#manic x surge

[hybeana]

Another commission for @wintershub !! this was so awesome to do. i love green punks

alternate versions under the cut!

i had a watermark on it but i think i forgot to turn that layer back on before exporting. and honestly im too lazy so.......!

[determination-personified]

Surge is getting hit on? Don't mind Manic suddenly resting an arm on her shoulder as he joins this conversation, "Who's your friend?" // @already-know-this-story

if there was one thing HATED, it was some rando coming up as if they were all buddy-like. it was taking everything in Surge not just punch the fucker in the throat she probably would have if Manic hadn't come by.

ear giving a small flick, blue hues switch from him and the stranger before giving an audible scoff "Ain't no friend of mine."

[adragonprinceswhore]

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)wife

Chapter VII: Landslide 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Life goes on, even with a broken heart. Can you and Aemond move forward as bandmates, and not partners?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, smut, feral lovemaking, P in V, toxic family dynamic, angst

Word count: 5000

A/N: As always, thank you so much for helping me my lovely Justine @theoneeyedprince 🩵

You dismiss another call from an unknown number with an annoyed flick of your finger and continue reading the document in front of you, eyes scanning over the deed poll forwarded to you by your solicitor.

Back to only carrying your maiden name. Targaryen officially removed.

It’s strange, like the marriage never happened.

You can’t decide if the thought is comforting or devastating. What would your life be like if you’d never met Aemond? No fervid passion. No ruinous heartache.

Last year, you couldn’t imagine a day when you wouldn’t be by his side. The man you called family. Your husband.

It’s official. You’re not family anymore.

Aemond’s voice is hushed as he speaks to his grandfather out on the balcony. He’d asked you to wait in the living room as he took the call, but not being by his side makes you feel restless.

You knew Otto would be ruthless; stooping impossibly low in order to make Aemond rethink his decision to leave the firm to pursue the band full time.

He finally emerges from the balcony, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and face hollow. You shift your body slightly on the sofa, bringing your arms out so he can sit down next to you and fall into your embrace.

He does exactly that.

Your fingers come up to comb through his hair as you gently ask, “What did he say?”

Aemond just sighs as he moves to hide his face in the crook of your neck, arms leisurely placed around your waist.

You already know the answer.

That he was ashamed of having a quitter for a grandson. That Aemond will never amount to anything without his grandfather. That he’s too intelligent to think that pursuing a band could be a viable career path.

“What do I do now”, he mumbles defeatedly against your skin.

You tap his cheek lightly with the tip of your finger to make him look up at you.

Your eyes lock, and you place your hand on his cheek, gently stroking your thumb over his cheekbone,

“I am your family now, Aemond. We’ll always have each other”

You seal your reassurance with a kiss, and he eagerly reciprocates, pushing himself up to hover over you. You sink further into the sofa cushions as he surges down to kiss you again.

And again.

His kisses are slow and forceful, nearly sucking the soul out of you, leaving you breathless.

You soon find yourself in your shared bed, Aemond arms still wrapped tightly around you.

He lets his forehead down to rest against yours, and gazes into your eyes with an almost manic stare as he whispers,

“You’re my everything”

Each of his kisses, touches and whispers echo the devotion he feels for you, and warmth spreads like wildfire in your chest. This must be what it feels like to have someone love you entirely.

When the two of you become one, he rolls his hips against yours unhurriedly, sending pleasurable sparks through your body. It feels so, so good all you can do is moan, and you bring one hand up to grab a fistful of the hair at the back of his head, smashing his lips against yours in a messy kiss.

The only sound in the room, in the entire flat, is your matching breaths as you entwine pants and moans, lips never leaving the other��s.

You can hardly form a coherent thought as each of his thrusts makes his pelvis press against your clit,

“Don’t come yet”, he breathes into your mouth and kisses you again. You nod obediently.

He turns you so that you're on your side and lays down right behind you.

His large hand caresses the smooth skin of your thigh before grabbing your flesh, draping your leg over his hips as he begins to rut into you, a bit harsher than before.

You reply with a moan, letting him know how good he feels. Your hand searches his, still on your thigh, and you hold onto it for some stability as your body jolts forward with each harsh snap of his hips.

He goes harder, thrusting into you with his face pressed to you cheek, mumbling in your ear,

“Feels so fucking good, baby”

You moan again and move your face slightly to place another wet kiss on his cheek. They’re flustered, and the top of his ears are almost as red as his face. There’s a determined look in his eye that wasn’t there before, fiery in a stern way that doesn’t quite match your passionate love-making.

Using his arm for leverage, he lifts his body slightly, fucking you harder and harder. Your body gets pushed into the mattress and you find yourself on your stomach, one hand sneaking down to rub circles between your thighs. Aemond grunts as your walls clench down on his length, his face now shielded in your hair.

“I’d fucking die for you, you know”, he grits out, continuing his merciless pace.

Though your peak is nearing rapidly, rendering your brain nearly useless, you feel like something’s not right.

He sounds angry.

