh.

"You poor thing, Eddie. Having to be told to put shoes on, so oppressive."

"You guys are really coming for my jugular, huh? Last time I join you two." Thankfully, his tone doesn't sound serious.

"Aww, but who else is gonna come bowling with us after school?" Chrissy pouts. You give her a wide-eyed stare and she simply bounces her eyebrows up and down at you in response.

Eddie blows air between his lips in a rasp. "I dunno, you drive a hard bargain..."

"I'll buy you a portion of loaded fries," you offer, clearly understanding your place as the buffer, the third wheel.

Eddie slaps the table, "Now I'm sold!"

He and Chrissy set up a time and a place and you simply nod quietly in agreement. It’s their date, after all. You’re just moral support until it’s your cue to leave them to it.

Once he’s finished with his food, he nods over at his usual table. “S’pose I should go see my herd. I guess I’ll see you later on this evening,” he smiles before leaving you to join his friends.

Chrissy grabs your wrist, looking all excited. “Isn’t this awesome?! I thought that’d give us time to go to the mall first - don't sweat it, I'll drive us - find something cute to wear, and then we can start the journey over to the bowling alley!”

You’re not sure why you have to dress cute, too, but you assume she doesn’t want to potentially appear overdressed, so at least if you’re there and he’s underdressed, he’s in the minority. You let her have her little makeover moment - as much as it all hurts to help Chrissy live your dream, she's just too nice to direct any ill will towards. 

When you meet up with Eddie, he has smartened up a little - he's wearing a plaid button-up, though you see his homemade Hellfire shirt peek out beneath it, and a leather jacket. He's absolutely beaming at the sight of you both - which if course he is, you're stood next to the most infectious smile in Hawkins. He greets you with the same motion he did in the cafeteria, “Long time no see,” he smirks. “Shall we?”

Eddie turns his nose up at swapping his Reeboks for “clown shoes”, while Chrissy notices that hers squeak if she slides her feet in just the right way and obsesses over it, trying to get a sound out of every step. 

Chrissy insists on "ladies first" as she writes her name without hesitation. She writes yours next, then Eddie's. It goes about the same as any other bowling game - though when you revel in getting the first strike, Chrissy pulls you in for a hug and practically throws you at Eddie to also hug him. 

He smells nicer than he does at school. You feel his laugh rumble in his chest, "Thank you? I'd put that down to Hawkins High smelling worse in general."

Shoot. You'd said that out loud. You play it off with a semi-awkward laugh and a, "Yeah, that's probably it!" 

Eddie gets the next strike, and Chrissy ushers you forward first to praise him. This tactic, admittedly, just genuinely puzzles you. Does she just want to be the most recent physical contact of his? But then why wouldn't she do the opposite when you got your first strike? None of it seems to make sense. Is this why she needs a wingman? Do you need to step in and intervene? You offer him a hug identical to the one he gave, and as much as you try to keep it as brief as possible, you can't help but linger just a little.

You try your best to not play your A-game, giving Chrissy the chance to try and impress Eddie all by herself, but she keeps hyping you up just as much, if not more. You try and play off like you're at least mildly disappointed, and Eddie ruffles your hair sympathetically. You glare at him and he chuckles, "C'mon, you promised me fries, didn't you?"

The three of you share the food between yourselves, Eddie eating the most, which he'd predicted and already "repaid" for by buying all your drinks. Chrissy excuses herself to the bathroom, and Eddie spots you eyeing a nearby claw machine. "You know there's a trick to those, right?"

Your brow furrows. "Isn't it, like, random? When the claw actually grips or whatever?"

Eddie taps his nose knowingly, "Trust me. C'mon," he gestures with his head and you follow him over to it. "Pick one."

You raise your eyebrows. "You're that confident?!" He nods, and you press your forehead to the glass as you choose, "That one. Teddy bear, black and curly hair."

"Just like me," Eddie smiles, taking a final loud slurp of his drink followed by an equally loud gasp. "Stand back, please." You comply, hopping back to watch over his shoulder as he explains his actions. "See, you're not wrong, but you can increase your chances, thanks to a handy little friend called physics. If we just keep, it, moving," he punctuates every pause with the press of a different button, aiming the claw so that it starts to swing, "so that it still wants to swing even as it comes up," his voice drawls a little slower as the claw descends, clutching your preferred toy in its grasp, "and then when it does," he pauses for effect to show you the claw swinging on its ascent, "gravity should keep it central enough as it swings back and forth that it should… Fall…" He extends each word until it drops into the shaft, where he extends his hands out proudly, "Right where you want it."

Your eyes are wide, fixated on where the best now sits. "And yet it's taken you how long to get a D grade?!"

He laughs, "Listen, if physics was taught through hotwiring cars and figuring out arcade game mechanics, I'd be running that class. Same as how I can count a 7d6 roll in seconds, but long division? When am I ever going to use that again, you know?"

“You’re a smart one, Mr Munson,” you smirk as he takes the bear out and hands it to you. Your breath hitches as you feel his fingers brush against yours, and you chide yourself for getting so flustered, not only over someone who a separate person has sought your help to set them up with, but over an action so basic.

Chrissy suddenly appears, bouncing between the two of you. “Ooh, what are we up to?” she asks in a delighted sing-song.

“Just showing off my mad skills," Eddie beams, leaning against the machine and holding his arms out to point at himself proudly.

Slightly dejected, you hand the bear over. "Yeah, look, he won this for you!"

Chrissy looks at Eddie with a face you can't quite read. Like she's questioning him. He returns the expression, and Chrissy shakes her head. "You hold onto it for now, come get another drink with me!" Less of an offer, more a warning as she takes your wrist and pulls you over to the vendor again. "So, talk me through this," she says when you're both definitely out of Eddie's earshot. "How could Eddie have won something for me when I wasn't even there?"

You shrug, "I dunno, but it seems to be going well, right? So, you want me to get out of you guys' hair now, or…?" After that brief contact, you're ready to go home and just scream into your pillow for all eternity.

"Why would - Oh! Oh. Oh, no," Chrissy goes on a whole journey of expression, from curiosity to surprise to realisation to bursting into a fit of giggles. "No, no, oh my god. Did you think that I was - that you were -?"

You look at her, totally lost. "I'm going to need you to please finish at least one of those sentences."

Chrissy holds back a snort of laughter before ordering just two drinks. "Oh god, you two are just precious little disasters, aren't you?" Your eyes narrow, and she holds your arm gently. "Okay, so I'm going to be the one to go, now, because my role here was to try and push the two of you together."

Chrissy's words echo in your head. So many thoughts consume you. She notices this and, after taking both drinks, guides you over to one of the designated booths for food, also waving Eddie over. He walks up to where you both sit, opting for sidling into your side. "Do I get to be filled in on whatever's going on here, or…?" Eddie asks, waving between the three of you.

"So, debrief time," Chrissy starts, placing her hands on the table. "Maybe I'm not the wingwoman I thought I was." Eddie's eyes go wide for a second before his expression becomes one of confusion. She continues, looking straight at him, "I, uh, accidentally led your date on to believe that I was the one who wanted to come here with you. So,” she slides the cups over to your side of the table, “I'm going to go now, you two finish these drinks and go play the one more game of bowling I already paid for, and I'll see you guys tomorrow, 'kay?" With one more slap of the table, Chrissy stands up, slides out of the booth and leaves.

Eddie sucks on his straw nervously while you play with the teddy bear sitting in your lap. You're the first one to break the silent tension, "So. Never thought to just, ask me out?"

Eddie chuckles humourlessly. "You live the life that I have, and matters of the heart become an unattainable luxury." You rest your head on his shoulder comfortingly. "Although," he smirks, "if you had just asked me out, I wouldn't have been caught longingly gazing at you from afar by Chrissy Cunningham, of all people."

You laugh, "Shut up," But Eddie shakes his head, his hair tickling your face in the process. He notices, and tucks it behind his ear.

"It's true! Since all cards are on the table, Chrissy caught me looking over at you last week, before your theatre friends caught you, and then next thing I knew, I'm being flagged down by the two of you, who are suddenly best pals," he crosses his fingers together.

"And… How long before that?" You ask tentatively.

Eddie shrugs his shoulder to gently jolt your head. "Nuh-uh, your turn first, I've already embarrassed myself enough." As you lift your head, you notice a flush of colour adorning his cheeks.

You, too, immediately turn red enough to blend in with the Coca-Cola sponsored furniture. "Um, well… We never really talked in middle school, but I remember thinking you were really cute, with your hair just growing out and the - the handwritten shirts you used to make, I always thought they were cool. I told my best friends at a slumber party, and they said you probably wouldn't even give me the time of day; I was younger and not skilled in any way to play in your band, so they told me you wouldn't care." Eddie's brow furrows, but he lets you continue. "Then, freshman year, I'd tried to join the school paper with my friends, but it was so not my scene. And I didn't know where else to go, but you just… Took me in, just like that. I told myself I wouldn't screw this up, that I'd only act on stuff if I knew it wasn't going to make things weird.  And now, ironically, here I am having the weirdest conversation of my life."

"So, good news about that, weird is kind of my thing," Eddie starts, amused. "You really liked me for that long, huh?" You nod, and he laughs. "So, whenever you would sit next to me on the bus, even when there were empty seats…"

You nod, cringing, "I thought that might be something, like the start of some kind of epic middle school love story, but you proved my friends right. You wouldn't even talk to me,” you shrug.

He smirks, "Because my freshly-teenaged brain had no idea how to approach the very first person he felt attracted to."

If this were a cartoon, there’d be steam blowing out from your ears, you’re that red. “Shut up,” you mutter with a shy smile, looking back down again at the toy in your lap.

“It’s true!” Eddie beams. “I just kinda thought that… I don’t even know,” he shakes his head. “I thought maybe you might be the one to bring up the fact that you would always sit next to me.”

“And I would always sit next to you in the hopes you would bring that up to me,” you giggle.

Eddie moves his knee to rest next to yours, “God, what a pair of idiots we were, huh.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m the one who didn’t even realise I was being set up on this date,” you admit sheepishly.

“I mean, there were moments today where I thought maybe I was the third wheel all along!” Eddie laughs. “So, I kinda get it.” He reaches over to gently poke at the bear. “Got a name for him yet?”

You hold it up onto the table. “Yeah, Teddy Munson, after his dad,” you gently nudge him with your shoulder and he laughs. “He’s got your hair.”

“Yeah, but he’s got his mom’s cuteness,” Eddie looks sideways at you, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips.

