#its already started but will only get worse

[stevie-petey]

﹂gasoline (s.h.)

﹂contains: fem!reader, slow burn, roommates to friends to are they lovers ? (worse), messy feelings and situationship, sexual tension, alcohol dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, probably unrealistic depictions of band life in the 80s but idc the vibes are there.

﹂playlist

it starts out simple enough. photograph the februarys in exchange for a cheap place to live. all you have to do is go to their gigs, take a few pictures, and hope that they like them. it starts out simple enough. until the bands frontman, steve harrington, begs for more.

track one: i wanna get off - a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

track two: but youre such a tease - now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

track three: you did me bad - with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

track four: but i wanna go faster - recording an album is hard enough when the person steve has written every song for cant look him in the eye. its even harder when said person is also his roommate. and it definitely doesnt help that the rest of the band thinks its steves fault. now hes stuck on yet another tour bus with you. and everyone else. for six months.

track five: gasoline, pretty please - screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

⌑ status: COMING SOON

⌑ main masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

[throatgoat4u]

late on the first day

word count: 0.6k

summary: it’s the first day of senior year, and dotty's already running late. of all classes, it had to be for your favorite class—art. just when you think things can’t get any worse... they do.

warnings: none :)

a/n: i lowkey already made this a like a month and a half ago but like............ yeah.... also this won the popular vote on what au i should release for next and so yeah. idk why i never put the intro to this au out but oh well. also, the reader's name will be dotty. also, the taglist is not official and is just a taglist of people who commented/reblogged the moodboards i had created so yeah! enjoy!

toodles sluts :)

you sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding as you weaved your way to the 2½ floor where the art wing was tucked away. there was no way you could be late—not on the first day of senior year, and definitely not to your favorite class. art had always been your escape. ever since you were little, you’d been an artist at heart, constantly sketching, coloring outside the lines (literally), experimenting with oil pastels, acrylics, and your personal favorite—watercolors.

but being the “art kid” had its downsides. while other girls were out at parties, shopping sprees, or obsessing over boys, you were lost in your sketchbook, shading imaginary worlds. it didn’t take long for people to notice how different you were. the teasing started small but grew sharper over the years, each comment isolating you a little more. by the time middle school ended, you were already used to being alone.

losing your best friend when she moved to another state only solidified it. since then, solitude had become your constant companion. but art? art was still yours. and that was why you couldn’t be late today. not when it was the one place you actually belonged.

you slipped into the classroom just as the bell rang, heart still racing from the mad dash up the stairs. scanning the seating chart at the front, you were relieved to find your assigned seat in the back corner, far from prying eyes. but that relief evaporated the moment you saw who you’d be sitting next to.

christopher sturniolo.

your blood ran cold. of course, it had to be him. chris wasn’t just popular—he was the most popular guy in school. every girl wanted him, and every guy either wanted to be him or be his best friend. there was no in-between. it didn’t help that he was the star of the hockey team, the golden boy who had secured a spot on varsity as a freshman and led the team to state championships every year since. he had it all: the looks, the talent, and, of course, the girl.

eva—the captain of the cheer team and the only girl who could possibly match his popularity. together, they were the school’s golden couple, envied and admired by everyone. chris was untouchable, living in a world completely separate from yours. he didn’t know you existed, and you were pretty sure he never would.

but you had noticed him.

in middle school, you had the biggest, most ridiculous crush on him. it started in sixth grade when he held the door open for you that one time, and it didn’t fade until the end of eighth grade. you were completely obsessed with chris sturniolo. you had filled an entire sketchbook front to back with drawings of him—his smile, his eyes, even the two of you together in scenes that only existed in your imagination. you remembered sketching his face more times than you could count, lost in a fantasy where he actually knew who you were.

but to him, you were nobody. just another face in the crowded hallways. he didn’t even know you well enough to recognize you as the girl who ate lunch in the bathroom or hid under the bleachers—just like everyone else did.

you tried everything to get over him that summer, finally deciding to write him a love letter, just like laura jean in to all the boys i’ve loved before. you poured your heart out in perfect penmanship, sealed it in a beautifully customized envelope with the prettiest wax seal you could find, and tucked it away in your love letter box, where it would stay forever, unread and forgotten.

or at least, that was the plan. but now, sitting next to chris for an entire the entire year? yeah, this was going to be a problem

taglist: @freshloveee. @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan. @heart-sdiary. @sturnshood

[vandme12]

Hello I love your writing and characterization of Ronin!! You’re incredibly talented and your portrayal of him is so good 🫶

I was wondering if you could write hurt/comfort Ronin with a reader who is maybe dealing with the death anniversary of losing someone who was close to them in the past? This one is a bit self indulgent, you can generalize it more if you’d like!! Thank you lovely ❤️

"goreboy: u died or what?"

Typical.

You stare at the message a little too long, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Normally, you’d play along—give him something sharp-edged and flirty, toss back a line about only dying if he asks nicely. It’s the game you both play, the rhythm you’ve fallen into. But not tonight.

Tonight isn’t any other night.

You: "Not in the mood, Ronin."

He leaves you on read.

For once, you’re grateful.

The phone screen dims in your hand as you slump back against the couch, trying—and failing—to swallow down the ache curling in your chest. It should be easier by now. Time’s supposed to dull the edges, smooth over the sharp parts. But grief doesn’t play by the rules, does it?

Some wounds never really close. And some people—God, some people—leave fingerprints you can’t scrub out no matter how hard you try.

Your apartment feels too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that presses in, heavy and suffocating, when you’re left alone with memories you don’t want but can’t let go of.

The phone buzzes again.

"goreboy: u ever gonna tell me why ur playin dead?"

Nosy bastard.

You bite your lip, debating whether to brush him off. But your fingers move before you decide—like part of you already knows the answer.

You: "...Anniversary."

No explanation. No messy details. He doesn’t need them.

If anyone understands how grief sinks its teeth into you and doesn’t let go—it’s him.

The reply comes faster than you expect.

"goreboy: open ur door."

Your heart stumbles.

He’s joking. He’s always joking. Except… when you pad to the door and crack it open, there he is—leaning against the frame like he owns the whole damn building. Hoodie slouched over his shoulders, one hand shoved in his pocket, eyes dark and glinting in the low light.

"Miss me?" he drawls, voice low and smooth. Too smooth. Like he’s trying not to spook you.

You should ask why he’s here. Should call him out on the fact that he’s always talking a big game, but he showed up the second you stopped playing.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back—silent invitation—and he slips inside without waiting for more.

The door clicks shut behind him. Just like that, the world feels a little less cold.

You settle on the couch, knees tucked close, as he drops down next to you—sprawled-out arrogance and lazy grace. Close enough to touch if you wanted. If you let yourself.

His voice breaks the quiet first. "So," he drawls, "you gonna tell me what’s eatin’ you, or do I gotta guess?"

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to answer—but because if you start talking, you might not stop. And God, you hate being vulnerable. Hate giving anyone that kind of power.

Still. It’s Ronin.

And somehow, that makes it worse—and easier—all at once.

"Someone I lost," you admit, voice low and rough around the edges. "A long time ago. But tonight… it just hurts more."

He doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t brush it off with some shitty joke.

For once, he just listens.

"Yeah," he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. "I get that."

His arm stretches along the back of the couch, casual—but not really. You know the offer when you see it. And without thinking, you lean into the warmth of him, letting his body bleed the cold out of yours.

You shouldn’t. You should keep your distance. But he makes it too easy.

"Don’t gotta play tough with me," he murmurs, voice curling warm at the edges. "I like it when you’re soft."

Your breath stutters. You hate how easy it is for him to disarm you—to find the cracks and dig his fingers in like he’s been waiting for the moment you break.

"I keep thinking about how they’d hate this," you confess. "Me, sitting here, falling apart. I promised I’d keep going." A shaky breath. "Some days, I’m not sure I am."

His hand moves—slow, deliberate—until his fingers are curling against your jaw, tilting your face toward his. And when you meet his gaze, there’s nothing playful about it. Nothing sharp or cruel. Just heat. Just him.