You turn your head from where it’s pushed into the mattress. He looks deranged; hair falling in front of his face and pupil blown wide, eyes filled with something you can’t really decipher.

But it’s not purely lust.

You call his name and bring your hand up to stroke his cheek, searching for his eyes. He keeps his gaze on your body, refusing to look up and meet your concerned frown.

“Aemond, are you okay?”

He dismissively grunts at your question, but slows down and finally meets your eyes.

Is he upset?

You’re not sure what’s going on, but you see that sadness reflect in his eyes; the same vulnerability that pops up whenever he feels threatened.

When he feels like he might lose you.

It’s usually obscured by anger, but now it seems too potent for him to suppress.

Staring into his seeing eye, you console him,

“I love you too, Aemond”

His expression falls.

His eyes shine with sadness.

It makes you sad too. If he’d only let you in on what makes him like this, you could help him; reassure him that whatever it is he fears won’t come true. But he doesn’t let you in.

And all you can do is watch.

The movement of his hips falters, and he says nothing, only breathes heavily.

The hand you have resting on his cheek slowly travels down to his chest, and you push him gently, gesturing for him to lay down on his back.

He follows your silent instructions without protest.

You turn around and move one of your legs so that you’re straddling him, hands resting on his chest. You slowly sink down on his cock, feeling whole again as it stretches you out in the most perfect way.

You moan and throw your head back, setting a slow, steady pace. Your hips move up and down, front and back.

Aemond’ s hands squeeze your hips harshly as he matches your rhythm, bucking up into you, losing himself to pleasure once more.

“You feel so good, baby”, you tell him, pace never faltering,

“No one could ever make me feel as good as you do”

He moans, one hand moving from your hip to your breast, cupping it and pinching your nipple between his fingers.

You sigh in pleasure and lay down on top of him, hands moving to cup his face. Your thumb strokes the marred side of his face, and you notice his gaze flickering away from yours. With a persistent grip, you push on the side of his face to make him look into your eyes again,

“You’re mine. And I’m yours”

Your lips meet his, and the kiss you thought would be slow and sweet turns heated as Aemond harshly grabs your body again, arms wrapping around your waist. He bucks up faster, fucking you harder, and with a startled, pleasure-drunk cry into his mouth, you abruptly peak. He follows with a loud groan, and moves his face to the crook of your neck again, just like earlier in the evening.

He holds your body securely against himself, and after a while, you try to pry his arms away and get off him, but he just mumbles into your neck,

“No, please”

You lay your head back down and close your eyes. Aemond is deadly silent, but you feel his breath against the skin over your collarbones, and something wet slides down the hollow of your neck.

Shut out and without being allowed in, you try to soothe him the only way you know how,

“I love you”

Two days have passed since your live show in Winterfell, and your phone won’t stop buzzing with incoming calls from unknown numbers.

You know they’re from journalists hoping to get a comment from you about the performance and your new song, the drama of it clearly being about your ex husband fuelling their thirst for gossip.

You’d spent the time since the concert in isolation, essentially doing nothing besides watching TV and eating takeaway in your hotel room.

You left Winterfell yesterday, boarding an overnight flight to Oldtown for your next show.

Today, you’ve finally found a reason to get out of the hotel room, planning on an afternoon looking around the vintage shops that are scattered around the narrow cobblestone streets of the quaint town.

You spend nearly an hour in your favourite boutique; a hidden gem a few minutes away from one of the more famous shopping streets of the city.

When you and Aemond were still together, you often came to Oldtown to visit his mum. Seeking some familiarity after her husband, Viserys Targaryen, passed away, she decided to move back to her hometown and hasn’t left since.

Alicent thrived in the town she grew up in, and whenever you came to visit, she eagerly showed you around all the places she’d frequented with her friends as a young girl.

Aemond, in turn, had shown you his favourite spots as well; bookstores, record shops, and organic coffee shops. You remember that one time he tried to convince you that the all-natural, no sugar brownie he’d ordered tastes just as good as the real deal. The face of betrayal you made as you took a large bite of the brick-flavoured monstrosity he’d dared call a brownie caused Aemond to release the most out-of-character belly laugh you’ve ever heard.

The memory still pulls your lips into a smile.

Stop it!

You try to shake your head in a feeble attempt to erase the train of thought. You need to make new memories here now.

Memories not tainted by him.

The last rays of sun for the day shine through the gaps between the ancient buildings cramped together on the streets when you decide to make your way back to the hotel. You pull out your phone to type in the address, still not familiar with navigating Oldtown on your own. The map on your phone shows that it’s a 15 minutes walk along the water to your destination, the perfectly idyllic end to a quite okay afternoon.

The sun quickly sets behind the stoney, worn houses surrounding you, and street lights illuminate your path as you walk, enjoying the calmness of the rather large city. Most people have returned home as darkness envelops the streets, leaving you alone on your way back.

You turn to walk down one of the sidestreets towards the hotel, when you suddenly feel a hand on your shoulder, pulling you out from your thoughts.

You abruptly stop and look back, catching the gaze of a man you’ve never seen before. He smiles at you in a way that makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand.