Taken aback, you scoff, “Oh sure, now he’s smooth!”

Eddie’s loud laugh fills your ears, causing your smile to reach them, too. “Well, now he knows he’s got a shot. Better late than never, right?”

“In that case, you should know that I totally botched that last game on purpose,” you nod.

Eddie leans back in his seat, a cocky half-smile adorning his face as he looks at you with head cocked and an arm draped across the back of the booth seat. “Oh, yeah? Sure you did.”

“Sorry, remind me, uh, who was it that got the first strike? And then suddenly got way worse? How do you explain that?” you lean back to match his energy, the adrenaline of a half-lifelong crush finally being actively reciprocated charging you.

“I’d call that a fluke, but it’s okay. Whatever helps you sleep tonight,” Eddie’s arm reaches up to once again ruffle your hair. In doing so, he ends up at a closer proximity to you. Oh, you could just lean in a fraction and simply smooch his smug face clean off of him right there and then, but your competitiveness just gets the better of you.

“Fine. Chrissy said she bought us a game, right? Let’s go,” you gesture to the alleys, and he hops out of the booth by pushing himself up to perch his feet on the seat and then vaulting over the back. You clap at his acrobatics and he bows his signature bow at you, before offering his hand to help you out. You take it, carefully shuffling out of the booth while also holding the teddy to your chest, explaining softly, “I’m bearing precious cargo, here.”

Eddie snorts, “Bear-ing,” while pointing to him, and you roll your eyes. “C’mon, you love it,” he drawls as you jokingly start to walk towards the exit, but he tightens his grip on your hand and instead pulls you over to the counter. Apparently, Chrissy had already explained the situation to the girl who was working, having given her a brief description of who to look for.

You take on the responsibility of writing your names on the card beneath the projector, while Eddie drapes himself over you. With a laugh, you ask, "You good?"

"Who, me? Sorry, my presence isn't too distracting for you, is it?" 

"So is your tactic to annoy all your dates, or am I just the lucky one?" You ask with amusement.

"Oh, yeah. you mean the absolute hordes of people just lining up for a night with ol' Eddie, you're gonna have to beat them all off with a stick if you want a shot!" He yells sarcastically as he dramatically prances around you, making you laugh harder.

"Right, but I can't be your first date, surely?" You ask. You've never seen him with anyone, but you never know. Maybe he's more of a casual guy. Maybe even this is casual. Maybe, considering how wrong you were about Chrissy, you should stop making your own assumptions and wait for him to tell you.

He shrugs, "I've been on plenty of double dates where I've been the buffer-slash-distraction, but I've never really clicked with any of those. Let me put it this way - I bully the people I hold dear to me, and you're the only date I've bullied."

"I think there's a compliment in there somewhere," you pull a face, eyes darting around as you try to piece his sentence together. 

"Alright, hotshot, let's see what you got," Eddie smirks, patting your back.

"Ooh, he's a poet! Can I expect a Corroded Coffin song about me, soon?" You grin, picking out your preferred ball.

"Yeah, it's gonna be called Humble Pie, 'cause that's what you'll be eating soon," he pinches your nose between his index and middle knuckles before gesturing towards your lane. "The floor is yours."

Taking aim and bending low, you take the shot and nail it, watching all the pins fall with glee in your eyes. You swivel round to grin at Eddie, "See?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't think I'm not onto your little distraction technique, bending that far just to bowl," Eddie raises his eyebrows.

You narrow your eyes, gesturing to the other lanes, “It’s a legitimate strategy, Eddie, look at everyone else.”

Eddie barely glances over at them before stepping towards you. “No, I think you’re definitely doing it on purpose.” He closes the gap between you, looking down as he drawls, “I’m onto you, kid.”

Yet again, you could just give into temptation, grab his face and kiss him. Let him think of nothing else for the rest of the game. But then, perhaps that’s his plan for you. Regardless of how the game goes, your flirting’s become a competition in itself now. And you’re going to win.

You do lean in. You watch his eyes flicker down, his lips twitch. And then you pinch his cheek, “Your turn, big boy.” You walk back to the bench, and take a little extra pride in the oooh you can hear as he blows a breath out while he watches you.

On every good shot you get, you gloat. On every bad shot you get, you completely avoid Eddie, despite him chasing you around to goad you. On every good shot of Eddie’s, you pull a sarcastic look at his celebrations. 

On a particularly bad shot of Eddie’s, you pout as you tease condescendingly, “Aww, could somebody not keep the ball out of the gutter? Poor thing.”

“Alright, now I am gonna have to stop you there, unless you want all this to go to waste,” Eddie points out with another drawl.

“And why would it go to waste?” you ask, folding your arms. “That’d only be the case if we both forfeited, which isn’t -”

Eddie stands close to you to murmur, “Keep that tone of voice up, and I’ll be forfeiting us both into the back of my truck, if you catch my drift.”

Normally an admission like this would render you floored, but you’re competition-fuelled-adrenaline-filled now. You narrow your eyes, “Using theoretical sex as a distraction technique, Munson? A low blow, even for you.”

“God, you are doing so many things for me right now,” he growls. “And I’d show you how non-theoretical that promise is but, uh, I think Gramps and the crew might have something to say,” he jerks his head over to the team of older bowlers in the lane next to you.

You bite your lip. “Loser of the game has to get the winner off?”

“Deal.”

When Chrissy calls you up the next morning, you tell her of how you and Eddie kissed for the first time as a celebration of the result of that second match. You opt to leave out the part that took place inside the van, where Eddie came in his pants while moaning your name between your legs as he devoured you to your climax.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

I have this idea that I´ll never write, so if you could do something with it, it would be a dream come true and an absolute honor.

A Rhaegar wins AU, and when they were children, the parents decided Jon and Arya were a good match, and they were like well we like the same shit so that sounds cool.

FAST FORWARD TO ADULTHOOD and they are like I really don't wanna do this thing cause I might throw up but I don't wanna hurt the other person's feelings.

Arya is like, I don´t wanna get married at all, or maybe she likes Gendry or a girl.

And Jon is absolutely head over hills for Sansa, he's so charmed by her, he dances with her even if he doesn't like dancing.

And Sansa also loves him but she does not wanna hurt Arya.

AND NOBODY SAYS ANYTHING.

LITERALLY WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME ANON.

look, this wasn't the first prompt I got, and when I first read it, I went, "oh, I don't know if I can write that", and then I couldn't stop thinking about it and here we are, 5k words later.

1. this obviously turned out much longer than I intended for a prompt fic, 2. I got real into my emotions at some point? 3. I wrote this in a fever dream, where grammar and logic don't apply. 4. this isn't EXACTLY the prompt, so I am sorry about that.

read it on ao3 here:

ephemera, chapter 18

“Lyanna come again,” Rhaegar had murmured, looking at the small five year old standing before him, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips.

And so it had been decided, all those years ago. Rhaegar would match his son with a Stark daughter, and this time, it wouldn't end in tragedy.

Jon looks back now and thinks – perhaps Targaryen and Stark were always meant for ruin.

…

When he is eleven, when talk of a betrothal first happens, he doesn't think much of the five year old, though Aegon says cruel things about her – how young she is, how short, how unruly her hair. It only makes Jon decide, stubbornly, that they will get along. They will have a good marriage. The best marriage. Certainly better than Aegon's.

He likes little Arya. He learns to like her even more when he goes to spend time up in Winterfell when he is fifteen and she nine. She wants to learn the sword, she can shoot better than her brothers. She gives as good as she gets, and Jon thanks all the gods in existence that they are to be matched. He has always dreaded the idea of marriage – of being stuck with some girl for his whole life. But he and Arya are so alike, it is bound to be a perfect match.

Much better than Lady Sansa, with her sewing hoops and her singing and her poetry. She makes them listen to it, reads the poems aloud to her family in the evening, before the hearth. Lady Catelyn smiles and Lord Stark sits stoic and Robb does his best to feign interest and Bran and Rickon are too young to care, but Jon and Arya make eye contact during it and neither can help when they burst into laughter (though he does feel awful when Sansa closes her book shortly after and says she is done her recitation, though he doesn't think she was. She never tries to read her poetry to them again while he is visiting).

(He tells himself he doesn't feel bad, though, when the next day Arya storms into the stables in tears and tells them Sansa said something mean to her. He decides then that it was alright for him to laugh at her poetry. Arya says she's a bully, and so it must be true.)

…

He runs into her once, in the godswood.

He's gone to see if he can feel the gods in the trees like his uncle says. Jon was raised with the Seven, but being in Winterfell makes him want the gods his mother carried. He had stood before her statue when he arrived and promised her, silently, that he would try.

Instead of the gods, though, he runs into Sansa. She's here - sewing, as usual.

“Oh,” she says, looking up at him with her wide eyes and lowering her hoop. “I came for a bit of peace, I did not realize you-”

“No, it's fine,” he says, uncomfortable. He's never been around Sansa alone before. “You were here first.”

“Oh, no,” she gets up, smoothing her skirts down and then gathering up her sewing. “You may stay, of course, your grace.”

“Jon,” he frowns. Everyone else calls him that, why can't she?

He watches the color rise in her, a red flush that creeps up her neck and into her cheeks. It should clash with her hair that shines near copper in the sunlight, but it doesn't. It makes something go through him, almost like a shiver, except he's not even cold.

“It is not proper,” she says, and he lets out a huff at how stubborn she is.

“Who cares about proper?” he spits, because he feels off balance and he doesn't know why. “If I wanted proper, I'd be back in King's Landing.”

Her face hardens - her eyes narrow, her lips press into a thin line - but she bows slightly and says, “of course, your grace,” and then she walks past him with her head held high and her shoulders back and her spine straight and she won't even look at him.

He turns to watch her go, anger and confusion and something all twisting together in his gut

…

He and Arya write to each other, almost as often as he and Robb do.

Almost as often, because Arya is terrible at sitting still long enough to write a letter, and if Jon is being honest, her penmanship is atrocious. Her writing turns into a puzzle for him, trying to piece it together letter by letter. When they are married, he will need to write all their correspondence, he realizes. The thought exhausts him. He hates writing letters, especially formal ones. He's no good at it, never has been.

Every once in a while, he receives a letter from Lady Sansa, usually around his name day, wishing him another year of joyous good health or some other nonsense. Her writing is perfect, and so courteous that he wonders if she thinks she is actually writing to the king himself, and not just the king's second son who caused a war with his birth. (The shame of the kingdom, wrapped up in an almost-bastard.)