"Bullshit," he says, and it’s almost angry. "You’re here, aren’t you? Breathin’, fightin’. That’s gotta count for somethin’."

You search his face for the usual smirk, the familiar mockery—but there isn’t any.

"Besides," he adds, fingers brushing against your pulse, "if they mattered to you, they wouldn’t want you drowning in this. They’d want you to live."

The words hit something fragile and aching inside you—cracking it wide open. And when you blink, the sting behind your eyes burns hotter.

"Why do you care?" The question slips out before you can stop it—quieter than you mean for it to be.

His lips curl, slow and dangerous—but there’s no malice in it. No game. Just something raw and aching, hidden beneath the swagger.

"Told you already, sweetheart," he says, dragging two fingers against your temple like he could map out every haunted, broken part of you. "You’re mine."

A pause. A breath.

"Even the fucked-up bits."

And for once—you don’t argue.

His hand slides to the side of your neck, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin—steady, grounding. Something you could hold onto if you let yourself.

"Stay in your head too long, it’ll eat you alive," he says, quieter now. "So… how ‘bout you let me keep you distracted?"

It’s an offer you should refuse. You should push him away—cut the cord before he tangles himself any deeper into you. But the ache is heavy, and his warmth is right there, and you’re too tired to fight it.

"You already are," you whisper.

His thumb presses just a little harder against your pulse, and something flickers in his gaze—dark and pleased.

"Good." The word slides off his tongue like a promise. "Wouldn’t want you forgettin’ I’m here."

As if you ever could.

When he leans in—when his lips brush your temple, soft and warm—you let yourself relax against him. For the first time tonight, the ache in your chest feels a little easier to carry.

You can’t blame him for it. Not when he leans against the edge of your world with that lazy, toothy grin like he belongs there. Like he was made for the exact purpose of pulling you down with him.

He’s the devil with his hands on your heart, and God help you—you let him.

And now? Now he’s sitting in front of you, head tilted just so, watching the tears you thought you were good at hiding. He doesn’t ask why you’re crying. Doesn’t need to.

“Remember last Christmas?” he asks instead, low and easy, like it’s the most natural thing to bring up when you’re barely holding yourself together.

Your breath catches. “What…?”

“You were annoying as hell.” His grin sharpens. “Rotten saint act and all. Tryna’ play angel to my devil. Bet if I had the same thing goin’ on, you’d help me, wouldn’t ya?”

And yeah—you would. You have. You always do. Even when you shouldn’t.

He leans in closer, voice dipping to something softer, rough edges catching on a rare kindness. “So… I’m helpin’ you too. Why?” His fingers twitch at his side before lifting, rough and warm against your face. “’Cause I love ya, idiot.”

The words land somewhere in your chest—sharp and sudden. A pain you can’t decide if you want to hold onto or let go of. It makes you laugh, barely—a wet, broken sound. And when you tip forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead, you don’t miss the way he stills beneath it.

For once, the devil shuts up.

But only for a breath.

He snickers, recovering like it never happened, like you didn’t just knock the wind out of him with the gentlest thing you’ve ever done. “You wantin’ a grand romance, darling?” A beat. His voice curls sweet and mean at the edges. “If you’re tall enough to reach, that is.”

Cocky bastard.

You almost shove him for it—almost. But there’s something else under his voice. Something raw, half-hidden behind the bravado. He likes it. He likes you.

And if you listen close enough—if you dare to believe it—maybe he needs this as much as you do.

He won’t say it again. Not unless you make him. But he’ll keep his hand on your cheek, thumb brushing over the tear tracks with a touch that’s softer than it should be. And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

[ttheggrimrreaper]

Hello can you do headcannons about shidou Barou and Rin getting sick 🤒🤧 please and thank you ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Ofc ofc! Poor boys.. luckily our NB y/n is here to save the day!!

Shidou, Barou, Rin x NB!reader (separately)

Shidou Ryusei

-you would imagine a man in such a state would be forced to calm down..

-you thought wrong.

-if anything, it's gotten worse.. oh so so much worse. You try to walk out that door to go to work or a fresh breath of air..

"Y/NNNNnnnnnm YOUR SUPPOSED TO TAKE OF ME!! THROUGH SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH!"

-worst part about it? You're not even married. His lame excuse for why you have to stay in bed and cuddle? A lie.. well, it won't be a lie soon if it's up to him.

-your running from the kitchen to the bedroom with water at his demand, allergy meds, anything that boy can name. You better make sure he gets, he isn't called a demon for nothing

-he doesn't portray very signs of getting sick before hand, but after years of it, you've picked up on a few.

-he gets a little more touchy (as if that's possible). It's as though he wants to get you sick too, so then you would really have to stay with him.

-he starts to crave your approval more. It's odd how it works with him. But every time he does something he knows you want him to do (like take he shoes off before getting in the house, or taking off his sweaty jersey before getting in bed) he looks to you with wide eyes, waiting for your hum of approval

-in short, Shidou is a menace, will always be a menace, and all sickness does is... Make your life harder

-by the time he is all healed up. Your sick, and him taking care of you? A whole other story,

Barou Shoei

-Well would you look at that, the rare occasion Barou does get sick has occurred,

-good luck entertaining the bedroom. He doesn't like being taken care of, he likes to take care of you.

-Hes shutting himself him, locking himself up, with everything he could possibly need. Including a picture of you. Although your right behind the door, he won't open it, no need for you to be sick too,

-he calls you all the time, even if he could just open the door and talk to you like a normal person, often falling asleep on the phone together.

-although he hates you sleeping on the couch, sometimes he accepts that you have to suffer through that, so you don't have to suffer as much as he is now.

-Should he finally gets tired of your endless begging, he might crack the door open and look at you with a glare.

"can I come in now?"

"only if you wear a mask and gloves'

"BAROUUUUUU NOOOO"

Rin Itoshi

-its odd, It's as though Rins body will only let him get sick ONCE every 6 months. Twice a year, it's a impressive, never has it gone under, or over that for as long as you. Or anyone else you ask, can tell you,

-he says it's not a big deal, just going off to sulk in his room about this flu that is making soccer such an energy taker for him

-he is usually healed up quick, a bunch of medicine, and a bunch of tea and rest

-he has no issue kicking you out of you are stopping him from resting. To the couch you go!

-he comes over 5 minutes later to ask you to come back to bed. He cant rest knowing you're on the sofa alone and banished,

-not much changes, other than he's grumpier. He cant take out his attitude on hitting a certain worm with a ball. (Sorry Isagi, R.I.P)

-all in all, you can't do anything other than just love on him when he asks for it. He has everything else under control.

"Rin, do you need a tiss-

"already have 3 others waiting under the bed."

"how about a cup of t-"

"I already have one on the nightstand."

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Lose Yourself in Us (Part 22)

Marshall is barely through the front door when his phone rings.

He nearly drops the bag of takeout he grabbed on the way back, his heart hammering as he scrambles to answer.

“What happened?” His voice is raw, frantic, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“It’s her,” Alaina says, breathless and terrified. “Dad, she—she started crashing as soon as you left. They don’t know why, but you have to get back now.”

Marshall doesn’t even think.

The phone is still clutched in his hand when he’s already turning, already shoving the door back open and sprinting for the car.

—

By the time he bursts into your hospital room, he’s breathless, disoriented, his entire body running on panic and adrenaline.

The machines are still beeping frantically, nurses still moving, trying to stabilize you—but the second he’s through the door, everything shifts.

Your heart rate, still weak but dropping rapidly, slows its descent.

The nurses freeze.

Marshall doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even process what’s happening—he just stumbles forward, reaching for your hand, gripping it with both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“I’m here,” he gasps, chest heaving. “I’m right here, baby.”

The monitors start to steady.

The room goes dead silent.

Marshall barely registers it—his forehead is pressed to your hand, his entire body shaking with relief, with fear, with something bigger than all of it combined.

One of the nurses exhales, stunned. “She’s stabilizing.”

Another one shakes their head. “That’s impossible. She was decompensating fast—”

But they all see it.

The proof is right in front of them.