Still with his hand on your shoulder, he asks,

“Aren’t you the singer from Dragon Dreamers?”

“Yes”, you reply, unsure of how to assess him. There’s something in his intense stare that causes unease to chill you from within, yet you appear to be frozen in place.

You have been approached by fans on occasion before, but never alone in a somewhat unfamiliar city.

“I’m a huge fan. This might be a bit forward, but could I take you out to dinner?”

The hand he has placed on your shoulder squeezes your flesh over your jacket. His eyes are expectant, not blinking, and his voice is slightly strained, adding to your already uncomfortable state.

“Thank you, but I’m on my way back to my hotel, and-, I-, I need to get back”

Your answer is hurried and clumsy, and you hope the stranger will understand your discomfort and leave you alone.

“Oh, where are you staying?”

His eyes light up when he adds,

“I can walk with you”

“That’s kind of you, really, but not necessary, I’m okay. Thanks”

You try to hide the dismissal behind a veil of politeness, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave you alone.

You turn around to walk away, almost stumbling over your own feet as they move quickly over the cobblestoned streets.

The man doesn’t say anything else, but you notice him in the corner of your eyes. He starts walking in the same direction as you, only a few steps behind. He’s close enough to keep you within his sight, far away enough for it to seem innocent.

Is he going to hurt you?

Your heart beats faster.

Force himself into your hotel room?

You can hear your heart drumming in your ears, panic washing over you.

You don’t dare to look back at him, afraid that he might take it as another invitation to engage you in conversation, but he stays in the corner of your eye; like an ever-looming monster.

Luckily, there’s a small group of people walking ahead of you, oblivious to the fact that you’re being followed by an unknown man.

What would he do if they weren’t here?

Your steps grow quicker.

You glance at your phone; still a 10 minutes walk until you reach the hotel. The man behind you speeds up his footsteps as well, matching your pace while staying a few metres behind you.

You’re still too scared to look behind and properly face him. The small group of people walking ahead of you look like they might turn by a sidestreet at any moment, and fear pierces your heart at the thought.

Then you’d be alone. With him.

Maybe there’s a corner shop or something around here where you can pop in and spend enough time for him to get bored and leave?

Or maybe you can call someone to come and meet you?

Looking up at the buildings surrounding you, you realise that you recognise this street.

This is the area where Alicent lives.

Maybe he’s staying there?

Before you can think any further, your fingers press on the screen of your phone, going into settings, unblocking the familiar number before pressing the little telephone icon.

You hear two signals before the call is cancelled.

Fuck! Now he ignores your calls?

Your fingers move quickly as you type out,

“sorry someone’s following me I’m walking home please pick up”.

Barely a second passes before your phone buzzes.

“Hi! Yes, I’m just around the corner, can you see me yet?”, you ask in a way too hurried tone, ruining your own attempt at sounding casual.

Your voice is loud and high-pitched as you try to signal to the man behind you that someone’s coming to meet you.

Hopefully he’ll give up his pursuit and leave you alone.

“What street are you on?”

You can hear Aemond shuffling around on the other side; picking up keys and putting on his shoes.

You look up at one of the buildings, reading the name of the street,

“Yes, I’m standing on Gardener Avenue, where you told me to meet you”, you continue to babble, hoping the shadow behind you will finally stop following you as it appears you’re about to meet someone.

“Do you remember the way to the apartment?”

“Yes"

“Walk towards it, I’m coming out to meet you. Stay on the phone with me”

Aemond sounds calm, but there’s something urgent hiding in his stoicism.

“Yes”

The conversation dies out. You’re not really on small-talking terms, so trying to fill the silence between the two of you proves tricky. Despite the silence and awkwardness, the panic that had been sprinting within you seems to ease knowing that Aemond is there.

The group in front of you eventually turn down a sidestreet, and in the corner of your eye, you see the man behind you walk faster, coming closer.

Another wave of fear crashes over you, and your heart beats so fiercely your chest hurts.

Is Aemond coming?

Maybe if you pretend to see him, you’ll finally be left alone.

“I think I see you!”, you exclaim in vain, hoping the man behind you won’t see through your lie.

He’s right behind you, so close you can hear his laboured breaths. You can’t breathe.

But then, you see the familiar silhouette of a tall man with broad shoulders appear in quick and confident steps around a corner.

The unknown man behind you seems to retreat in an instant, but it doesn’t stop Aemond from calling out,

“Were you fucking following her?”

He’s gone before any further confrontation. Left is you and Aemond, alone on a dark, empty street.

Closing your eyes, you try to take a few deep breaths to ground yourself, still feeling unnerved from what had just happened.

Breathe in.

Hold three seconds.

Breathe out.

Hold three seconds.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t open your eyes.

You can’t look up at him, knowing that the flicker of hatred in his eye as he regards you will push you over the edge; push you to release the tears that have been waiting to spill since the strange man first laid his hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, just need to get back to the hotel”, you mumble and inhale deeply once again to ground yourself.

It doesn’t help, not really.

The lump in your throat feels like a painful stone blocking your airflow.