Somehow, her letters always seem to smell faintly of perfume, he doesn't know how she manages, and he despises her for it, because of course she would dab perfume on her letters.

It lasts for days after he receives them, and every once in a while, he'll pick it up and press it to his nose, a tug down low in his gut. A stirring he refuses to think about.

He's always disappointed when it fades, though he pretends he isn't.

…

He knows he is supposed to wait until marriage for this, but he doesn't.

He meets her on the road, while they're traveling for a royal hunt. She works at an inn that they stop at, right outside the city. She's a skinny thing, her hair a wild mass of orange curls, and he hears her telling the men who try to touch her to fuck right off, her accent low and thick and common.

But then when the singing starts, he watches her close her eyes and her head tilt back and her lips curve into a soft smile, and something pangs deep in his chest.

Looking back, he's never quite sure how it happens, but he ends up in her bed, and he keeps going back.

Their affair does not last long, though. His father sees to that.

…

“Jon!” Arya grins and runs at him, throwing herself into his arms. He catches her easily, swings her around and then sets her down, ruffles his hand in her hair until she swats him away.

“Oi, enough of that,” she huffs, running her fingers through to sort out the tangles.

“It was already a mess,” he teases, and gets a scowl in return, but she can't hold it for long.

Jon looks up just in time to see Lord Stark's attempt to hide his smile – and behind him, Septa Mordane's frown.

“Uh oh,” he murmurs, just for Arya's ears. “Mordane's upset.”

“When is she not?” Arya rolls her eyes.

“Prince Jon,” Lord Stark greets, and Jon grimaces.

“Please, uncle, you know better than to call me that.”

Lord Stark grins and moves forward to embrace him, and Jon closes his eyes and wishes, for just the briefest moment, that Lord Stark was his father.

“Your grace,” he hears when he disengages from his uncle, and he turns to find Sansa bowing to him – bent down the perfect amount for someone of her station.

“Uh, Lady Sansa,” he greets, that same awkwardness that he remembers washing over him. He's always awkward around Sansa. He's a prince of the realm, for Seven's sake. He lives in King's Landing, he talks to Lords and Ladies all the time, and yet he never feels more like a bumbling fool than when he's presented with Sansa's courtesies.

“I suppose we should go in,” Lord Stark sighs, eyeing up the gate to the Red Keep. Jon had met them outside, before they would have to face the royal court.

He knows Lord Stark holds no love for Jon's father, and he's grateful that his uncle does not hold this against him. Lord Stark still loves Jon's mother. They used to visit her in the crypts while Jon was there.

“You can't run away now,” Jon says back, and it makes Lord Stark smile.

…

“She's turned into a beauty, at least,” Aegon snorts, and Jon resists the urge to tell him to get out of his room. “Didn't think she had any hope, last time I saw her.”

“The last time you saw her, she was five,” Jon grits out, reaching forward to take his inkwell from Aegon, who is tossing it idly back and forth between his hands.

“Shame it's not the other one, though,” Aegon's smile is a sly, predatory thing. “Talk about beauty.”

The anger he'd felt while Aegon spoke of Arya grows, morphs and twists into something ugly.

“You're betrothed,” Jon reminds him. He doesn't know why he has to remind Aegon – he's set to marry the Lady Margaery, and Jon cannot fathom why his eye would wander, for Margaery is also beautiful.

“Are you eager to finally be betrothed, yourself?” Aegon asks, as if he didn't hear the bite beneath Jon's words. “I can't believe father agreed to wait this long.” Lord Stark's requirement was that his daughter must flower before any sort of betrothal happened. But he cannot put it off any longer, for father is eager to prove to his kingdom that the Targaryens and the Starks are united once more

“She's barely more than a child,” Jon hears himself say, and he grimaces at his own statement.

But it's true. Jon is twenty, and Arya has just turned fourteen. A child still, though his father had verified that she has, in fact, flowered, before summoning them to King's Landing.

The thought makes Jon a little bit sick.

She will get older, he reminds himself. And Aegon is right, she has grown beautiful. It will be fine.

…

“It is not appropriate that you spar with her,” Lady Sansa whispers to him as they move about the floor.

Courtesy means that he must dance with the elder Stark daughter before the younger, because his betrothal to Arya is not official yet. Once it is, perhaps he will never have to dance with Lady Sansa again.

“She likes sparring,” he says back, forcing his hands not to tighten in annoyance around her waist.

“It is one thing for it to happen in Winterfell, but here?” she keeps whispering, keeping her face neutral so that no one watching can tell she is upset. “People will talk.”

“Let them talk,” he says, distracted. She moves so fluidly that it takes all his concentration to keep up. He's not the best dancer, but he has been trained in the art since birth, and he has never had this much trouble keeping his steps. It's like his brain has gone dumb, all his limbs heavy and useless. He has to stare past the long, slender line of her neck to keep any sort of thought in his head. The perfume she wears is the same one from her letters.

“Let them talk?��� she hisses, eyes flashing – and this is the Sansa he rarely gets to see. She was always so guarded around him, back in Winterfell, but every once in a while, he had caught her and Arya fighting. And that one time, in the godswood... “Perhaps you do not care about your reputation, but may I remind you that youare a prince, your grace? The rules do not apply to you like they do Arya.”

Jon is still reeling from the seething way she says your grace. His heart has started hammering inside his chest, and he tries to look anywhere but the intense blue eyes that bore into him.

“I cannot always be around to protect her. That will be your job,” she keeps going, not waiting for his response.

“Where are you going?” Jon asks, eyes snapping back to hers, suddenly focused. Suddenly razor sharp. “Are you leaving?”

“Well, I cannot stay here forever,” she says, her voice faltering for the first time, the fight draining from her features. “Once father has found me a match-”

“A match?” Jon asks. His muscles feel on edge, filled with too much energy. “Lord Stark did not want betrothals for either of you until you are-”

“I am seventeen,” she cuts in. “Now is exactly the time I should be finding a husband. And once I do, of course I will leave King's Landing. That is my duty.”

“Your duty?” he snaps, seething, though he cannot fathom where this anger is coming from. “Can you do anything else?” No, he thinks. She's too proper to do anything but her duty. Never says what she's actually thinking – so polite and kind and warm to everyone because she must be. Only reserves the truth for a few – Arya. Him.

Gods, but he loathes her.

“Excuse me?” she asks, and that same, familiar color rises in her. Up her throat, into her cheeks. Down to the neckline of her dress.

“I can't wait until you leave,” he mutters, and soon the song ends and he can finally get away from the torture of dancing with Lady Sansa. It is so horrible that he must excuse himself for air after, and he steps outside, until his head stops spinning.

…

Joffrey.

The little shit looks so smug as he leads Sansa around by the arm. He looks like a girl, what does Sansa even see in him? It's just her courtesies, he decides, as she smiles and ducks her head over something Joffrey has said. Jon has met Joffrey before, and he's never seen a single thing to smile over.

“Oi,” Arya punches him in the arm, and Jon rips his gaze away from the couple up ahead.

“What?”

“I asked - what do you think is west of Westeros?” Arya huffs with a glare that tells him she isn't happy to have to repeat herself.

“Water?” he says, distracted as Sansa's annoying laugh trickles back from up ahead. He glares at the back of her, the spill of copper hair. Sometimes he just wants to fist his hands in it and-

He blinks, and forces himself to focus back on Arya, who's frowning at him.

“What?” he asks, feeling hot under the glaring sun and Arya's stare.

“You're not even listening to me,” she says.

“Yes I am.”

“Then answer my question.”

His mind races to try and think back – water, he had said. Then a laugh, copper hair... and Arya asking a question.

“I can't,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn't be allowed,” he tells her.

“You aren't the heir,” she whines. “Why can't we go sailing and see? We could discover anything!”

“When Aegon takes the throne, I will be,” Jon says, unease sparking in his chest. It's not something he likes to think on. “Until Aegon has a son, I'm his heir. I'll be Lord of Dragonstone.”

He can tell Arya doesn't like that answer. She ponders this for a while as they walk – something she also isn't happy about, having to walk the gardens with Aegon and Margaery leading the way, Sansa and Joffrey behind them, and him and Arya bringing up the rear.

Finally, she nods to herself, then says, “well, let's hope he has a son soon. Once he does, we'll go see what's west of Westeros.”

No, they won't, Jon thinks. He'll be wanted here, in King's Landing. He's a prince of the realm, he isn't allowed to do whatever he wants, no matter what Arya thinks. If he was, he would have stayed in Winterfell with them.

But he doesn't want a fight, and so he lets it go, and she takes his silence for agreement.

…

“Joffrey, please!”

Jon freezes, the desperate whisper barely audible in the dusk of the gardens.

There's more whispering, but Jon doesn't hear it as his vision narrows in the direction the voice came from.

He'd come out here for a peaceful walk. Time alone, that he so rarely gets in the Red Keep. Precious, glorious time alone.

Except he clearly isn't alone.

He moves through a hedge and sees them – that prick Joffrey, and Sansa, pressed back against a tree with her eyes wide and her hands pushing at Joffrey's chest.

“You'll be my wife, soon,” the boy sneers, hands groping at her, “it's my right.”

Jon feels a swell of rage rush through him, making him hot, making his thoughts blur, and-

“Jon! Jon, stop, you're killing him!”

Jon blinks, and suddenly he isn't where he was. He's got Joffrey by the throat, pressed back against the same tree he'd been cornering Sansa with, the boy's eyes bugged out and his face turning red.

Beside him, Sansa tugs at his arm, her own eyes wide as saucers. Fearful and gripping his tunic and saying, “Jon, please!”

He relaxes his grip and Joffrey slides down the tree, hands at his throat, gasping for air, but all Jon can think is that it's the first time he's ever heard Sansa say his name.

Joffrey lets out a pathetic whimper, and Jon turns back and looks down at him.

“If you ever touch her again, I'll kill you,” he says, the anger rushing back through him, though duller now. Controllable. “Don't even look at her. Do you understand me?”

Joffrey nods, then scrambles up and away, towards the castle.

“You shouldn't have done that,” she sniffs, voice wobbly and low, and Jon turns back to her as she wipes at her nose. “You'll get in trouble.”

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her and the moment his hand rests on her arm, she moves in and presses herself against his chest and the ground falls out from beneath his feet. Except – no, it doesn't. He's still standing, with Sansa softly sniffling into his shoulder. “I won't get in trouble,” he tells the top of her head, lips brushing against her soft hair, “I'm a prince, remember? The rules don't apply to me like they do to everyone else.”