The numbers are rising just enough. Your vitals are still fragile, but the free fall has stopped.

And the only thing that changed—

—was him.

Marshall finally lifts his head, blinking at the staff through his haze of exhaustion and fear. “What?” he rasps. “What is it?”

One of the doctors steps forward slowly. “Mr. Mathers,” she says carefully. “I think—” She hesitates, clearly debating how insane this sounds. “I think she needs you here.”

Marshall just stares. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Alaina steps closer, still shaken, but sure of what she’s seen. “Dad,” she whispers. “You left. And she started dying.”

A sharp breath hitches in his throat.

Dying.

The word slams into him like a truck.

He looks back at you, lying motionless in that bed, the rise and fall of your chest so fucking fragile.

And suddenly, everything clicks.

Every time he left—even for a moment—you got worse.

Every time he came back—you got just enough better.

Marshall tightens his grip on your hand.

“Then I’m not leaving,” he says, voice shaking but firm. “Not again.”

And he means it.

No matter how long it takes.

[neewtmas]

*cracks knuckles* okay let's do this

First of all you’re insane for using that first pic✋🏻😮‍💨

She’d been there three months already, but she still wasn’t used to the hours kept by her colleagues. They could eat breakfast at 3am or 11, sometimes had breakfast for dinner or the other way around.

They have the same fucked up eating schedule I have hallelujah

The only noises came from George’s cooking. They would soon be replaced by uninterrupted chatter, the scraping of chairs against the floor and the kettle that was kept on most of the time.

The cosy vibes are off the charts ☕️☕️☕️

However, she had made the mistake of smiling at him which instantly turned him mute once again before exiting the room without finishing whatever thought he had started.

He is just social anxiety in person omg

She turned around to see George rearranging her table setting, visibly sighing as he placed attentively the forks on the left face up and the knives on the right blades in. He once again avoided her gaze and went back to his dish still cooking on the stove.

Dude wtf is wrong with u😒

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucy said as soon as she entered the kitchen.

Good question lucy! I was asking the same thing

She didn’t want to say anything yet, but she had a hunch.

Meddling lucy truly is the best Lucy🤩

George looked back at her, a knot forming in his stomach. Having all his mistakes lined up this way made him realize how badly he had handled the situation

George stared at the closed door with round eyes. He wasn’t mad about the files anymore. This was worse. So much worse. How was he supposed to get anything done while she was around?

🦋🦋🦋

Aww no poor baby🫂

Whatever trick this might be, it was working. He couldn’t resist correcting anyone about his filing system.

He’s such a fucking nerd I love him

“Are you okay?” George asked, worried, as he crashed back into his room. Desperately trying to get away from the cold wet blanket, she pulled herself up, only managing to hurt herself more.

God now I am the idiot🤡

She looked back down and noticed what George had draped over her. His own sweater, the one he wore in October when the days started getting colder, sat gently on her shoulders, smelling faintly of cedarwood.

Alksjdgjgsalaeh

She just took a seat at the kitchen table and smiled at him. He had been talking to her for five uninterrupted minutes with eye contact and everything. Technically it was to yell at her, but still. progress was progress. He gave up when noticing her smile wouldn’t budge.

He can just go and yell at me whenever he wants🥰

She scoffed and threw the orange in her hand, aiming for his head. He caught it just in time before it made contact with his cheek. He stared back at her with round eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he asked with an edge in his voice. Did she just imagine his voice getting deeper? The slightest grin formed at the corner of his mouth, giving her chills.

HUH🫠🫠🫠

The fruit’s sweet perfume filled the air as George dropped the peel on the table in one piece. While she studied his hands attentively, he proceeded to tear the orange apart, setting its pieces on the table in front of her.

Not the orange peeling ahhhh

“Like spending time with you could ever be wasted time” he wanted to say. Instead, he simply shook his head and started his explanation over, shaking off the thought.

🥹🥹🥹

She didn’t really expect him to, so it really came as a surprise when he reached for her hand without taking his eyes off his notes.

He held his hand out high for her to high five him back. She did, her touch electric against his. She didn’t let go and wrapped her fingers around his, lingering there for another second. He stared at their tangled fingers, oddly captivated. His eyes traveled down her arm and up her face to find her already staring. His breath caught. Suddenly he couldn’t care less about the case they had been working on. Nothing mattered except for the way the warm light of the kitchen lit up her eyes. Her lips parted, catching his eye before he could stop it

My guyyyyy

He got closer each time and she took each opportunity to raise the blanket higher over him. He needed to sleep and he would, even if she had to sneak up on him

Not tricking him into falling asleep lmao

When he noticed her dosing off, he spoke lower and lower before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

AHHHHHHHHHH

What she hadn’t expected was George laying down closer against her with his arms draped around her waist. She froze. His hands traced their way down her arms and his hands locked around hers, gently trying to nudge his glasses out of her hands. She held them tighter, unable to keep herself from smiling. He had his head in the crook of her neck and she felt a smile forming on his lips too.

I am GAGGED✋🏻✋🏻✋🏻

“Is that why you’re staying up so late?” He didn’t say anything back. She rolled back to face him, his hands now resting on her lower back.

SPEECHLESS; CLAWING AT THE WALL

The KISS

Alice you absolute legend

we're not gonna be friends

one shot

Warnings: none

Content: not ennemies, more like annoyed at each other, to lovers, f!reader x George

Word count: 6.8k

Summary: George and y/n can't stand each other, but Lucy can see through their annoyance. Maybe she should help them out a little bit.

Comment: it took me an embarrassingly long time to write this but i'm so happy it's finally here! It was inspired by the song We're not gonna be friends by PJ Frantz which is attached to this

@neewtmas ; @maraschinomerry ; @oblivious-idiot ; @bella-rose29 ; @bobbys-not-that-small ; @lewkwoodnco ; @clarabowmp3 ; @demigoddess-of-ghosts

The kitchen was silent like it often was before breakfast. Or was it lunchtime already? Despite the number of clocks in the house, y/n couldn’t keep track of the day. Unlike Tendy’s where every agent had to keep a tight schedule, Lockwood&Co taught her to be more spontaneous with her day. She’d been there three months already, but she still wasn’t used to the hours kept by her colleagues. They could eat breakfast at 3am or 11, sometimes had breakfast for dinner or the other way around. The only thing she knew by heart was the quietness before a shared meal. The only noises came from George’s cooking. They would soon be replaced by uninterrupted chatter, the scraping of chairs against the floor and the kettle that was kept on most of the time.

She tried to appreciate the peace before the storm but it was tainted with the heavy stillness of the room. With his back turned to her, George couldn’t see her disappointment at the lack of conversation between them. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t managed to find any sort of anchor with him. She had tried her best to be friendly, helpful, grateful for everything he did around the house but nothing had worked. Even the best conversation starters she could find about the Problem would get shut down in two sentences or less. Once, she mentioned the conversation she had overheard between two of her ex-colleagues, theories on the best ways to stop the Problem. His eyes had lit up, eager to respond and keep the debate going. He had only taken part of the conversation to contradict whatever the agents had said, but she was glad of the progress she made. However, she had made the mistake of smiling at him which instantly turned him mute once again before exiting the room without finishing whatever thought he had started.

She had grown frustrated of the situation. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Lockwood and Lucy, she would have given up entirely. But they kept insisting that they could be the best of friends and if she was honest with herself she felt insecure about wrecking the harmony between the three roommates. She already felt guilty enough for making Lucy share her room, no matter how much she insisted that she liked having her here. So, she attempted a new approach: instead of talking to him, she would try to help him out, be of service.

She waited patiently for him to finish whatever step he was on in his recipe to get the plates from behind him. When he rested the spoon he had in hand on the side of the pan, she stood up and went for the plates. He got there first and turned around carrying the four plates. Instead of handing them to her, he avoided her eyes and set them down himself, practically walking through her. She didn’t let his rudeness stop her from helping and opened the cupboard where sat the glasses. He was faster once more and slid his fingers inside the glasses to grab two with each hand. Refusing to back down, she took the forks and knives out and set one of each next to the plates. She went next for the napkins but was stopped in her tracks by the sound of metal hitting plates. She turned around to see George rearranging her table setting, visibly sighing as he placed attentively the forks on the left face up and the knives on the right blades in. He once again avoided her gaze and went back to his dish still cooking on the stove.