You feel Aemond step closer to you, tenderly placing a hand on your elbow as he silently waits for you to continue.

You reluctantly open your eyes to look up at him, surprised to find his face reflect gentle understanding. The unexpected act of kindness pushes you over the edge and you let out a shaky breath as you feel the pent-up tears spill from your eyes,

“Sorry, it’s just-, I mean, nothing happened, but…”

One of your hands comes up to wipe away the tears that slide down your cheeks.

“Something could’ve happened”, Aemond finishes for you. He sounds like he usually does; stoic, but you can sense the hint of sympathy there.

“Sorry for calling you so suddenly, I shouldn’t have-, I didn’t know who to call…”

The words tumble out of your mouth ungracefully, matching the hurried pace of your still frightened heart.

“Don’t apologise”

He squeezes your elbow softly in reassurance,

“Come back to mum’s place with me”, he says, “It’s just around the corner”

“No, really, I’m fine! Nothing happened and I need to rest before tomorrow’s show”, you explain as more tears slide down your cheeks.

Fucking stop crying.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now. Come up, just for a cup of tea to calm your nerves. Please?”

Aemond’s voice is more gentle than you remember him capable of.

Defeated, you reply with a silent nod and let him lead you back to his mum’s home.

As you step into Alicent’s lavish apartment, you're hit by nostalgia so potent it makes more tears well up in your already damp eyes.

Everything smells the same.

Everything looks the same.

“Is she here?”, you ask, voice small and unsteady.

“She’s out having dinner with Cole”

Aemond takes off his shoes and neatly places them on the shoe rack. He moves to the kitchen to fill the kettle and you follow closely behind, discreetly sweeping the back of your hand against your cheek to wipe away the tears that keep sliding down.

Fucking pull it together!

Aemond flicks his hand towards the chair by the small, round table in the corner of the kitchen; the breakfast nook where Alicent would serve coffee and fresh bread in the morning whenever you stayed over.

It’s all so familiar, yet being here feels so different; almost taboo. Like you’re not allowed here anymore.

You sit down and place your hands on the table, nervously tapping your fingers together as you wait for Aemond to bring the tea over.

He places the flower-patterned cup with gold details by your restless hands and sits down in the chair opposite yours,

“Drink”, he encourages and takes a sip from his own cup, seeing eye watching you intensely.

You pick up the cup, experimentally sipping, letting the hot beverage warm you from within.

It’s comforting.

“Do you really tell yourself I never loved you?”

Aemond’s sudden question takes you by such surprise, you nearly choke on your tea.

Your eyes dart up from watching the cup in your hand to watch him. His expression is as calculated as always; not letting you in on what he’s thinking. Still, his voice is gentle, like it’s been since he came to your rescue.

“I-”, you begin, trying to come up with an answer to his absurd query.

Why is he asking you this now?

“I mean, sometimes it felt like you didn’t love me”, you answer truthfully, carefully observing his reaction.

He gives nothing away as he hums in response.

“You seemed miserable being with me”, you add, wondering if this is the long overdue heart-to-heart both of you have been avoiding.

“Sometimes I was”, he replies matter of factly.

You’re not surprised by his response, not really, but having your suspicions confirmed allows you to prod further,

“I guess I just wonder whether you loved me, or just the idea of me?”

You know you’re poking a resting bear, but you can’t help yourself. You need to know what he thinks about all of this.

About you.

Aemond doesn’t blink when he answers,

“You were my first love”

You feel that all too familiar lump in your throat reappear.

“It was all so new to me, caring about someone so much. Someone who’s not family. I didn’t know how to handle those feelings”, he admits and you have to stop yourself from letting the astonishment you feel from his confession show on your face.

It’s quiet for a while. You are too shocked by Aemond’s sudden introspection, and he’s still cautious about opening up, observing you expectantly.

After a few deep breaths and some soothing tea, you speak up,

“I know things have been hard for you Aemond, and I-, I really tried to understand you. But my sympathy for you wasn’t endless… It-, I ran out”

You really don't want to fight, you don’t think you could handle it in the state you’re in now, but being honest with your ex husband always came with the risk of him lashing out.

He sighs, leans back, and locks eyes with you,

“I know. Thank you for… trying”

And that’s it. The conversation dies, like it’s run its course. Just like your relationship.

Aemond calls a taxi for you to bring you the short distance to the hotel. Both of you stay in your seats, waiting for your ride in silence.

There’s still one thing you need to tell him.

“I really want this to work, Aemond. The band, I mean”

Aemond hums in response again, finger tapping rhythmically against the top of Alicent’s kitchen table,

“Me too”, he replies after some time of silence.

It almost feels official in a way, the fact that you’ve finally agreed with each other that the band comes first; even before your broken hearts.

The silence persists as you down the last of your tea.

You feel a strange mixture of emptiness and melancholy inside. It all hits you at once; the divorce, removing his name from yours, continuing on as nothing more than business partners.

It starts as a sting in your chest, but blooms out into a suffocating ache.

He doesn’t want you anymore.

And you don’t want him; can’t want him.