She lets out a sob – or a laugh, he can't tell, and she pulls back from him and gives his chest a good shove.

“You idiot,” she makes that noise again, and this time he's certain it's a laugh, because her lips pull up into a reluctant smile.

“Did the Lady Sansa just call a prince an idiot?” Jon gasps, putting his hand to his chest and staggering back.

“Oh,” she huffs, “you're insufferable.”

He's laughing now, a grin stretching his lips, feeling suddenly light as air. He rarely laughs here in King's Landing, not like he did up in Winterfell. Though never with Sansa before.

Suddenly, her glare at him fades, and he watches despair take over.

“What if he tells someone?” she asks, bringing a hand up to her throat. “I know I shouldn't have gone walking with him alone, I know, but he was so insistent...” she looks as though she is about to cry again, and Jon's delirious joy crashes down around him.

“He won't tell anyone, if he knows what's good for him,” Jon says. “Your reputation will be fine, I won't let anyone say otherwise.”

“That's not how it works,” she tells him, voice thin and trembling, and he knows she's right. It doesn't matter what the truth is – if anyone finds out she went with Joffrey alone into the gardens at dusk, her reputation will be ruined.

“He won't tell anyone,” Jon says again. He thinks that is true, at least. Joffrey may be a prat, but he's also a coward. “Come on, let's get you back before anyone notices you're missing. I know all the secret passageways, I promise no one will see you.”

He holds out his hand, though he cannot fathom why, and he ignores that pull in his gut – in his chest – when she takes it.

“Thank you, Jon,” she whispers.

“Anything for you, Lady Sansa,” he says. It's meant to be a joke, meant to rile her up, but it comes out low and gravelly and nothing like a joke at all. He thinks he should let go of her hand before she gets the wrong idea, but he never does as he leads her back into the castle.

…

Aegon marries Margaery in an elaborate display.

A time for celebration, he knows, but Jon feels lost. Like a pit has opened up beneath him, ready to swallow him whole.

“Soon it will be your turn,” Margaery tells him as they dance, a look in her eye that means she's up to no good. She's right – father had decided to announce his betrothal to Arya after Aegon and Margaery were wed.

Jon doesn't answer, but his eyes flit across the room, to where Sansa is dancing with one of the Martells.

He cannot find Arya in the crowd.

…

There is no happy ending here, he thinks, as father rages.

The meeting room is clear of everyone except Ser Arthur, Lord Stark, Aegon, and Jon.

“Missing?” father seethes. “How could she go missing?”

“I do not know,” Lord Stark starts, his face pale, shadows under his eyes. He has been awake for days, Jon thinks.

“Where were her guards?” father cries.

“Where were yours?” Lord Stark snaps, clearly at his end, though he realizes his error as soon as he makes it. “I'm sorry, your highness-”

The shock of seeing Eddard Stark lose his temper seems to be enough to pull father out of his dramatics, because father's shoulders slump, and he sits down at the table, the energy drained from him.

“This cannot get out,” father says, closing his eyes.

It isn't often that Jon sees the weight of the crown on father's head. Rhaegar Targaryen is a good king, everyone says – especially after the madness of his father. Good and calm and easy to laugh and joke. Loves music and dancing and hosting elaborate feasts. But every once in a while, Jon sees it – the shadows that plague him. Aerys. Elia. Lyanna. A war started by his own, selfish wants.

And now, for a second time, a Stark girl has run away.

Arya. Disappeared two days ago, on the eave of their betrothal announcement, no sign of her since. It doesn't matter how many guards they put on her, Jon thinks to himself. She's always been sneaky. He has no idea where she could have gone, or-

What is west of Westeros?

The docks! Jon almost cries, but the words catch in his throat. She'll be at the docks, finding a boat that will take her on an adventure.

Part of him wants to tell them so that they can find her, bring her back safe.

Part of him wants to stay silent, let her run.

Let her be free.

…

Arya is dragged back to court three weeks later, dressed in boy's clothes, with her hair chopped off up to her ears.

Jon has never seen his uncle so broken as he was in those weeks, wondering where his daughter had gone. Even now, Lord Stark trembles as he hugs Arya to his chest. Sansa is sobbing, though trying to keep it under control and constantly wiping at her eyes, aware that it is not just her family present, but the king and the crown prince, as well.

Arya glares at the king in defiance when she is finally let go, when she finally turns to face him. Rhaegar looks resigned. Defeated.

“I don't want to get married,” she says. Jon recognizes the stubborn clench of her jaw, the way her feet plant apart. Ready for a fight.

Father stands silent for a while, and Jon sees those shadows in him.

“There was a time,” father finally says, “that a Stark maiden did not want to get married.”

The words hang in the air, a terrible silence as old grief grips at Jon's throat. He never got to meet his mother, and yet he has dreamed of her. He has thought of her, every day.

“I will not make the same mistakes twice,” Rhaegar's voice is raw, that same grief clouding his words. “You are a lady of House Stark, and your father can do what he sees fit with you, but I... I will not be a part of it. You are released from your promise.”

Arya stares, then looks from the king to Lord Stark, as if she cannot believe it.

“We will-” Lord Stark's words catch, and Jon can tell there is grief in him, too. Memories turned to shadows and ghosts. “We will let it be known that House Stark stands with House Targaryen, even without a marriage. Let the past be in the past.”

“Yes,” father nods, though his eyes are far away.

“There can still be a marriage,” Arya says, and it is enough to pull everyone back to the present.

“Make up your mind,” Aegon sighs.

“Not me,” Arya wrinkles up her nose, then turns to look at Jon. “I mean no offense,” she says, softening.

“I have not taken any,” Jon says back, and for the first time, he notices that a great weight has been lifted from him. Relief, heady and dizzying.

“But if you want an alliance, we've still got a perfectly good unmarried Stark lady. And she's even a proper one, with manners and everything,” Arya snorts, turning to look at Sansa, who's red-rimmed eyes are now wide with surprise.

“That is true,” father says, though he sounds hesitant. “Though I will keep my promise, and I will not force this. But if both are amenable...”

Lord Stark looks at his daughter, Sansa's face now flushed. It creeps up her neck and into her cheeks, like he's seen countless times.

“I-” she says, looking around the room, voice barely more than a whisper. “I would be amenable.”

Jon's heart is doing that thing again – pounding so hard in his chest he feels as though he has been sparring for hours.

She would be amenable to marrying him?

He doesn't mean to – what he means to do is say that this is madness and walk away, but instead his stupid mouth has it's own mind, it seems. “I would also be amenable,” he says, the words a rush. His tongue trips over them, because he is a bumbling fool whenever he is around her.

“I cannot believe Margaery was right,” Aegon groans, letting his head tip back as his eyes squeeze shut. “She is going to be impossible from now on.”

…

He finds her in the stables, up in the loft above, surrounded by hay. He climbs the ladder and sits next to her, their feet hanging over the edge, the horses whinnying and shuffling below.

“You're not mad at me?” Arya asks, kicking her feet out.

“Never,” he says.

“I just... Margaery kept talking about what marriage was like. The things we'd have to do to make babies, and I...” her nose scrunches up, and a shiver goes through her. Jon lets out a soft laugh.

“You'll find someone that you want to make babies with, some day,” Jon tells her, bumping her shoulder with his, but it doesn't make her laugh, and it doesn't make her argue. Instead, she frowns. Serious.

“I don't know if I will,” she says. She won't look at him, worry clear across her face. “I don't get it,” she says finally. “I hear Sansa talk about... about boys and I don't understand it. Jeyne, Beth, Margaery. I think I was born wrong.”

“You weren't,” Jon says, and he feels that same anger he had in the gardens, holding Joffrey by the throat. “You aren't wrong. You're... you're just...” he huffs out air through his nose in annoyance, because he can never get his thoughts into words properly. He isn't Sansa, who can always seem to say the perfect thing at the perfect time. “You're just Arya.”

“But I don't know what that means!” she cries, hands balled into fists at her side.

“You'll figure it out,” he tells her.

He can't know that for sure, but what he does know, is that if anyone can do it, Arya can.

…

Prince Jon's betrothal to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell is a message.

The war is over. Leave the past in the past.

Arya promises to stay for the wedding, at least. After that, Jon doesn't think she will last very long before she disappears again.

What is west of Westeros?

Sansa will be upset when she leaves. Arya will too, he thinks, though both of them are too stubborn to admit it.

“Be nice,” Jon tells her as they walk through the gardens behind Aegon and Margaery – who keeps looking back at them with a smug, knowing smile.

“I'm always nice,” Sansa says, not looking at him, her chin lifted in defiance. Jon lets out a snort of disbelief.

“And if Arya shows up to our wedding in breeches?” he teases.

That earns him a side-eyed glare, but she doesn't break. “I shall allow breeches, but she will dance, and I won't have her whining about it the whole time, either.”

Jon wants to keep this up, keep teasing her, because it makes her blush and her breathing go shallow and rapid and it makes him nearly weak in the knees to see it, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls her off the path and just past a large rosebush that hides them from view.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes darting back to where they have lost sight of Aegon and Margaery, but she makes no move to leave.

“I was hoping to steal a kiss from my betrothed,” he grins at her.

“This is highly improper,” she breathes, but still does not try to leave.

“I'm a prince,” he shrugs. “The rules don't apply to me.”

“I shall regret ever saying that,” she says, her face scrunching up in dismay.

“Do you regret anything else?” he steps closer to her, his tone serious. Her face softens and she shakes her head.

“No.”

“Neither do I,” he murmurs, and leans down to capture her lips in a kiss, and he knows in that moment that he has wanted to do this from the first moment he saw her.

From the way she kisses back, he thinks she has, too.

“Lyanna come again,” Rhaegar had murmured, looking at the small five year old standing before him, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips.

And so it had been decided, all those years ago. Rhaegar would match his son with a Stark daughter, and this time, it wouldn't end in tragedy.

Jon looks back now and thinks – perhaps Targaryen and Stark were always meant for ruin.

…

When he is eleven, when talk of a betrothal first happens, he doesn't think much of the five year old, though Aegon says cruel things about her – how young she is, how short, how unruly her hair. It only makes Jon decide, stubbornly, that they will get along. They will have a good marriage. The best marriage. Certainly better than Aegon's.