“Should I bring the napkins or do you have preferences for that too?” She tried to say on a light tone but her annoyance bled through.

“However you want is fine.”

“Apparently not…” she mumbled.

“They’re just napkins, y/n.”

“They were just forks.”

“That’s differ-“

She slammed the door behind her before he could finish. She wasn’t sure if she was hungry anymore. The front door opened and she came face to face with Lockwood who was coming back from whatever errand he and Lucy had run in the morning.

“Hey,” he said as she passed by him. “Aren’t we about to eat?” he asked, but she was already climbing up the stairs.

He and Lucy exchanged a look before the girl decided to go after her. Even though y/n hadn’t said anything, Lucy was pretty sure George had to be involved. She couldn’t really blame her. She and George had had a difficult start too. But it hadn’t taken this long for the researcher to warm up to her. And y/n was much more polite than she had been. Something was off and he had some explaining to do. She would ask him about it after she made sure y/n was okay. She climbed the stairs up to the attic and found y/n angrily fluffing the pillows on her bed. She didn’t have to ask to know whose face she was picturing while violently adjusting the stuffing of a forest green throw pillow.

“So…” she started carefully, “how was your morning?”

“He is the most obnoxious and condescending jerk I’ve ever met.”

“What happened now?” she asked cautiously, but she couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“I have tried so hard to be pleasant and helpful. I talk about subjects he is interested in, I help out on chores he does, I do everything to be nice and a good roommate and he still won’t talk to me for more than thirty seconds and he won’t under any circumstances let me help out.”

She threw the innocent pillow on her bed to punctuate her annoyance.

Lucy felt torn by the situation. On the one hand she felt bad for her. Getting used to living with George hadn’t been easy for her either, but compared to how he was treating y/n, she had had it easy. He had been irritable lately and he snapped at the slightest inconvenience. On the other hand, she might have an idea of what was really going on.

“Why don’t we go back downstairs and eat something, it’ll make you feel better.”

“And deal with him? No thanks.”

She resolutely sat on her bed, crossing her arms to mark her words.

“I’ll bring up a plate for you.” Lucy said as she made her way back down the stairs.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucy said as soon as she entered the kitchen.

“Where should I start?” The skull countered in that invasive way he had of barging in on her conversations.

She ignored him and tapped George on the shoulder, making him look away from his cooking.

“Please, Lucy, we’re about to eat.”

“Yeah, well y/n’s not coming down because of you.”

“She’s not?” Lockwood chimed in.

“Our dear friend George annoyed her away.”

Lockwood smiled somewhat fondly. This was classic George.

“I didn’t do anything.” He said flatly.

“You didn’t let her help, you keep leaving her out!”

George took a deep breath before affirming decidedly

“I don’t like the way she sets the forks and knives.”

She and Lockwood exchanged a look. He couldn’t be serious.

“George, please,” Lockwood started, sensing Lucy’s annoyance.

“She doesn’t check if they match and she sets them haphazardly because she can’t be bothered to place them on each side of the plate, it drives me nuts!”

She looked across the table to see Lockwood smiling at her, silently acknowledging his friend’s quirks.

“George,” he started, “I can’t have two team members unable to work together over forks and knives. I’m gonna need you to make an effort, try and be friends.” He punctuated his words with one of his charming smiles.

George stood up and grabbed his plate.

“I can’t be friends with her.” He declared before going in his room.

Lockwood sighed in defeat.

“Don’t worry about it too much.” Lucy told him.

“How can I not? They’re this close to being at each other’s throat.”

Oh I don’t know about throats but something else surely. She didn’t want to say anything yet, but she had a hunch. George was rude, more so than he had ever been to her. He claimed he couldn’t stand y/n, yet he somehow always managed to be in the same room as her. If he truly couldn’t spend a minute in her company, why did she find him researching a case in the library on several occasions with y/n reading nearby instead of going in his room? And why would he spend twice as much time cleaning if not maybe to see her coming in? He may have his preferences when it came to cleaning, but her instincts told her there was something else at play here.

“Maybe we could make them collaborate more…” She told Lockwood with a grin.

They shared a complicit look.

George was halfway through an article when Lockwood called him down. He wondered what could be more important than being prepared for a case but with Lockwood it could be anything. Without looking up from the newspaper he was reading he went downstairs, only to be greeted with Lucy’s insistent stare. She had that look on her face. It instantly filled him with dread. Whatever they did, it obviously meant more work for him.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Lucy answered too quickly. “We just…”

He left the article on the nearest table to cross his arms. He looked back at Lockwood.

“We knocked over a few boxes while training.”

“So? Just clean it up.”

“They’re yours. It’s your records and research on the Problem…”

George stormed downstairs. Dealing with Lockwood’s recklessness in the field was already a lot, but carelessness in the house they all lived in, that’s where he drew the line.

“I’m sorry George,” Lockwood chased after him, “I want to help but I don’t know your system.”

“You’d mess it up anyway. It’s fine, I’ll take care of it.” He sighed.

“At least let me get you some help,” Lucy said, already halfway back into the hall.

Before he could protest, she called “y/n! We need your help!”

The girl arrived shortly after, visibly unhappy about the situation.

“We have errands to run, but have fun you two!” Lucy said cheerfully, quickly exiting through the front door before anyone of them could protest.

George stared at the closed door with round eyes. He wasn’t mad about the files anymore. This was worse. So much worse. How was he supposed to get anything done while she was around?

“What do you need help with?” y/n asked flatly.

Without sparing her another glance he rushed back downstairs to evaluate how much damage had been done. He didn’t want to try and explain his system. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he could. He was aware of his quirks and weird habits, and he was aware that it didn’t make sense to most people. Lockwood had made that clear. And even though Lucy made efforts, his filing system was where she drew the line. He didn’t want to hear the same thing from y/n.

Papers were scattered across the office floor. The filing box labelled ‘Problem’ was upside down, balanced between two chairs and on the verge of joining its content below it. The tabs he had placed inside to keep everything organized hadn’t survived the attack. This would take hours.

“So, you’re not even going to talk to me now?” y/n’s voice resonated from the kitchen.

His heart started to beat faster. With wild eyes, he started to pick up the papers mechanically while his mind reeled. What was he supposed to say? Her footsteps resonated louder as she stepped further down into the basement. The air grew thicker with tension as she did so. He wished he would break through the window and run away from this awkward situation.

“George?” she started, crossing her arms as she reached the last step.

Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes towards her, silently cursing himself for screwing up their relationship this badly. He blinked, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Fine.” she let out, slightly louder.

The look on her face made him ache. She looked terrifying when she was angry. He froze halfway through collecting the papers at his feet. She frowned at him, probably wondering what was wrong with him. She bent down and picked the papers up for him, organizing them in neat piles on the one desk that Lockwood and Lucy had spared.

“You know,” she started, “you’re probably the most confusing person I’ve ever met.”

He still stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed by the coldness of her voice. He stared blankly as she angrily collected the papers and forcefully sorted them, creasing some of them in the process.

“I tried to help around the house, but you never let me. I clean, you clean again after me. I initiate conversation and you find any excuse to leave the room.”

She looked down at the last papers she picked up. They were newspaper cuttings about the most relevant outbreaks of the Problem. She smiled as she read the titles and it sent a chill down his spine. Whatever was coming next was not going to be good.

“I spent hours reading all I could find about the origin of the Problem. Lucy said that was how she got you to open up. I thought we could finally have something to talk about. Instead, you walked out after two minutes.”

George looked back at her, a knot forming in his stomach. Having all his mistakes lined up this way made him realize how badly he had handled the situation.

“Am I really that hard to live with?” she asked. There was a crack in her voice.

He couldn’t stay silent. Not this time. But no matter how much he wanted to find the right thing to say, he came up short.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted out.

She looked up, surprised.

“What was that?” she said, eager to make him apologize again.