It does not matter how wonderful it had been at times. The pain of the heartache you caused each other weighs heavier. And there’s nowhere to go but forward, even if your heart breaks with each step.

Life goes on.

The performance in Oldtown is just as exhilarating as the previous lives had been.

The crowd is loving every second and the venue is packed.

You feel alive.

This is it.

This is what matters.

Your biggest hit from your first album, Landslide, is a permanent feature in any show you play.

You’d written it from the sidelines, watching as duty tore the person you loved most into every direction possible.

Tonight, as you stay on the stage with Aemond and your band members retreat backstage, singing Landslide suddenly feels different.

You shoot him a quick glance before approaching your mic to introduce the next song.

They’re shouting your name, shouting Aemonds name, and you think you hear someone yell out ‘the sound of the woman that loved you!’

Speaking with Aemond earlier today, when you agreed you’d prioritise the band over any dispute you had, has left you nostalgic. Singing ‘Landslide’ feels like offering a piece of your heart, the heart he had held in his palm, to him once again.

“I wrote this song about a boy who had to grow up too fast”, you say, and Aemond starts to pluck the strings of his guitar.

‘I took my love and I took it down’

‘I climbed a mountain and I turned around’

‘And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills’

'Til the landslide brought me down’

You’d never told Aemond you wrote this song about him and his grandfather.

There was never any need to. You’re convinced that he already knows it’s about them.

You can’t help but to look over at him; at the way his hands move gracefully over the guitar.

‘Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?’

‘Can the child within my heart rise above?’

Leaving his grandfather’s firm and subsequently leaving the path his entire life had led to had been tough for him, even with you by his side.

And now he’ll have to navigate this new course alone.

You still find yourself worrying about him; for the boy robbed of his vision, forced to grow up faster than most.

‘Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?’

‘Can I handle the seasons of my life?’

‘Well, I've been afraid of changin'

'Cause I've built my life around you’

He’s had to adapt; had to rethink and relearn everything before.

He will be fine.

Maybe you just worry about him because you hope, somewhere inside, that he won’t be fine without you?

A selfish wish for him to need you.

‘But time makes you bolder’

‘Even children get older’

‘And I'm getting older too’

It’s time to let go.

For the first time since the beginning of the tour, you don’t feel an urgent need to escape to the solitude of your hotel room as soon as the show is over.

You move unhurried backstage, gathering your things, looking over your stage outfits, pondering if you’ll wear the same thing each night or mix it up.

Just when you’re about to leave, you see auburn hair flash by as Alicent Hightower enters the backstage area, throwing her arms around her two children, loudly gushing over how incredible the show had been.

You go back to inspect your wardrobe with your back turned to them, suddenly feeling stiff and awkward with your ex mother-in-law in the room.

You haven’t seen her in months, not since before the divorce.

As the chatter behind you dies down, the clicking of heels grows louder before coming to a halt.

You know she’s standing behind you, one gentle hand coming up to lightly tap your back.

You turn around with a forced smile on your face.

How do you act around your ex-husband’s mother?

Alicent’s large, warm eyes shimmer as she looks you over, grabbing your shoulders to pull you in for a hug.

“Darling, what an incredible show! You were absolutely fantastic”, she compliments, smiling wide.

You smile back at her,

“Thank you, Alicent”

“How are you holding up?”

Her tone is soft, and her hands stay on both sides of your shoulders.

“I’m good”, you reply shortly, not really sure whether you should confide in your ex-husband's mother or not.

“I’m so glad you can put your differences aside and continue to work together”, she says sympathetically, but her choice of words make you wince slightly.

“And now is your opportunity to be brave. You’re both such wonderful artists. Focus on the music, alright?”

“Yes”

Your answer sounds meek. Her words send a pang straight to your heart.

It’s all so final.

It’s all over.

You look into each other’s eyes, a thousand words said within mere seconds as you feel your eyes well up with tears.

Alicent offers you a sad smile before embracing you in another warm hug.

Silent, hot tears slide down your cheeks as you mumble into her hair, “Will you take care of him?”

She pats your head, hand sliding down to stroke your hair lovingly, And then she hums, sounding so much like her son.

“Mm. Thank you for loving him”

A/N: Thank you sm for reading!

[selinay-in-wonderland]

Carnival kiss/ Pt. 2 🤡🎠🎡🎪🎭🎢🤹‍♀️🪞

Art the clown x F! Reader

(Part one ) : 👇

——————————————————————————

Weeks melted into one another, each day blurring into the next as the memory of that night at the carnival clung to you like a second skin. The kiss you shared with Art—cold, electrifying, and utterly consuming—haunted your every thought, leaving you trapped in a web of dark desire and fear.

You found yourself spiraling into a suffocating obsession, drawn deeper into the abyss of your nightmares. Each night, you returned to the carnival in your dreams, standing alone amidst the dilapidated rides and twisted attractions, the scent of rust and decay thick in the air. The laughter of children echoed hollowly, transforming into a cacophony of screams that twisted your stomach into knots.