He likes little Arya. He learns to like her even more when he goes to spend time up in Winterfell when he is fifteen and she nine. She wants to learn the sword, she can shoot better than her brothers. She gives as good as she gets, and Jon thanks all the gods in existence that they are to be matched. He has always dreaded the idea of marriage – of being stuck with some girl for his whole life. But he and Arya are so alike, it is bound to be a perfect match.

Much better than Lady Sansa, with her sewing hoops and her singing and her poetry. She makes them listen to it, reads the poems aloud to her family in the evening, before the hearth. Lady Catelyn smiles and Lord Stark sits stoic and Robb does his best to feign interest and Bran and Rickon are too young to care, but Jon and Arya make eye contact during it and neither can help when they burst into laughter (though he does feel awful when Sansa closes her book shortly after and says she is done her recitation, though he doesn't think she was. She never tries to read her poetry to them again while he is visiting).

(He tells himself he doesn't feel bad, though, when the next day Arya storms into the stables in tears and tells them Sansa said something mean to her. He decides then that it was alright for him to laugh at her poetry. Arya says she's a bully, and so it must be true.)

…

He runs into her once, in the godswood.

He's gone to see if he can feel the gods in the trees like his uncle says. Jon was raised with the Seven, but being in Winterfell makes him want the gods his mother carried. He had stood before her statue when he arrived and promised her, silently, that he would try.

Instead of the gods, though, he runs into Sansa. She's here - sewing, as usual.

“Oh,” she says, looking up at him with her wide eyes and lowering her hoop. “I came for a bit of peace, I did not realize you-”

“No, it's fine,” he says, uncomfortable. He's never been around Sansa alone before. “You were here first.”

“Oh, no,” she gets up, smoothing her skirts down and then gathering up her sewing. “You may stay, of course, your grace.”

“Jon,” he frowns. Everyone else calls him that, why can't she?

He watches the color rise in her, a red flush that creeps up her neck and into her cheeks. It should clash with her hair that shines near copper in the sunlight, but it doesn't. It makes something go through him, almost like a shiver, except he's not even cold.

“It is not proper,” she says, and he lets out a huff at how stubborn she is.

“Who cares about proper?” he spits, because he feels off balance and he doesn't know why. “If I wanted proper, I'd be back in King's Landing.”

Her face hardens - her eyes narrow, her lips press into a thin line - but she bows slightly and says, “of course, your grace,” and then she walks past him with her head held high and her shoulders back and her spine straight and she won't even look at him.

He turns to watch her go, anger and confusion and something all twisting together in his gut

…

He and Arya write to each other, almost as often as he and Robb do.

Almost as often, because Arya is terrible at sitting still long enough to write a letter, and if Jon is being honest, her penmanship is atrocious. Her writing turns into a puzzle for him, trying to piece it together letter by letter. When they are married, he will need to write all their correspondence, he realizes. The thought exhausts him. He hates writing letters, especially formal ones. He's no good at it, never has been.

Every once in a while, he receives a letter from Lady Sansa, usually around his name day, wishing him another year of joyous good health or some other nonsense. Her writing is perfect, and so courteous that he wonders if she thinks she is actually writing to the king himself, and not just the king's second son who caused a war with his birth. (The shame of the kingdom, wrapped up in an almost-bastard.)

Somehow, her letters always seem to smell faintly of perfume, he doesn't know how she manages, and he despises her for it, because of course she would dab perfume on her letters.

It lasts for days after he receives them, and every once in a while, he'll pick it up and press it to his nose, a tug down low in his gut. A stirring he refuses to think about.

He's always disappointed when it fades, though he pretends he isn't.

…

He knows he is supposed to wait until marriage for this, but he doesn't.

He meets her on the road, while they're traveling for a royal hunt. She's works at an inn that they stop at, right outside the city. She's a skinny thing, her hair a wild mass of orange curls, and he hears her telling the men who try to touch her to fuck right off, her accent low and thick and common.

But then when the singing starts, he watches her close her eyes and her head tilt back and her lips curve into a soft smile, and something pangs deep in his chest.

Looking back, he's never quite sure how it happens, but he ends up in her bed, and he keeps going back.

Their affair does not last long, though. His father sees to that.

…

“Jon!” Arya grins and runs at him, throwing herself into his arms. He catches her easily, swings her around and then sets her down, ruffles his hand in her hair until she swats him away.

“Oi, enough of that,” she huffs, running her fingers through to sort out the tangles.

“It was already a mess,” he teases, and gets a scowl in return, but she can't hold it for long.

Jon looks up just in time to see Lord Stark's attempt to hide his smile – and behind him, Septa Mordane's frown.

“Uh oh,” he murmurs, just for Arya's ears. “Mordane's upset.”

“When is she not?” Arya rolls her eyes.

“Prince Jon,” Lord Stark greets, and Jon grimaces.

“Please, uncle, you know better than to call me that.”

Lord Stark grins and moves forward to embrace him, and Jon closes his eyes and wishes, for just the briefest moment, that Lord Stark was his father.

“Your grace,” he hears when he disengages from his uncle, and he turns to find Sansa bowing to him – bent down the perfect amount for someone of her station.

“Uh, Lady Sansa,” he greets, that same awkwardness that he remembers washing over him. He's always awkward around Sansa. He's a prince of the realm, for Seven's sake. He lives in King's Landing, he talks to Lords and Ladies all the time, and yet he never feels more like a bumbling fool than when he's presented with Sansa's courtesies.

“I suppose we should go in,” Lord Stark sighs, eyeing up the gate to the Red Keep. Jon had met them outside, before they would have to face the royal court.

He knows Lord Stark holds no love for Jon's father, and he's grateful that his uncle does not hold this against him. Lord Stark still loves Jon's mother. They used to visit her in the crypts while Jon was there.

“You can't run away now,” Jon says back, and it makes Lord Stark smile.

…

“She's turned into a beauty, at least,” Aegon snorts, and Jon resists the urge to tell him to get out of his room. “Didn't think she had any hope, last time I saw her.”

“The last time you saw her, she was five,” Jon grits out, reaching forward to take his inkwell from Aegon, who is tossing it idly back and forth between his hands.

“Shame it's not the other one, though,” Aegon's smile is a sly, predatory thing. “Talk about beauty.”

The anger he'd felt while Aegon spoke of Arya grows, morphs and twists into something ugly.

“You're betrothed,” Jon reminds him. He doesn't know why he has to remind Aegon – he's set to marry the Lady Margaery, and Jon cannot fathom why his eye would wander, for Margaery is also beautiful.

“Are you eager to finally be betrothed, yourself?” Aegon asks, as if he didn't hear the bite beneath Jon's words. “I can't believe father agreed to wait this long.” Lord Stark's requirement was that his daughter must flower before any sort of betrothal happened. But he cannot put it off any longer, for father is eager to prove to his kingdom that the Targaryens and the Starks are united once more

“She's barely more than a child,” Jon hears himself say, and he grimaces at his own statement.

But it's true. Jon is twenty, and Arya has just turned fourteen. A child still, though his father had verified that she has, in fact, flowered, before summoning them to King's Landing.

The thought makes Jon a little bit sick.

She will get older, he reminds himself. And Aegon is right, she has grown beautiful. It will be fine.

…

“It is not appropriate that you spar with her,” Lady Sansa whispers to him as they move about the floor.

Courtesy means that he must dance with the elder Stark daughter before the younger, because his betrothal to Arya is not official yet. Once it is, perhaps he will never have to dance with Lady Sansa again.

“She likes sparring,” he says back, forcing his hands not to tighten in annoyance around her waist.

“It is one thing for it to happen in Winterfell, but here?” she keeps whispering, keeping her face neutral so that no one watching can tell she is upset. “People will talk.”

“Let them talk,” he says, distracted. She moves so fluidly that it takes all his concentration to keep up. He's not the best dancer, but he has been trained in the art since birth, and he has never had this much trouble keeping his steps. It's like his brain has gone dumb, all his limbs heavy and useless. He has to stare past the long, slender line of her neck to keep any sort of thought in his head. The perfume she wears is the same one from her letters.

“Let them talk?” she hisses, eyes flashing – and this is the Sansa he rarely gets to see. She was always so guarded around him, back in Winterfell, but every once in a while, he had caught her and Arya fighting. And that one time, in the godswood... “Perhaps you do not care about your reputation, but may I remind you that youare a prince, your grace? The rules do not apply to you like they do Arya.”

Jon is still reeling from the seething way she says your grace. His heart has started hammering inside his chest, and he tries to look anywhere but the intense blue eyes that bore into him.

“I cannot always be around to protect her. That will be your job,” she keeps going, not waiting for his response.

“Where are you going?” Jon asks, eyes snapping back to hers, suddenly focused. Suddenly razor sharp. “Are you leaving?”

“Well, I cannot stay here forever,” she says, her voice faltering for the first time, the fight draining from her features. “Once father has found me a match-”

“A match?” Jon asks. His muscles feel on edge, filled with too much energy. “Lord Stark did not want betrothals for either of you until you are-”

“I am seventeen,” she cuts in. “Now is exactly the time I should be finding a husband. And once I do, of course I will leave King's Landing. That is my duty.”

“Your duty?” he snaps, seething, though he cannot fathom where this anger is coming from. “Can you do anything else?” No, he thinks. She's too proper to do anything but her duty. Never says what she's actually thinking – so polite and kind and warm to everyone because she must be. Only reserves the truth for a few – Arya. Him.

Gods, but he loathes her.

“Excuse me?” she asks, and that same, familiar color rises in her. Up her throat, into her cheeks. Down to the neckline of her dress.

“I can't wait until you leave,” he mutters, and soon the song ends and he can finally get away from the torture of dancing with Lady Sansa. It is so horrible that he must excuse himself for air after, and he steps outside, until his head stops spinning.

…

Joffrey.

The little shit looks so smug as he leads Sansa around by the arm. He looks like a girl, what does Sansa even see in him? It's just her courtesies, he decides, as she smiles and ducks her head over something Joffrey has said. Jon has met Joffrey before, and he's never seen a single thing to smile over.

“Oi,” Arya punches him in the arm, and Jon rips his gaze away from the couple up ahead.

“What?”

“I asked - what do you think is west of Westeros?” Arya huffs with a glare that tells him she isn't happy to have to repeat herself.

“Water?” he says, distracted as Sansa's annoying laugh trickles back from up ahead. He glares at the back of her, the spill of copper hair. Sometimes he just wants to fist his hands in it and-

He blinks, and forces himself to focus back on Arya, who's frowning at him.

“What?” he asks, feeling hot under the glaring sun and Arya's stare.