“You heard me…” he mumbled.

“No, I don’t think I did,” she smiled. “George Karim apologizing? That’s more unlikely than seeing a ghost hula hooping.”

He smiled back. They stared at each other for a few seconds, long enough to make the air feel warmer in the basement. The first crumb of complicity gave him enough courage to try to make up for his rudeness. He added the papers in his hand to the pile on the desk in front of him before continuing.

“I never wanted to make you feel unwelcome.” He looked down, ashamed to admit he had badly misread the situation. “I’m just used to Lucy pushing back and when you didn’t, I thought… that maybe you were faking it? That you were talking about the Problem just to make fun, and you helped out just to annoy me and slow me down-”

“Oh, being nice is annoying now?”

“I don’t know! I’m a jerk, I see that now.”

“At least we can agree on that.”

He looked back up expecting to see her frowning.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You’re finally honest with me. I take that as a victory,” she said decidedly as she reached for the upturned cardboard box.

“So I’m guessing you have a system to organize your files?”

The question caught him off-guard. Was she really moving on from three months of feud that easily? It felt like a trick. She stared at him expectantly.

“Just… chronological.” He said cautiously.

“I don’t think you’d use that many tabs if it was just chronological. You must have subcategories, right? Like at least geographical and then maybe by source…”

Whatever trick this might be, it was working. He couldn’t resist correcting anyone about his filing system.

“I always start with the chronological order and then I file everything according to geography. For each year, I like to organize the records by city then order them by region and finally-”

“Alphabetically?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “I take the region most located South then move back up East, then North and finish West.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier to visualize on a map.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

When she and Lockwood came back from their errand, which really consisted of going to the coffeeshop closest to the house to let George and y/n have it out, Lucy was shocked to discover that her plan had actually worked. Well, not that shocked. She knew there was something there. They just needed a little push.

They had to climb down the stairs to the basement to finally find them because none of them answered their calls from the hallway. They were deep in conversation about the Problem. The files and boxes had been entirely cleaned up, everything was back on the shelves and… Wait, did George just laugh at something y/n said? How long had they been gone?

Lockwood had a confused look on her face, matching hers. It didn’t leave him the entire way to the client’s house that evening. There was no more tense silence, awkward avoidance or strange atmosphere in the group. The change was radical. Had she known it would have been this effective, she would have locked them up in the basement three months ago. She had been worried they would have ripped each other’s eyes out in such close quarters. In this moment though, they stared intently at each other more than they looked murderous. She smiled to herself, only making Lockwood more confused. She threw him a look. They are so gone for each other. He looked at her sideways, seemingly in disbelief. She raised her eyebrows. I swear! You’ll see. He seemed unconvinced, but she knew. “I can’t be friends with her” George had said. Yes, quite literally, she thought.

The cab came to a halt in front of their workplace for the night. 11 Hall Road. Lucy would have loved to have an exciting new case that she could add to her journal, but the truth was that most cases were plain. An old person dies, the inheritors need to clear the house before living there or selling it. Those who had become apathetical to the Problem said it was just another expense to plan alongside the funeral. She wasn’t in the mood for apathetical. Not when she had two idiotic friends practically holding hands after being at each other’s throat for the past three months. It comforted her to see them remain focused on their tasks without breaking conversation, and she almost didn’t want to tell them to stop to allow her to use her talent. A job was still a job though.

When silence hit them, so did the cold realization of all the sorrow surrounding them. Wailing filled Lucy’s ears and soon the faint outline of the phantasm haunting the place appeared in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t perceive it very well, but its screams made it hard for her to think. Lockwood stepped in front of her, rapier drawn and ready for a fight, while George tried to yell over the disembodied screams what the source could be. y/n was running through the house following his directions but to no avail. His last idea was a miniature car in the bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Found it!” y/n called from upstairs.

But Lucy was the one with the silver nets. She drew her own rapier, aiming for the stairs. The phantasm was faster. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the figure floating upstairs, so fast she doubted her mind for a second. y/n’s scream confirmed she hadn’t been dreaming. Lucy saw the girl running past her in the opposite direction, only stopped by the chest of drawers stationed on the landing. She hit her side with a definite thump, bringing her down and leaving her paralyzed on the floor of the corridor. Lucy hurried up the stairs and came to stand between y/n and the ghost, drawing intricate patterns she had practiced with Lockwood. When she heard the boys climbing the stairs, she used her other hand to take the silver nets out of her pocket. They got caught in her belt and the second she looked away was enough for the visitor to float closer to y/n, still lying a few feet behind her. Using her remaining strength, y/n threw a salt bomb, winning enough time for Lockwood to join Lucy’s side, covering George while he took care of the source.

None of them really spoke on their way back, still shaken from the close call they avoided. Y/n didn’t suffer major injuries, just a few bad bruises, which was a relief. It was enough for Lockwood to tell her to stay home for the next few days. She hadn’t protested, probably because she was exhausted from the night and the drive had rocked her to sleep. When they arrived in front of Portland Row, George didn’t let Lucy wake her up. Instead he carried her inside and despite the night they’d had, she smiled.

The rays of light shining on her face hurt her closed eyes, but not as much as the bruises in her side that decided to wake up as soon as she emerged from her heavy sleep. She was sore, thirsty and only managed to groan when trying to move in what was definitely not her bed. She reached over, eyes still closed, and encountered something cold. Her reflexes kicked in, knocking the glass over and effectively pouring its content on her. She jerked up and immediately screamed at the pain stabbing her side.

“Are you okay?” George asked, worried, as he crashed back into his room.

Desperately trying to get away from the cold wet blanket, she pulled herself up, only managing to hurt herself more.

“No, no, no, slow down. You’re only going to hurt yourself more if you do that.”

He gently nudged her back down, elevating her head with a pillow and removing the blanket to toss it on the floor. She shivered.

“How did you sleep?” he asked as he casually laid something else on her.

“Terrible,” she simply said as she managed to open an eye.

“Do you remember last night?” he continued while helping her sit.

“Yes… I think.” She looked around with half-opened eyes. “Why am I in your room?”

“Lockwood almost passed out after the first flight of stairs.”

She opened her second eye and stared at him dubitatively.

“Fine I wasn’t doing great either.”

She laughed lightly but it only triggered her injury again.

“Here, drink this,” he handed her a cup of tea, “and today you’re on bed rest. No work, no chores, nothing. Not even laughing.”

“I should keep you around then,” she said, before taking a sip.

He threw her a look, but even with eyes half open she could see the shadow of a smile on his face.

He went back downstairs, leaving her to savor her tea, its warmth welcome after having been awakened in such a brutal way. She looked back down and noticed what George had draped over her. His own sweater, the one he wore in October when the days started getting colder, sat gently on her shoulders, smelling faintly of cedarwood. She hadn’t realized how soft it was, having only touched it with her eyes. The night after the case was a blur, but she could have sworn that only one person had carried her upstairs. She smiled to herself as she looked around his room. Papers were left scattered on his desk, some fallen on the floor. Trinkets were gathered on every shelf that wasn’t already full of books. It was messy, disorganized, but comforting in its own way. She wondered how someone who kept such meticulous files on the Problem could live in a room like this. If she tried to make sense of it, she would probably spend the day here, and she simply refused that. Staying still was out of the question. She carefully sat back up before she tried to get onto her feet. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes. This might not be the brightest idea, she thought to herself, but she was finally making progress with George, they had a semblance of connection and she certainly wouldn’t let one wound stand in the way of her friendship with him.

One painful shower and a whole hour later, y/n made her way downstairs and joined George in the kitchen. She hadn’t even made it through the door that she could already hear him telling her off for getting out of bed. He chastised her about the dangers of disregarding health and how irresponsible it was of her to push her body to its limit. She just took a seat at the kitchen table and smiled at him. He had been talking to her for five uninterrupted minutes with eye contact and everything. Technically it was to yell at her, but still. progress was progress. He gave up when noticing her smile wouldn’t budge.

“Why did you come down anyway?”

“I was hungry,” she said while grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl in front of her.

“You could’ve just told me I would have brought something for you.”