In the shadows, Art watched. His tall, menacing figure lurked just beyond the flickering lights, his sinister smile a permanent fixture, sharp teeth gleaming with an unsettling hunger. You felt his gaze upon you, like a physical weight pressing down, igniting a twisted thrill within your chest. The danger he embodied sent shivers down your spine, yet a dark part of you craved his attention, hungering for the chaos he represented.

Every night, the dream would escalate, growing more intense, more violent. He would close in on you, stalking like a predator, his steps silent but menacing. You would try to escape, heart racing, but the carnival had become a labyrinth, with twisting paths leading you back to him time and time again. The thrill of fear surged within you as you realized he was playing a game—his game—and you were both the prey and the pawn.

When you finally encountered him, it was a brutal collision of desire and dread. He would grab you, fingers digging into your skin with a mixture of desperation and urgency, pulling you close until you could feel his breath, cold and rancid, ghosting over your neck. You could taste the metal in the air, sharp and intoxicating, the very essence of his darkness washing over you like a tidal wave.

His grip was unyielding as he trapped you against the warped mirrors of the funhouse, your reflection distorted into a grotesque mockery of yourself. In that moment, you felt exhilarated and terrified. The thrill of having him so close sent a rush through your veins. He leaned in, his eyes glinting with a manic energy that made your heart race.

Without warning, Art crushed his lips against yours, the kiss an explosion of violence and fervor that left you breathless. There was no softness in his approach—only a primal need that consumed you both. The taste of blood—yours, his, or perhaps the remnants of his previous victims—filled your mouth as his teeth grazed your lips, the sharp pain igniting a fire deep within you.

As he pulled away, you felt a rush of heat and confusion, the reality of the moment crashing down around you. You were trembling, caught in the grip of something you could barely comprehend. The look in his eyes was possessive, hungry—an acknowledgment of the bond forged in violence and bloodshed. You were lost in a nightmare, but the thrill of it left you craving more.

Art was relentless, pushing you deeper into the chaos of the funhouse. Each twist and turn brought you closer to the darkness, and each brush of his fingers against your skin sent electric shocks through your body. You felt alive in ways you had never experienced, teetering on the edge of sanity as he led you into the heart of the carnival.

Suddenly, he spun you around, pinning you against a wall of mirrors, the cold surface pressing into your back. You could see his reflection—savage, untamed, and utterly captivating. The terror in your heart twisted into an unsettling desire, and you found yourself craving the danger he embodied. Your breath hitched as he leaned in again, pressing his body against yours, the heat of him contrasting sharply with the chill of the glass.

His gloved hands roamed your body, exploring every curve, every contour with a ravenous hunger that made your skin crawl and ignite with desire. You wanted to scream, to pull away, yet you couldn’t. The pleasure mixed with fear created a intoxicating cocktail, and as he pressed against you, the lines between horror and desire blurred until they were indistinguishable.

With a sudden movement, he gripped your throat, squeezing just enough to draw a gasp from your lips. Your eyes widened as you felt the pulse of panic, the primal instinct to escape igniting within you. But instead of fear, a rush of exhilaration surged through your body. You craved his touch, the dark thrill of danger mingling with an undeniable desire that left you breathless.

Art’s eyes sparkled with manic delight as he reveled in your reaction. The thrill of having you at his mercy sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine, a savage satisfaction coursing through him as he held you captive. He leaned closer, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the heat radiating off him—a wild, chaotic energy that threatened to consume you both.

Then, as quickly as it began, he released you, stepping back and watching as you gasped for breath. The look on his face was one of twisted amusement, as if he relished in the chaos he had created. You were trembling, caught in a whirlwind of emotions that left you vulnerable and exposed.

But Art wasn’t finished. He stepped closer again, a predator drawn to the scent of his prey. The intensity of his gaze sent a thrill coursing through your body, and before you could think, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek. The moment your skin made contact with his, an electric shock jolted through you, igniting a deep yearning that you could no longer deny.

Art seized the moment, capturing your wrist in a vice-like grip as he pulled you against him. His mouth crashed onto yours once more, the kiss ferocious and consuming, leaving you breathless and dizzy. He explored you with a brutal passion, and you surrendered to the madness of it all, your heart racing in tune with the chaos surrounding you.

With each kiss, each brush of his body against yours, the boundaries of your own sanity began to blur. The dark romance blossomed in the depths of your soul, and you found yourself drawn deeper into the world of nightmares he had created. The thrill of the unknown, the ecstasy of surrendering to the monster, became your reality.

But just as you thought you were lost forever, the atmosphere shifted, the darkness closing in around you like a vice. A cold sweat broke out on your skin, and panic surged within you. You wanted to break free from this twisted embrace, yet a part of you clung to him, to the chaos he embodied.

Suddenly, the carnival began to distort around you, the vibrant colors fading to gray. The laughter turned to whispers, haunting echoes that clawed at your mind. You felt the ground shift beneath you, the funhouse warping into an endless void, pulling you deeper into the abyss.

“No!” you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat as terror washed over you. “Let me go!”