“You're not even listening to me,” she says.

“Yes I am.”

“Then answer my question.”

His mind races to try and think back – water, he had said. Then a laugh, copper hair... and Arya asking a question.

“I can't,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn't be allowed,” he tells her.

“You aren't the heir,” she whines. “Why can't we go sailing and see? We could discover anything!”

“When Aegon takes the throne, I will be,” Jon says, unease sparking in his chest. It's not something he likes to think on. “Until Aegon has a son, I'm his heir. I'll be Lord of Dragonstone.”

He can tell Arya doesn't like that answer. She ponders this for a while as they walk – something she also isn't happy about, having to walk the gardens with Aegon and Margaery leading the way, Sansa and Joffrey behind them, and him and Arya bringing up the rear.

Finally, she nods to herself, then says, “well, let's hope he has a son soon. Once he does, we'll go see what's west of Westeros.”

No, they won't, Jon thinks. He'll be wanted here, in King's Landing. He's a prince of the realm, he isn't allowed to do whatever he wants, no matter what Arya thinks. If he was, he would have stayed in Winterfell with them.

But he doesn't want a fight, and so he lets it go, and she takes his silence for agreement.

…

“Joffrey, please!”

Jon freezes, the desperate whisper barely audible in the dusk of the gardens.

There's more whispering, but Jon doesn't hear it as his vision narrows in the direction the voice came from.

He'd come out here for a peaceful walk. Time alone, that he so rarely gets in the Red Keep. Precious, glorious time alone.

Except he clearly isn't alone.

He moves through a hedge and sees them – that prick Joffrey, and Sansa, pressed back against a tree with her eyes wide and her hands pushing at Joffrey's chest.

“You'll be my wife, soon,” the boy sneers, hands groping at her, “it's my right.”

Jon feels a swell of rage rush through him, making him hot, making his thoughts blur, and-

“Jon! Jon, stop, you're killing him!”

Jon blinks, and suddenly he isn't where he was. He's got Joffrey by the throat, pressed back against the same tree he'd been cornering Sansa with, the boy's eyes bugged out and his face turning red.

Beside him, Sansa tugs at his arm, her own eyes wide as saucers. Fearful and gripping his tunic and saying, “Jon, please!”

He relaxes his grip and Joffrey slides down the tree, hands at his throat, gasping for air, but all Jon can think is that it's the first time he's ever heard Sansa say his name.

Joffrey lets out a pathetic whimper, and Jon turns back and looks down at him.

“If you ever touch her again, I'll kill you,” he says, the anger rushing back through him, though duller now. Controllable. “Don't even look at her. Do you understand me?”

Joffrey nods, then scrambles up and away, towards the castle.

“You shouldn't have done that,” she sniffs, voice wobbly and low, and Jon turns back to her as she wipes at her nose. “You'll get in trouble.”

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her and the moment his hand rests on her arm, she moves in and presses herself against his chest and the ground falls out from beneath his feet. Except – no, it doesn't. He's still standing, with Sansa softly sniffling into his shoulder. “I won't get in trouble,” he tells the top of her head, lips brushing against her soft hair, “I'm a prince, remember? The rules don't apply to me like they do to everyone else.”

She lets out a sob – or a laugh, he can't tell, and she pulls back from him and gives his chest a good shove.

“You idiot,” she makes that noise again, and this time he's certain it's a laugh, because her lips pull up into a reluctant smile.

“Did the Lady Sansa just call a prince an idiot?” Jon gasps, putting his hand to his chest and staggering back.

“Oh,” she huffs, “you're insufferable.”

He's laughing now, a grin stretching his lips, feeling suddenly light as air. He rarely laughs here in King's Landing, not like he did up in Winterfell. Though never with Sansa before.

Suddenly, her glare at him fades, and he watches despair take over.

“What if he tells someone?” she asks, bringing a hand up to her throat. “I know I shouldn't have gone walking with him alone, I know, but he was so insistent...” she looks as though she is about to cry again, and Jon's delirious joy crashes down around him.

“He won't tell anyone, if he knows what's good for him,” Jon says. “Your reputation will be fine, I won't let anyone say otherwise.”

“That's not how it works,” she tells him, voice thin and trembling, and he knows she's right. It doesn't matter what the truth is – if anyone finds out she went with Joffrey alone into the gardens at dusk, her reputation will be ruined.

“He won't tell anyone,” Jon says again. He thinks that is true, at least. Joffrey may be a prat, but he's also a coward. “Come on, let's get you back before anyone notices you're missing. I know all the secret passageways, I promise no one will see you.”

He holds out his hand, though he cannot fathom why, and he ignores that pull in his gut – in his chest – when she takes it.

“Thank you, Jon,” she whispers.

“Anything for you, Lady Sansa,” he says. It's meant to be a joke, meant to rile her up, but it comes out low and gravelly and nothing like a joke at all. He thinks he should let go of her hand before she gets the wrong idea, but he never does as he leads her back into the castle.

…

Aegon marries Margaery in an elaborate display.

A time for celebration, he knows, but Jon feels lost. Like a pit has opened up beneath him, ready to swallow him whole.

“Soon it will be your turn,” Margaery tells him as they dance, a look in her eye that means she's up to no good. She's right – father had decided to announce his betrothal to Arya after Aegon and Margaery were wed.

Jon doesn't answer, but his eyes flit across the room, to where Sansa is dancing with one of the Martells.

He cannot find Arya in the crowd.

…

There is no happy ending here, he thinks, as father rages.

The meeting room is clear of everyone except Ser Arthur, Lord Stark, Aegon, and Jon.

“Missing?” father seethes. “How could she go missing?”

“I do not know,” Lord Stark starts, his face pale, shadows under his eyes. He has been awake for days, Jon thinks.

“Where were her guards?” father cries.

“Where were yours?” Lord Stark snaps, clearly at his end, though he realizes his error as soon as he makes it. “I'm sorry, your highness-”

The shock of seeing Eddard Stark lose his temper seems to be enough to pull father out of his dramatics, because father's shoulders slump, and he sits down at the table, the energy drained from him.

“This cannot get out,” father says, closing his eyes.

It isn't often that Jon sees the weight of the crown on father's head. Rhaegar Targaryen is a good king, everyone says – especially after the madness of his father. Good and calm and easy to laugh and joke. Loves music and dancing and hosting elaborate feasts. But every once in a while, Jon sees it – the shadows that plague him. Aerys. Elia. Lyanna. A war started by his own, selfish wants.

And now, for a second time, a Stark girl has run away.

Arya. Disappeared two days ago, on the eave of their betrothal announcement, no sign of her since. It doesn't matter how many guards they put on her, Jon thinks to himself. She's always been sneaky. He has no idea where she could have gone, or-

What is west of Westeros?

The docks! Jon almost cries, but the words catch in his throat. She'll be at the docks, finding a boat that will take her on an adventure.

Part of him wants to tell them so that they can find her, bring her back safe.

Part of him wants to stay silent, let her run.

Let her be free.

…

Arya is dragged back to court three weeks later, dressed in boy's clothes, with her hair chopped off up to her ears.

Jon has never seen his uncle so broken as he was in those weeks, wondering where his daughter had gone. Even now, Lord Stark trembles as he hugs Arya to his chest. Sansa is sobbing, though trying to keep it under control and constantly wiping at her eyes, aware that it is not just her family present, but the king and the crown prince, as well.

Arya glares at the king in defiance when she is finally let go, when she finally turns to face him. Rhaegar looks resigned. Defeated.

“I don't want to get married,” she says. Jon recognizes the stubborn clench of her jaw, the way her feet plant apart. Ready for a fight.

Father stands silent for a while, and Jon sees those shadows in him.

“There was a time,” father finally says, “that a Stark maiden did not want to get married.”

The words hang in the air, a terrible silence as old grief grips at Jon's throat. He never got to meet his mother, and yet he has dreamed of her. He has thought of her, every day.

“I will not make the same mistakes twice,” Rhaegar's voice is raw, that same grief clouding his words. “You are a lady of House Stark, and your father can do what he sees fit with you, but I... I will not be a part of it. You are released from your promise.”

Arya stares, then looks from the king to Lord Stark, as if she cannot believe it.

“We will-” Lord Stark's words catch, and Jon can tell there is grief in him, too. Memories turned to shadows and ghosts. “We will let it be known that House Stark stands with House Targaryen, even without a marriage. Let the past be in the past.”

“Yes,” father nods, though his eyes are far away.

“There can still be a marriage,” Arya says, and it is enough to pull everyone back to the present.

“Make up your mind,” Aegon sighs.

“Not me,” Arya wrinkles up her nose, then turns to look at Jon. “I mean no offense,” she says, softening.

“I have not taken any,” Jon says back, and for the first time, he notices that a great weight has been lifted from him. Relief, heady and dizzying.

“But if you want an alliance, we've still got a perfectly good unmarried Stark lady. And she's even a proper one, with manners and everything,” Arya snorts, turning to look at Sansa, who's red-rimmed eyes are now wide with surprise.

“That is true,” father says, though he sounds hesitant. “Though I will keep my promise, and I will not force this. But if both are amenable...”

Lord Stark looks at his daughter, Sansa's face now flushed. It creeps up her neck and into her cheeks, like he's seen countless times.

“I-” she says, looking around the room, voice barely more than a whisper. “I would be amenable.”

Jon's heart is doing that thing again – pounding so hard in his chest he feels as though he has been sparring for hours.

She would be amenable to marrying him?

He doesn't mean to – what he means to do is say that this is madness and walk away, but instead his stupid mouth has it's own mind, it seems. “I would also be amenable,” he says, the words a rush. His tongue trips over them, because he is a bumbling fool whenever he is around her.

“I cannot believe Margaery was right,” Aegon groans, letting his head tip back as his eyes squeeze shut. “She is going to be impossible from now on.”

…

He finds her in the stables, up in the loft above, surrounded by hay. He climbs the ladder and sits next to her, their feet hanging over the edge, the horses whinnying and shuffling below.

“You're not mad at me?” Arya asks, kicking her feet out.

“Never,” he says.

“I just... Margaery kept talking about what marriage was like. The things we'd have to do to make babies, and I...” her nose scrunches up, and a shiver goes through her. Jon lets out a soft laugh.

“You'll find someone that you want to make babies with, some day,” Jon tells her, bumping her shoulder with his, but it doesn't make her laugh, and it doesn't make her argue. Instead, she frowns. Serious.