“Actually, since I’m on house arrest and you’re finally speaking to me, why don’t you let me help you out today? You know like cleaning, cooking… everything you do all the time for everyone and never let me help with?”

“No. You’re injured. You shouldn’t move that much.”

“How about research then? That’s just reading.”

“No,” he said decisively, punctuating his rejection with a pointed look.

“Stubborn idiot.”

“Well, I am not the idiot who tripped and almost shattered my hip on a dresser.”

She scoffed and threw the orange in her hand, aiming for his head. He caught it just in time before it made contact with his cheek. He stared back at her with round eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he asked with an edge in his voice. Did she just imagine his voice getting deeper? The slightest grin formed at the corner of his mouth, giving her chills. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re just jealous because even injured I have better aim than you.” She blurted out, hoping the redness of her face wasn’t obvious.

When he didn’t respond, an idea popped into her head.

“And you probably don’t want me to help because you’re scared I’ll be better at research than you are too.”

He smiled, set the orange down on the table and turned back to the dishes he had started before she got there.

“You really think I’d fall for that? Who do you think I am? Lockwood?”

She took back the fruit and slumped into her chair.

“Can you at least let me help? I can’t stay still for so long, I’ll go mad”

She fidgeted with the orange in her hands, planting her short nails into its skin the best she could. She only managed to pull off small pieces each time.

“You’ll slow me down, and I can’t allow myself to miss a single element. I don’t want last night to happen again.”

She looked up to find him already staring.

“I managed to keep up with your files on the Problem, why would that be any different?”

He didn’t have anything to say back. She smiled triumphantly.

“You have no more arguments, I win the argument! Where should I start?”

He sighed, dried the glass he was holding and sat next to her.

“By learning how to peel an orange properly.” He retorted, snatching the fruit from her hand.

Methodically, he sunk his finger under the peel, tearing it confidently. The fruit’s sweet perfume filled the air as George dropped the peel on the table in one piece. While she studied his hands attentively, he proceeded to tear the orange apart, setting its pieces on the table in front of her.

“I can do that myself you know.”

“Can you?”

“Jerk.” She laughed. Being friends with him wasn’t exactly what she had thought it would be, but she had to admit that she liked it.

He got up and snatched a piece from her hand.

“Hey, what was that for?”

“Compensation for my efforts.” He smirked.

He disappeared into the living room and came back with piles of materials in his arms. He did a second trip to bring books and case files, then a third to get notebooks from his room. When he got back into the kitchen, he sat next to her and wrote the name of the client on the thinking cloth. He pushed back his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s get to work.”

George knew that y/n was too stubborn to rest despite her injury, and she was too clever to be tricked into it. To be fair, he hadn’t tried that hard. He really was glad of the company. He gave her some context for their upcoming case and described his usual research methods. He realized he might have been explaining things too fast when he noticed her staring at him with round eyes.

“I lost you, didn’t I?”

“Sort of…” she answered, embarrassed. “Am I wasting your time?”

“Like spending time with you could ever be wasted time” he wanted to say. Instead, he simply shook his head and started his explanation over, shaking off the thought.

He was right, though. Not only was he greatly enjoying himself, she was also a quick learner. By the second hour spent gathering material, they had already uncovered crucial elements about the history of the place and they had started narrowing in on the type of object that could be a potential source. They made a good team.

The day had gone by without any of them leaving the kitchen. They were enthralled in their work with a comfortable silence between them. They sat side by side, sharing documents and exchanging notes on the Thinking Cloth with an appeasing familiarity. Deep down, George felt guilty that they missed out on moments like these in the past because he was too focused on keeping his new colleague at arm’s length. Their knees bumped every once in a while, each moment making his heart skip a beat. Out of surprise, that is, not that he paid it any mind.

In just a day he had learned to read her smile. The soft polite one was how she asked if he wanted more tea. The shy one meant she needed his help but didn’t want to ask. His favorite one was her triumphant smile when she finally figured out what the source must be. He held his hand out high for her to high five him back. She did, her touch electric against his. She didn’t let go and wrapped her fingers around his, lingering there for another second. He stared at their tangled fingers, oddly captivated. His eyes traveled down her arm and up her face to find her already staring. His breath caught. Suddenly he couldn’t care less about the case they had been working on. Nothing mattered except for the way the warm light of the kitchen lit up her eyes. Her lips parted, catching his eye before he could stop it.

“It’s late, I should probably get some sleep,” she quickly said when their eyes met.

“Yeah,” he let go of her hand, “good idea.”

She used his shoulder to stand up and flinched. He didn’t know if it was from the contact or the effort.

“Good night,” he said gently, trying to shake off some of the awkwardness he was feeling.

“Good night. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I can’t promise anything,” he mumbled as he watched her close the door behind her.

He found it ironic that she was giving him advice when she had been blatantly ignoring everything he said about her health all day long. He returned to the newspaper he was reading, every word on the page escaping his attention. What smile had she used when she left the room? He took a pen to keep his eyes from skipping five words at a time. She had touched his shoulder on purpose earlier, hadn’t she? This was useless. He gathered up the rest of the papers he hadn’t read yet and headed back to his room, conceding defeat to the butterflies settling in his stomach.

y/n woke up around 2 am, her aching body forcing her awake demanding a glass of water. Everything was dark around her, but she could hear Lucy’s steady breathing on the opposite side of the room. She did her best to get to her feet silently, ignoring the pain still twisting her side. The steps creaked lightly underneath her bare feet, the sound resonating loudly in the silent house. She reached the first landing discreetly with the hope that she wouldn’t wake anyone up. Instead, she was surprised to see a ray of light coming from under George’s door. It was ajar, so she pushed it lightly to see him hunched over his desk, still reading the newspapers she had left on the table a few hours earlier.

“You’re really stubborn you know?”

He didn’t seem surprised to hear her behind him.

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted.

She knew there was no point in arguing, especially at this hour.

“I’m getting some water, do you want anything?”

“Tea would be fine, thanks.” He turned around. His hair was visibly disheveled. Even though he didn’t put that much effort into it at regular hours, it was obvious that he was tired.

When she came back a few moments later, he was still absorbed by whatever article he was reading. He hardly paid attention when she set the steaming cup next to him. She didn’t really expect him to, so it really came as a surprise when he reached for her hand without taking his eyes off his notes. The contact of his hand on the bare skin of her arm almost made her spill her water.

“Take a look,” he simply said. He pointed at an annotation he had written in the margin of a newspaper article he was reading.

She sat on the stool next to him to inspect his findings. His scribbling was already hard to read in the daylight, but in the dead hours of the night it was almost impossible. He saw her squint and read aloud. The words evaded her. She blamed the lack of sleep and not the fact that his hand was still resting on her arm, gently swaying back and forth. She stared at it, its slow movements calming her down. It made her feel peaceful, appeased. She wondered however why her heart was beating faster if she was feeling so calm.

“y/n?”

“Hmm?” She looked up and was caught off guard by the gentleness in his eyes.

“You should go back to bed.”

“No, no, tell me. I’m listening.”

She could see the cogs turning in his head, weighing his options, whether forcing her to rest would be worth the effort or pointless from the start. He sighed.

“I found another death related to the client’s house. I’m trying to see if the haunting is caused by what we found earlier or if it’s something else entirely.”

“That’s way too much work to do by yourself in one night.”

“Someone has to do it. You should rest, I’ll tell you what I found in the morning.”

She got up, but she knew fully well she wasn’t letting him work all night alone. She took all the papers she could gather in her arms, ignoring his hushed protests, and made herself comfortable in his bed. He looked at her incredulously. She tapped the spot next to her, a large smile lighting up her face.

He sounded defeated when he said “why are you like this?”

“You look out for me, I look out for you.”

It shut him up on the spot. She got under the covers and organized the documents in piles around her while he stared silently, his mouth slightly agape.

“What? If we’re here all night we might as well get comfortable.”

His eyes were so round she thought it must hurt him. “We?”

She tapped the spot next to her again.

“Come on. You can’t tell me to rest if you’re not doing it either.”