But Art’s grip tightened around you, and you could feel the weight of his presence, the intoxicating pull of his darkness suffocating you. Just as the last vestiges of light began to flicker out, the world exploded in a blinding flash of white.

You jolted awake, gasping for breath as your heart pounded in your chest. Your room was dark and silent, the shadows creeping in from the corners like a living entity. Sweat clung to your skin, and you could still feel the lingering sensation of his touch, the ghost of his kiss lingering on your lips.

The vivid images of the carnival faded slowly, but the feeling of danger remained. You shot upright, heart racing, mind reeling from the intensity of the dream. Was it just a nightmare, or was it a warning?

As you sat in the stillness of your room, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was still out there, watching, waiting for the right moment to invade your reality. You could almost hear his laughter echoing in your mind, the memory of his icy gaze sending chills down your spine.

And as the shadows danced across the walls, you realized that no matter how far you ran, no matter how hard you tried to forget, the darkness had a way of creeping back in. Art the Clown had become a part of you, his obsession entwined with your very soul. You were forever marked by that kiss—a mirror reflecting the twisted desires that lay just beneath the surface.

You lay back down, breathing heavily, the line between reality and nightmare blurred. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t over; this was just the beginning. As sleep threatened to claim you once more, a smile crept onto your lips, fueled by the thrill of fear and an undeniable attraction to the darkness that had claimed your heart.

In the depths of your mind, you wondered: Would you dare to dream of him again

[d4minnie]

Pairing: Yandere!Dabi x afab!Reader

Warnings: Non con

wc:1,080

I love dabi

MINORS DNI

"You can't hide from me!" Dabi, your captor, taunted. Waves of blue flames licked the walls and scattered debris in the alley, illuminating the shadows where you cowered. You curled tighter in the corner beneath the table, wishing for some hidden teleportation quirk to miraculously activate.

His footsteps grew louder, drawing closer. You pressed yourself harder against the wall. Sweat pooled in your palm, making it slippery as you covered your mouth.

Suddenly, Dabi stopped right in front of you. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, and you braced for the worst. Just then, the sound of more footsteps reached your ears—Dabi continued his search elsewhere. You exhaled a shaky sigh of relief, but the moment it escaped your lips, you froze in horror.

Dabi's manic laughter echoed in the narrow space. "Found you!" he shouted. You sprang up, trying to escape, but he seized you by your hair, yanking you back with brutal force.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he hissed. With a swift motion, he dragged you from your hiding spot, the rough concrete scraping against your skin as you stumbled. Panic surged through you as he spun you to face him, the heat radiating off him suffocated you.

"Did you really think you could escape?" Dabi's voice dropped to a low, almost affectionate tone, but the edge in it sent shivers down your spine. He leaned closer, breath hot and tainted with madness. "You belong to me now."

In an instant, he ignited his palm, blue flames crackling dangerously close to your skin. The heat was suffocating, and you gasped, eyes wide with terror. "I could end this shit right now," he whispered, his voice a silky promise, "but I wont."

You trembled under his gaze, utterly powerless as he revelled in your fear. With a swift, motion, he grabbed your waist pinning you against the wall. Not wasting anytime he ripped your pants off and pulled your underwear to the side not giving you time to adjust before thrusting inside. You cried out in pain, but he didn't care. "Shut the fuck up," he snapped, as he began to pump in and out of you, his grip on your waist moved down to your ass tightening with each thrust.

"You were fucking made for ah this dick h- hah?," he taunted, his pace going faster. You felt ashamed you were discretely enjoying this. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the alleyway. He kissed your neck and cheeks, giving you backhanded praises. "You feel so fucking good. Such a dirty little slut." He wrapped his arms around you his thrusts moving more erratically.

You dug your nails into his back as he continued bruising your cervix. You let out a choked plea for him to stop but as expected it fell on deaf ears. He was relentless, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel warmth building up inside you, as you desperately tried pushing it away. You felt Dabis hot breath against your ear right before he whispered "Cum."

It was like a dam broke inside you, you started squirting and blabbering in coherent words whilst he continued bouncing you on his cock. He slammed his hips even harder into yours, your body being forced further over the edge before he grabbed your hips giving you one last hard thrust before letting sticky warmth envelope your insides. As he pulled out you could feel all your liquids seep out of you. He dropped you onto the ground and you could hear him putting his pants back on before he slammed your back against the wall, pinning you there with a hand around your throat.

"This better have fucking taught you your place." His grip tightened, cutting off your breath, darkness creeping into the corners of your vision.

Just as the world began to fade, he released you, stepping back to admire the fear etched on your face. "Awe, you thought it was over?" he said, his smile a twisted mix of fake affection and menace. 

He leaned in again, flames flickering in his eyes, their glow dancing ominously. "Now let's play a little game, yeah?"

As you gasped for air, your heart pounding in your chest, he continued, "I'll give you 3 seconds to run, and when I catch you, I'm going to make you wish you were never fucking born."

[isadoresmuse]

Obsidian Desires

Warning: The following fanfiction contains mature content and is intended for readers who are 18 years old or above. Reader discretion is advised.