“I don't know if I will,” she says. She won't look at him, worry clear across her face. “I don't get it,” she says finally. “I hear Sansa talk about... about boys and I don't understand it. Jeyne, Beth, Margaery. I think I was born wrong.”

“You weren't,” Jon says, and he feels that same anger he had in the gardens, holding Joffrey by the throat. “You aren't wrong. You're... you're just...” he huffs out air through his nose in annoyance, because he can never get his thoughts into words properly. He isn't Sansa, who can always seem to say the perfect thing at the perfect time. “You're just Arya.”

“But I don't know what that means!” she cries, hands balled into fists at her side.

“You'll figure it out,” he tells her.

He can't know that for sure, but what he does know, is that if anyone can do it, Arya can.

…

Prince Jon's betrothal to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell is a message.

The war is over. Leave the past in the past.

Arya promises to stay for the wedding, at least. After that, Jon doesn't think she will last very long before she disappears again.

What is west of Westeros?

Sansa will be upset when she leaves. Arya will too, he thinks, though both of them are too stubborn to admit it.

“Be nice,” Jon tells her as they walk through the gardens behind Aegon and Margaery – who keeps looking back at them with a smug, knowing smile.

“I'm always nice,” Sansa says, not looking at him, her chin lifted in defiance. Jon lets out a snort of disbelief.

“And if Arya shows up to our wedding in breeches?” he teases.

That earns him a side-eyed glare, but she doesn't break. “I shall allow breeches, but she will dance, and I won't have her whining about it the whole time, either.”

Jon wants to keep this up, keep teasing her, because it makes her blush and her breathing go shallow and rapid and it makes him nearly weak in the knees to see it, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls her off the path and just past a large rosebush that hides them from view.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes darting back to where they have lost sight of Aegon and Margaery, but she makes no move to leave.

“I was hoping to steal a kiss from my betrothed,” he grins at her.

“This is highly improper,” she breathes, but still does not try to leave.

“I'm a prince,” he shrugs. “The rules don't apply to me.”

“I shall regret ever saying that,” she says, her face scrunching up in dismay.

“Do you regret anything else?” he steps closer to her, his tone serious. Her face softens and she shakes her head.

“No.”

“Neither do I,” he murmurs, and leans down to capture her lips in a kiss, and he knows in that moment that he has wanted to do this from the first moment he saw her.

From the way she kisses back, he thinks she has, too.

[harryspet]

please don’t bite | p.parker, s.rogers, b.barnes

[Warnings] peter parker x reader, dark!steve x reader, hints of dark!natasha/dark!bucky x reader, vampire!steve/bucky/natasha, vampire au, vampire blood addiction, withdrawals, kidnapping, dubcon, intoxicated sex, oral sex (female recieveing)

A/N: hello, it’s been forever! I was in the middle of writing this when @cherienymphe announced her  “Cherienymphe’s 5K Twilight Renaissance Writing Challenge” so I decided to join in! She’s one of my favorite dark writers so please check her out if you haven’t. 

In which addiction leads you into a den of vampires. 

taglist: @lovelynerdytraveler @buckysbunny @hollandsdream @micki-smiles @buckybarnesplumwhore @arts-ismything @saharzek @what-is-your-wish @brattypeony @hermayone @buckysugar @mischiefmanaged011 @visintaes  @watercoolerpaint @disaster-rose @slutforsebstan

main masterlist

word count: 3.7k

You piled all the dollar bills you had in your pocket on the table, “There. We can just use this.” You plopped down beside your boyfriend on the couch, fully feeling the headache you’ve had for the past two weeks. It was like your brain was pounding against your skull and sending painful waves through your body. 

“This is twenty bucks and a … grocery store coupon for … shampoo,” After counting it, Peter flicked the money back onto the coffee table, leaning back with you. You tossed your legs over his lap and he wrapped his arm behind you, “So we have fifty bucks between us … great.”

“That’s enough, right?” You asked, barely able to hear yourself think through your headache. 

“It’s like two-hundred just for a small vial,” A shiver ran through your body and Peter pulled you closer. Not only did the heat not work in the shoebox you two called an apartment, you were starting to get random chills and it was another rough winter in New York. 

“Fuck,” You cursed, “Fuck, fuck-”

Peter shushed you, “We’ll be okay,” Peter said, trying to be strong for the both of you though his body was punishing him even more than yours was, “I got a gig by the pier, and by the end of the week, we should have enough.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you clutched his chest, “That’s too long. We’ll die before then.”

“We’ll be okay,” Peter insisted though he didn’t quite believe himself. 

Vampire blood was one cruel mistress. It was hard to remember your lives before you took your first sips of the addictive potion. You both had everything going for you, highschool sweethearts that became successful college students but that was all gone now. You can’t hold a job or go to school when you’re on vampire blood. The highs last hours and, when you have enough of it, weeks can go by without you noticing. 

“What was it like? Drinking from the vein?” You asked him, the taste of the blood was faint on your lips as you tried to remember the exact taste. 

Peter’s head tilted back as he stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, “Like Heaven on earth. Like eternal life …. like nothing any normal human would ever feel. So good … jesus.”

Sometimes Peter wished he never introduced you to the taste but he’d forget all about it when you were high together. The sex was unbelievable, vampire blood being a strong aphrodisiac, and your love felt even stronger, “I want to try it,” You thought out loud, “If I’m gonna die soon, I-I wanna try it.”

“You’re not gonna die. Our brains are just totally miswired right now,” Peter groaned, turning his face towards yours. He kissed your forehead and, for a moment, it eased the pain. You tilted your head up to kiss the sides of his mouth. He tilted his head to the side and you kissed deeply. He pulled away suddenly and his eyes gazed into yours, “What would you do?”

“W-What?”

“What would you do to taste it from the vein?” You swallowed and your throat ached. 

You nodded your head, “Anything. Oh god, anything, Peter.”

You’d sensed he’d had an idea and a weak grin began to pull at your lips. That quickly fell as Peter pulled away from you. You expected him to be excited but he was completely solemn, “I have an idea,” He said, “You can say no … but if you don’t say no, you have to promise that things will be how they used to be afterwards.”

“How they used to be,” You couldn’t even think that far back. You couldn’t imagine a single date, single birthday card or New Year’s Eve kiss while you were in so much pain, “Sure, Pete. We just need a taste a-and that’ll clear our minds and things we’ll go back to how they used to be.”

+

As if things couldn’t get any worse, your stomach growled. You’d gotten dressed up, put on light makeup, and styled your hair for whoever Peter had taken you to meet. You didn’t quite care anymore because your headache continued to cripple you over the past few days. 

You pulled your jacket tighter as you waited on the steps of the gentrified brownstone. Peter pressed the doorbell nervously, watching as you shiver in your small, black dress. Peter dressed in his finest slacks and button down but was very aware that he probably wouldn’t be the center of attention tonight. He reached out to grab your hand which you happily took. 

“Why is he making us meet him so late?” You whispered, shivering. 

“He’s a vampire,” Peter shrugged, “They’re like nocturnal, I guess.”

Peter had reached out to ring the doorbell again when the door suddenly opened. A red headed woman opened the door, her hair cut short and a sultry smile on her face. You could tell instantly by the shine in her skin and darkness in her eyes that she was not like you. 

“Peter,” She greeted, smirking, “You look … hungry.”

“And cold,” He added, sensing your uncomfortableness as she took him in like he was her prey. 

“Right, come on in,” Peter led you inside the expensive home and out of the cold winter. You pressed yourself closer to him, not only because you were still shivering but because you’d never been alone with a vampire, “Steve will be here any moment.”

The woman led you down a corridor and you passed modern art sculptures and other expensive decorations you didn’t quite understand, “Steve?” You perked up at the mention of someone else. 

“That’s, uh, who we’re meeting,” Peter said quickly.

“Unfortunately, I’m booked tonight. A sweet young thing I met a few weeks ago. British accent, total dreamboat, but Steve will take great care of you two,” She led the two of you into a dining room where wine and horderves were laid out, gesturing for the two of you to take a seat, “Let me take your jackets.”

You looked at Peter and he nodded, “It’s okay,” Hesitantly, you slid off one of your sleeves and you felt her eyes begin to burn into the skin of your neck. Your arms weak, you lifted it out to her and she graciously accepted it. Peter did the same, taking a seat and waiting for you to do the same. Your eyes were still on the mysterious woman until Peter grabbed your hand. 

“I hope to see you both soon,” She smiled again, leaving the room, “Keep your eyes on this one, Pete.” 

You turned to him, your eyebrows raised, “How do you know her?”

“That’s her,” Peter said, grabbing the bottle of wine, “I told you about the first time I tried it from the vein. I think she has a thing for young guys. Or young anything.”

As he poured himself a glass, you reached out for a cracker and tried not to eat too fast as you pushed them into your mouth, “Why’d she look at me like that?” You asked, covering your mouth. 

“You’re a virgin,” You almost snorted, “I mean, your veins are. You’ve never been fed off of.”

“Oh,” You swallowed, taking his glass from him as you washed down your food, “I don’t wanna be. That’ll hurt, right?”

“Don’t worry, that’s not what we’re here for.”

Feeling some of your energy return, you stood up from the dining table, deciding to look closer at all the artifacts, “Y/N, what are you doing?” Peter asked, his fingers rubbing his temples, “Sit down, please.”

“Why do they have food if vampires don’t eat?” You asked out loud, annoying him further. There seemed to be a million framed pictures on the wall and you studied them as you passed along. They seemed to transform from black and white to fully in color, polaroid to digital. 

“For their human prey, probably.”

“Prey?” A deep voice spoke up, surrounding the room, bringing Peter out of his chair and your head turning quickly, “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Rogers,” Peter rushed out, and you wondered how he could muster up so much energy to be nice, “I didn’t mean …”

“No worries, I try to be polite but I am a blood sucking demon after all,” The blonde-bearded man smiled. He was so muscular, you’d pictured someone skinny and frail. “Won’t you introduce me to your …”

“Girlfriend,” Peter said a bit sadly. He wasn’t sad that you were his but that this was the saddest excuse for a date night, “This is Y/N.”

You raised a hand to wave but he crossed the room to take your hand. He kissed your knuckles, smiling charmingly as he looked into your eyes. Blue eyes, you weren’t expecting those either. Despite the porcelain skin he looked quite human. His suit was black, and his white shirt was pressed nicely beneath it, like he’d just returned from an important event. You smiled back weakly, “Pleasure to meet you, doll.”

“It’s … nice to meet you too.”