Reluctantly, he joined her, looking like he was intruding in the sheets of a total stranger. At first, he pushed the cover aside. It was as if he was allergic to comfort. He kept his distance and even hesitated to reach over to grab a newspaper. They read in silence, the only sound coming occasionally from the turning of pages. He seemed to quickly forget about his awkwardness though, as he leaned in whenever he found something. He got closer each time and she took each opportunity to raise the blanket higher over him. He needed to sleep and he would, even if she had to sneak up on him. By the time he finished his mug, they were shoulder to shoulder, speaking in low voices in each other’s ear. Even in hushed tones, she could sense how enthusiastic he was about what he discovered one newspaper after the other. She could have listened to him talk for hours… if she wasn’t so exhausted. No matter how hard she tried to keep her eyes open, her head was drawing impossibly close to George’s shoulder. She was too comfortable to resist. When he noticed her dosing off, he spoke lower and lower before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She sunk into a deeper slumber, George’s even breathing rocking her to sleep, until the turning of pages disturbed her ears. He wasn’t going to sleep unless she made him. With her eyes still closed, she traced her fingers up his torso to find his neck, his chin, and finally his glasses. She took them off before turning her back on him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Forcing you to get some sleep,” she mumbled.

“Give me back my glasses.”

“Come get them yourself.”

She was certain he would concede defeat after this. What she hadn’t expected was George laying down closer against her with his arms draped around her waist. She froze. His hands traced their way down her arms and his hands locked around hers, gently trying to nudge his glasses out of her hands. She held them tighter, unable to keep herself from smiling. He had his head in the crook of her neck and she felt a smile forming on his lips too.

“You’re impossible. You’re stubborn, insufferable-”

“You used that one earlier already.”

He laughed. “You’re just proving my point.”

A light laugh escaped her too, only it made her bruises act up again. She flinched.

George let go of her hand, his fingers traveling lightly over her side.

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little bit.”

He sighed in her neck, making her shiver.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t figure out sooner what the source was. I could have saved you the injury.”

Something clicked in her mind, clearing all desire to sleep for a moment.

“Is that why you’re staying up so late?”

He didn’t say anything back. She rolled back to face him, his hands now resting on her lower back.

“George, you’re not the reason why I couldn’t avoid running into a dresser.”

He laughed, but he avoided her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault. Now please get some sleep.”

He looked back at her with intensity. His eyes looked dark in the dim light, almost black.

“On one condition.”

Before she could ask what he needed from her, he took it. His lips crashed against hers with a hunger she didn’t know he had. She was still in shock when he drew back, looking back at her hesitantly. He didn’t seem to know that she loved this unsuspected bold side of him. She tangled her fingers in his hair to pull him back in. He seemed surprised at first, but his hands quickly ran up her back to draw her nearer. She could have expected to feel anything from kissing George. Awkwardness, shyness, a few days ago she would have completely rejected the idea. She certainly wouldn’t have expected it to feel so right. His hands seemed to fit the small of her back like puzzle pieces locking perfectly in place. She was surprised at how quickly she had come to wanting more. She needed him, all of him, impossibly closer. She circled his hips with her leg while her hands roamed down his back. He smiled into each kiss, leaving her lips every now and then to trail her cheeks and down her neck. She looked back at him with sparkling eyes.

“So, one condition?”

“Don’t leave. Please.”

Her smile grew bigger.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[hannibalyaoi]

every generation from now on will be near entirely reliant on the internet to learn about philosophy, sociology, and politics because schools are gutting liberal arts programs and oh my god that is horrifying

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

"Jason was the happy robin" this, "jason was the angry robin" that. Let's all be fully honest here Jason was the lonely robin

[mirrortouchedsea]

dark. that was all he had ever known. cold, dark, damp. the boy shivers in the small room, painfully alone, only a book and his magic to keep him company. he tries not to use his magic very often, though. it seemed that the people above knew when he used it and they always always always refused to give him food until he “woke up” next, if they bothered to keep track of that. maybe this time he’ll learn their lesson. the boy whispers his spell, cur memini, and creates a small light in his fingers. this is the only spell he can cast safely, too small to be noticeable by the people above. he holds his hand over the fading book on the floor. the boy can’t read the letters on the page, but this book has pictures. he flips through it again, careful of the pages that were falling apart, admiring the figure in armor who always comes to rescue the figure in the tower, cut off from the world, just like him. the boy frequently dreams of a figure in armor coming to save him, despite the years he has spent alone. dark and cold and damp. 

the room the boy lives in, the only room he has memories of, is empty besides himself and the book. sometimes the people above would give him water and stale bread to eat, and then there was a cup and a dirty plate, but otherwise it was just the boy and the book. the boy knows why the people above have locked him away, they told him that he was a freak of nature, unnatural, dangerous. but the boy could only make lights in his palm, and that wasn’t very dangerous at all. he thinks to himself that the people above are the dangerous ones, locking away a child for something like this, but he can’t say that out loud. he doesn’t want to die again. 

the boy’s stomach grumbles and he curls in on himself, the light in his palm fades out. he longs to see the sun again, to play with the other children he can hear through the ceiling, to be normal. the people above must have decided to punish him again, though, as he doesn’t remember the last time he had anything to drink, to eat. his stomach would eat through his skin and he would still wake up the next day. why can’t he just die once and for all and be rid of the pain? why is the world keeping him here? why was he even born?

the boy closes his eyes, and falls asleep. maybe this time it won’t hurt so much. 

--- 

how long has he been here? the boy doesn’t keep track of time. he knows he’s died at least a dozen times, but how long does it take for a dozen lifetimes to pass? 

--- 

a clattering on the floor wakes the boy up. the people above decided he can eat today. stale bread and water again, but better than nothing to the boy. he crawls closer to it, listening to the door. it closes and the voices disappear. where was the sound of the lock? did they forget? 

the boy scarfs down his food and water before tiptoeing up the stairs. he doesn’t hear any voices, but he needs to be careful. he doesn’t remember what the above looks like, but he needs to leave. he needs to be free. 

slowly, quietly, he opens the door. it’s dark on the other side of it, but still much, much brighter than his room ever was. he closes his eyes but keeps the door open. breathe in, and out. opens his eyes again, blinking the brightness away. pushes the door further open. steps on the hard ground outside the door. he’s so close. closes the door quietly. turns around and holds his breath. where was outside? pick a direction and go. his legs hurt. turn the corner, listen for voices. voices are dangerous, get away from the voices. whisper his spell, create a small light. keep moving keep moving keep moving. window ahead. break it? open it? is he strong enough? lift the window up. too weak. voices coming. hurry hurry hurry must get out now. whisper spell again, hand on window. break the glass and jump through it. cuts on feet cuts on legs deal with that later. voices getting louder voices shouting. run run RUN. 

the boy runs away from the building, away from his room. freedom is so close. first get to the trees, then… he hasn’t thought that far, but he will find a way. gunshots from the house. he runs faster, must get to the trees, must hide, must be free. cur memini, he whispers again, crossing into the forest. his spell can make lights and now break windows, but he needs it to protect him at this moment. run run run until the voices are quiet again. his legs are giving out, but he needs to run. he can’t die now or they’ll find him. keep running. bare feet on sticks and stones and sharp things, everything hurts but he can’t stop. he keeps running until the sun comes up. his heart beats out of his chest. 