You felt Peter’s eyes on you as your hand fell back down to your side, “You two look like you’ve seen better days,” You moved closer to Peter because, despite his kind smile, you didn’t fully trust him. 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Is it that obvious?” The nice clothes couldn’t hide the fact that they hadn’t had any vampire blood in almost three weeks. It was amazing that they were still standing. 

“I think I can help you both out,” Steve assured you two, “If you had enough of the horderves, you can follow me upstairs.” He turned and Peter grabbed your hand as you all left the room. 

“What exactly do we have to do … you know, for the blood?” Looking up at Peter, you worried that he was nervous for reasons that he was not telling you. Steve led you to the stairs and, as you climbed, you couldn’t help but look at all the photos that lined each wall. The upstairs wasn’t lit, making it feel like you were stepping into a story with a not-so-happy ending. 

“Peter didn’t tell you?” Steve asked, not bothering to turn around. He led you down the hall to what you assumed was the master bedroom. 

“Not everything,” Peter said quickly. 

You expected some kind of evil den but the room was quite normal. High ceilings, brown upholstered bed, a view of the neighborhood, and a fireplace. You and Peter stood awkwardly, looking around, as Steve made his way over to the fireplace. He leaned down to turn a dial and moments later, it sprouted with fire. 

“Peter,” You nudged him, your brows furrowed. He didn’t say anything which worried you more. Steve stood up, taking off his jacket which made your heart begin to race. Some of the fear disappeared quickly as he rolled up his white sleeves … exposing lower arms. 

Now, your mouth was watering, “There’s no need to worry, doll. I already promised Peter that no harm will come to the two of you. But you do understand that this is a trade? I give you my blood and you give me what I want.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something but you interrupted, “And what do you want?”

“I want to watch,” He stated, looking the two of you over, “I consider myself somewhat of a voyeur, I like to watch when people are intimate.” You looked back and forth from him to Peter. 

“Y/N, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Peter spoke quietly, worry in his eyes. 

“Of course not,” Steve smiled, already a bit aroused by your shocked expression. He reached into his pocket to pull out a pocket knife, its handle having an old and intricate design, “But I think it’ll be very enjoyable on your side of things. The blood will certainly take the edge off and I won’t overstep my boundaries, I promise.”

“And we’re supposed to trust a vampire … ,” Steve stepped closer, pressing the knife to his skin. 

“We don’t have another option,” Peter said, his eyes focused on Steve’s vein. Peter let go of your hand, the addiction taking over as he moved closer to Steve. Steve cut into his arm, the crimson running down it but not a drop touched the floor before Peter pressed his lips to the wound. 

When Peter pulled away, his head tilted all the way back, as the sweet serum traveled down his throat. You were still staring in shock, the scent reaching your nose, and drawing you further in. It took everything in you to keep your feet planted and your fingernails dug into your palm as you watched. 

Peter smiled, blood on his lips and mouth, “Y/N,” He drawled, “Please, taste it …” He walked towards you, his hands outstretched. The blood on his lips, you could smell it, and you wanted to taste it so bad that it was hurting you. When he leaned into your lips, you didn’t stop him. His tongue entered your mouth and you felt the high he was feeling. 

Your vision began to blur a little as your head tilted back. Peter’s hands were holding you steady as the biggest smile spread across your lips. It was like tasting heaven, something beyond reality and you wanted to never let that supernatural feeling go. 

You felt a foreign hand against your back but you felt like welcoming any touch under the influence of the drug. As Peter pulled his lips away from you, your eyes opened to Steve’s as he was offering you his wrist. With the taste already on the tongue, you gladly accepted more, Peter’s hands roaming over your body as you drank. 

You weren’t sure how you made it to the bed, it felt like you had floated. Peter was right, he was so right, were all the words you could think. You heard those words, felt Peter’s hands, and watched as Steve’s lips turned into a mischievous smile. 

Steve stepped away, the cut on his arm already healing, as he made himself comfortable in a lounging chair by the fireplace. He had to give it to the kid, he seemed to know your body much better than he expected for a guy his age. Either that, or you couldn’t tell what was what at the moment and it was all just pleasure in your glazed over eyes. 

Your head tilted to the side so Steve could analyze every detail of your face. Your dress was pulled down at the top and the bottom rolled up past your stomach. Peter held your legs firmly, biting and kissing your thighs as he made himself comfortable between your legs. 

“God, I fucking love you,” Steve smiled at Peter’s words. Your back arched up as he finally pushed your panties aside, tasting your warm center, “You smell so good. You taste so good.”

You cried out his name, biting down on your bottom lip, and Steve imagined you accidentally drawing blood.  You wouldn't have noticed, there was already blood dripping down your chin. Steve liked how loud you were, he didn’t like the girls that held everything in, and he liked even more how Peter took your mewlings as encouragement to lap at you faster. 

“Fuck,” You cursed, gripping the sheets tightly. Steve felt his pants begin to tighten though he promised himself he would wait, “Fuck, fuck!” You finally came and Peter crawled up your body in order to kiss you on your lips. 

He fumbled with his belt and Steve felt his desperation to be inside you. He was still slow with you when he finally entered you, much more patient than Steve imagined he would be. He kept things slow so you could adjust. He made love to you, kissing your neck, “Is that good?”

You nodded eagerly, “Y-Yeah! Like that …. I love that, Petey. Feels so good … feels so good.”

It was more than ecstasy. The blood mixed with the love of your life, you thought you might cry knowing that no other feeling could compare. 

+

Steve watched the young lovebirds through several rounds and several different positions, your stamina never seeming to run out. Like any other drug, the high relieved the side effects but it didn’t last forever. Eventually, you and Peter floated to sleep. 

You slept through the entire morning and you thought you’d wake in Peter’s arms. You could face any shame and guilt if you were with him but, when your heavy eyes finally opened, you were alone. Your palm against your head, you sat up in the bed, a little bit of sun creeping through the curtains. Looking down, you were completely naked most likely from last night's escapades. 

You felt dirty, for more than one reason. “Peter,” You whispered, stepping out of the bed to look for your dress. Covering your chest, you kneeled down to check beneath the bed, “Peter.”

You breathed heavily, trying to push down your anxiousness as you struggled to find your clothes. When the door of the room opened, you panicked, grabbing ahold of the comforter and pulling it against your body. 

It wasn’t Peter or Steve but a dark haired man, abnormally muscular for a vampire just like Steve. He tilted his head as he looked at you, “Where’s Peter?” You asked immediately. 

“Who?” He raised an eyebrow, shutting the door, “Ohhh, Peter. Right. The boyfriend.”

“Where’s Peter and who are you?” You continued, your eyes wide with fear. Bucky ran his hand over his beard before folding his arms over each other. 

“I’m Steve’s … friend,” You began to recognize him from all the photos, “There’s a few of us who share this house, you know. And I heard you all last night, I asked Steve if I could join the fun but sitting on the sidelines is a bit boring to me.” 

You didn’t care, “If you’re not gonna tell me where Peter is-”

He rolled his eyes, “He’s with Natasha I think. He woke up still craving. Are you craving something too, dollface?”

“Nothing from you,” You shook your head though the idea of his bleeding wrist did pop into your brain, “I-I need to see him.”

“Be my guest. Are you going naked?” You scowled at him, “Go clean up first, please. There should be something for you to wear in the bathroom.”

The two of you stared awkwardly until Bucky realized you weren’t going to move until he left the room, “Fine,” He raised his hands in defeat, “They always get shy in the morning.” He mumbled to himself as the door shut. You quickly hurried to the bathroom, shutting and locking it. 

Why the hell was Peter with Natasha? She’d look at him like she wanted to devour him, in a completely non-vampire kind of way. And he’d left you all alone for that man to find you. Sure, you’d done things last night you weren’t proud of but he’d promised that things would go back to normal after. 

You freshened up in the sink, throwing on a night blue, silk nightgown. You had to scrub the dry blood off of your lips and your inner thighs and you were forced to relive the night. Everything was perfect but as soon as you thought about who watched and probably got off to it, you only felt guilty. You felt even more guilty that you were craving more blood. 

The room was empty when you stepped back into it. Tip toeing over to the bedroom door, you made sure to check to see if the coast was clear before stepping out into the hallway. You thought you could find Peter, snap him out of whatever trance he was in, and take the two of you home even if you had to carry him out on your back. 

“Natasha warned me to keep an eye on you,” He appeared in front of you so suddenly that a small shriek left your lips. You backed up quickly only to run into another tall figure. 

“Bucky, you’re going to hurt her,” Steve warned, his deep voice sending chills down your spine. 

Bucky smirked, “No blood, no foul.”

“You say that now.”

You stepped away from both of them, your back pressing against the nearest wall, “Would you like breakfast, doll?” Steve asked, catching you off guard. 

“You should get something on your stomach, doll,” Bucky seemed to mimic Steve’s concerned nature which caused Steve to press his lips into a frustrated, thin line. 

“Where. Is. Peter? I want to go home.”

“He’s-”

Bucky interrupted him, “You can’t go home.”

“Buck-”

“There’s no use in sugarcoating it,” Bucky stepped closer, resting his arm above you, “We need new blood bags and it’s not like you guys have much to go back to.” 

“We’re not blood bags-”

“We’re all blood bags,” Bucky chuckled, “You guys need us too. Anyways, it’s not a request. Steve is just nicer than me but we’re all going to take what we want.”

You slipped away from him, your feet pushing you even though you knew you were faster. The only reason Bucky didn’t chase after you was because of Steve, “Peter!” You called out, running down the hall, “Peter!” You frantically opened each door you walked past until you got to the end of the hallway. 

When you stormed in, you found him shirtless, sprawled on a bed. Natasha, in a robe, was in front of a vanity, brushing through her red hair. You hurried over to the bed, grabbing a hold of his shoulders, “Peter, we have to get out of here.”

He smiled, softly grabbing ahold of your arm, “My love, you’re so beautiful, you know that?” He was so high that you weren’t even sure if he was really seeing you. 

Tears pricked your eyes, “You promised, Peter. You promised.”

He shushed you, “It’s okay, just give me a few … hours. We’ll be … okay.”

You felt hands on your waist that you didn’t fight. She brushed a piece of hair from your face, touching your cheek with her freezing hand, “I knew you’d like her, Buck. They're both so perfect,” Natasha guided you away from the bed and towards the door where the other two vampires were standing, “So who gets the first bite?”

“Steve’s had his fun. She’s mine tonight.” 

+

hope you enjoyed that fun little one-shot!