--- 

when he wakes up he doesn’t know how much time has passed. his heart beats fast and he sits up. did they find him? he looks around. trees, rocks, a gurgling stream. he’s free. he’s free. he sighs and lays back down. how far did he run? he needs to go further. away from other people, away from anyone who might lock him up again. he sits up again and forces himself to stand and walk towards the sound of the stream. he can start there. water is important, and he might be able to get food from the little stream too. 

his first drink of the stream water is icy cold, quenching his lifelong thirst in just a few swallows. he washes his face with it, removing years of sweat and grime. he wants to sit by the stream forever if only he could, but the people will find him eventually if he doesn’t keep moving. but he allows himself a few minutes to bathe in the water, savoring the feeling of water on his skin. his stomach still growls, wanting something more filling than the freezing water of the stream, but that would have to wait. he needs to get his bearings. 

the light of the outside world is almost blinding, he realizes. the sun and the snow made it almost impossible to see anything. he should get up above the trees. can he even do that? cur memini, he says, trying to get his voice to be louder than a whisper. his feet float a few inches above the ground. he closes his eyes and says his spell again with more conviction. Cur Memini. he feels himself shooting into the air before he opens his eyes. he can see the forest stretch out for miles around him. trees covered in snow in every direction. if the old house is behind him, he should fly straight ahead, towards the forests on the mountains. tentatively, he leans forward and focuses his magic on keeping himself afloat. 

it doesn’t take much to exhaust what little magic he has, but he’s put more distance between himself and the old house and the people above now. he should be safe to rest, truly rest. but first he should find something to eat. is there anything to eat out here? something in his head tells him to look a little closer to the ground. to his left. there’s a bush full of berries. he’s never had anything but stale bread, and doesn’t know what to expect as he crushes one with his teeth. 

the sensation overtakes him for a brief moment. the berry is sweet, yet tart, and delicious. it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten and he thanks the little voice in his head for the information as he picks several more berries from the bush. the juice runs down his chin and makes him sticky, but it feels good. he feels truly alive for the first time. 

once he’s finished picking the bush clean of its fruits, he needs to find a place to rest, to stay warm. he’s shivering in the intense cold of the north, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. the room was never very warm after all. he listens to the little voices calling out to him, guiding him towards a small cave, instructing him on how to make a small fire to warm himself up. a small rabbit brushes against his leg and he swears one of the voices is coming from it. and with the fire going, he thanks the rabbit before it hops away back into the snow. he would be roasting that same rabbit over the fire a few months later. 

the boy can’t stay in the cave forever though. as days turn to weeks turn to months, he worries that the people above are getting closer to him. they’ll put him back in that cold, dark, damp room again. he needs to keep moving. he has been practicing his magic, casting stronger spells, and he needs to be ready to fly. it's been long enough. cur memini he says holding his hand out. a rough stick with twigs tied to the end flies into his hand. it’s a poor excuse for what he understands is a broom, but it will work. he climbs onto it and focuses. cur memini cur memini cur memini. he lifts off the ground and watches as the branches of the trees get shorter and eventually he passes above the treetops. 

he takes a moment to gather his bearings. he no longer remembers the direction the house was in, but going up is his best bet of staying away from the people above. he laughs, realizing that he is the one above them now. after a moment, he flies into the mountains. the small voices change into bigger, unfamiliar ones as he gets further into the mountain range. they tell him to hide, to stay away. he doesn’t listen. they cannot be more dangerous than the humans he is running from. 

the boy lands, still exhausted from using so much magic, but he was able to travel further this time. that has to count for something, surely. he gathers some sticks and looks for another cave to make his home in. the caves remind him too much of the room he left, so he chooses to stay close to the entrance, close to the light that reminds him he is free. the fire keeps the animals away, but the voices are curious about the new presence in their woods. they make him curious too. he should stay in the cave tonight though and regain his energy. maybe he can get some small game to fill his stomach before settling in for the night. he listens for a rabbit’s voice, or maybe a squirrel, anything that would be small enough to kill with his hands. 

at last, a small fox’s voice is heard nearby. he wonders if fox will taste different from the other game he’s eaten thus far. he lifts a hand-sized rock and slinks out of the cave towards the voice. it takes a few minutes to find the source, but the fox is curled under a tree, shivering, hungry, just like him. the boy hesitates before bludgeoning it and slinging the corpse over his shoulders. there are more foxes. he is much more important. 

the fox is only the first animal he hunts in those mountainous woods. he spends several years in that forest and eventually humans settle up there as well. the boy, or rather, the man now, has made a name for himself amongst the human populations of the north. he is no longer afraid of humans capturing him and locking him up. they are still terrified of him, but now he is in control of that terror. the hunters that left his territory alive whispered tales of the great wizard owen who inhabited the mountains and terrorized anyone who had the bad luck of running into him. 

all of this is perfectly fine with owen. eventually his reputation will grow beyond himself, encapsulating atrocities that were impossible for even someone as strong as oz to commit, but that would be a problem for future owen. for now, he is still young and living in his cave on the outskirts of a small village and scaring hunters who stray too far from their boundaries. the wolves don’t like these visitors either and gladly listen to owen’s lamentations. it keeps his hands clean of the bloodshed if he isn’t casting the spell himself. the wolves don’t care for owen either, but they respect him. and that is enough for owen. 

the first of the unwanted visitors was a young man, someone who wanted to provide for his family. he pleaded with owen and the wolves to let him go and he wouldn’t cause any problems. those pleas fell on deaf ears though as owen looked the man in the eyes. won’t your family be disappointed, he asked almost innocently, you don’t have anything to show for your efforts. the man stammered a response, they’d rather i come back alive with nothing than die trying to find food. is that so, owen reached out for the man’s chin, the distance between their faces was almost nothing. y-yes, sir, please just let me go and i won’t bother you anymore. owen grinned. oh i’m sure you won’t be causing us any trouble again. the wolves stalked out of the woods, drooling at the prospect of tearing a piece of that man for themselves. owen snapped his fingers, and they came running forward, only to stop mere inches from the now trembling man. there was a suspicious yellow stain in the snow beneath him. p-p-please sir, anything you ask, it’s yours! then make sure you tell the rest of your little village that this forest belongs to the great wizard owen. the man ran off, leaving behind a hunting rifle and a ratty sack. the rifle would be of use, but the sack became tinder for his fires. 

despite the warning from that first man, hunters continued to enter into owen’s territory. and one after the other, they ran off screaming with their tails between their legs. this should have annoyed owen, that people would ignore all of the warnings and stories that had started popping up about him, but it doesn’t. their fear feeds into his magic power, only making him stronger, and that is all fine with owen. he is no longer a weak child locked in the damp, dark basement, and he never will be again. 

[coridallasmultipass]

Vent/grief

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[literaryscribs]

Can I just say that I wish, I really really wish, people would quit calling 20-24 year old characters "bad" or "childish writing" for literally just... ACTING THEIR AGE?!??! Doubly if they have a disability or are specifically coded to be autistic, adhd etc.

Seriously? Is someone out there seriously implying that everyone magically matures into a grizzled, emotionally constipated war veteran the second a 19 year old crosses the threshold into their noughties?

Think real damn hard on things you did when you were younger if you're older currently. We've ALL done cringe stuff that keeps us up until the wee hours of the morning in embarrassment. Whether it be something we said or clogging up someone's toilet, puking all over the place because we partied too hard or sent literal car parts flying because you were learning to drive. You don't just snap your fingers and BAM! YOU'RE MATURE! CUE THE CELEBRATIONS!

Maturity comes from life experiences, the good times, the cringe moments and the failures. Not age. Otherwise you wouldn't have kids/teens behaving way beyond their years due to ongoing and consistent abuse/neglect, nor childish adults trying to relive their teen years at their 'prime' at the very least.

I don't care if it's a fantasy game or if it's set in the future. If a character is 21/22 I *expect* random stupidity, foot in mouth moments. I expect them to be over confident or make poor decisions at times. That's prime time to be figuring your own identity out, making yourself standalone, supporting friends via learning from said mistakes and experiences they've had. It's not supposed to be smooth or perfect.

[l0v3c0r3e]

we should all be ready for the amount of people that are going to claim to have "spoilers" as filming starts

[fantabulisticity]

Welp. I came home sick from work because my cough is worse today and a little lower in my chest. Wearing a mask gave me some humidity to breathe, and that helped a bit, but I took it off when I got home and now I'm coughing again. I'm going to take a hot bath and breathe in the humidity for a while.

[aster-daydream404]

I just woke up and now im having a panic attack because some overfried orange bigotted dictatorial asshole (and a bunch of red elitist capitalistic shitheads) was given too much power and now they’re starting to try and fucking axe literal safe spaces for queer people and minorities on the fucking internet as long as the base of operations are in their fucking country……..

And the thing is its just the start too…