Reader is only referred to as “you”/ Gender Neutral.

Word Count: 737

Yandere Mafia OC x (Gender Neutral) Reader

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, enveloping the cozy little café in a warm embrace. (Y/N), a talented barista, expertly worked behind the counter, effortlessly crafting the perfect cup of joe. The bustling city of Milan provided a constant hum in the background, the perfect symphony for (Y/N)'s daily routine.

Unbeknownst to them, an enigmatic figure had taken notice. Luca Salvatore, the charismatic and ruthless Italian Mafia boss, concealed his dark allure behind a well-tailored suit. His sapphire eyes were entranced by (Y/N)'s grace and the subtle charm that emanated from every movement.

Day after day, Luca found himself drawn to the café, watching (Y/N) from afar, his desires entwining with his dangerous nature. The flicker of passion ignited within him, transforming his love for them into something sinister—a manic grip on their heart.

On a particularly busy day, (Y/N) caught sight of Luca standing by the café entrance. Their eyes met briefly, an electric spark surging through their veins. Unbeknownst to (Y/N), this fleeting connection would ignite a blaze they were ill-prepared to face.

Luca approached the counter, his voice dripping with a mixture of authority and subtle seduction. "Cappuccino, please," he requested, his voice resonating with an air of dominance.

As (Y/N) prepared the beverage, their hands trembled slightly, sensing the intensity radiating from Luca. The exchange was brief, yet it left an indelible mark on both their hearts.

Days turned into weeks, and Luca's infatuation with (Y/N) grew exponentially. He couldn't bear the thought of another man touching them, let alone stealing their heart away. His mind became a canvas of possessive fantasies, dark and intoxicating.

Luca's sinister nature led him down a path of obsession, his dangerous tendencies entwined with his desires. He began to use his power and influence to ensure (Y/N)'s safety, pulling the strings from the shadows. He dispatched his most loyal underlings to protect the café and ensure that no harm would befall (Y/N).

One evening, as the café closed its doors, (Y/N) found themselves alone, surrounded by the silence of the space. They were unaware of the lingering presence outside, the sound of Luca's footsteps drawing closer.

With a sudden gust of wind, Luca appeared in the doorway, his eyes burning with a mixture of urgency and danger. The air thickened with unspoken desire as he approached (Y/N), a predator closing in on its prey.

"(Y/N)," he whispered huskily, his voice a velvet caress against their ear. "You're mine."

Before (Y/N) could react, Luca's lips captured theirs in a consuming kiss, a passionate union of two souls tethered by fate (or was it something more disturbing that chained their lives together). The taste of coffee mingled with the hint of danger, igniting a fire within them that they couldn't resist.

Luca's world and (Y/N)'s merged in a tempestuous whirlwind of passion and danger. Love, lust, and violence became intertwined, their desires intertwined in a dance that knew no boundaries.

The café became their sanctuary, a place where (Y/N) could embrace Luca's dangerous world while still retaining their independence. Under the guise of serving coffee, (Y/N) discovered the darkest depths of love, reveling in the adrenaline that coursed through their veins each time Luca entered the homely bistro.

Yet, the sun grew hotter the closer they got and eventually started to burn; the whispers of reality grew louder. The fine line between love and possession blurred, leaving (Y/N) torn between their desire for freedom and the allure of Luca's vicious embrace. Icarus plummeted into the unkind waters below.

Luca and (Y/N) existed in a world of secrecy and sin, bound together by an unyielding passion and the ever-present danger of Luca's underworld. Their love, tainted with obsession, proved to be a volatile concoction, threatening to consume them both.

In the depths of the night, as (Y/N) lay tangled in Luca's arms, they couldn't help but wonder if their souls would forever be shackled by the intoxicating grip of their lover shrouded in crime.

And so, their journey continued, a dance of dominance and submission, fueled by their undeniable connection. Only time would reveal if their love could withstand the tempestuous storms that lay ahead, or if it would succumb to the sinister desires that lurked in the shadows of their hearts.

[screamsofanoutlawbrain]

Okay, ship time. Surge x Sonia.

The entire thing of it is that I think Surge would have no idea Sonia is related to Sonic, and Sonic is mentally slamming his head intl the wall every time his sister talks about "Her fun green girlfriend who has electric powers and a funky little teal bud!" To escape the urge to tell her that Surge isn't any good for her because Sonia is ready to kick his ass the second he says anything about it.

Manic is just watching this all go down while sipping a milkshake on the couch and not caring much. He thinks Surge just needs to chill out a bit about her hatred for his brother, but otherwise she's cool.

Cue Surge's mind exploding at the realization of Sonic being Sonia's sister, and Sonia desperately trying to not let her kill him. Instead, Surge just does the whole "Ha! I'm dating your sister!" Every time Sonic encounters her and Sonia in public.

I think the dynamic is funny, and kinda adorable.

[missybee-writes]

Shadow in the Dark: Chapter One - Cursed

Genre: Sci-fi; Romance; Horror

Warnings: (eventual) sexual content; violence; gore; swearing; alcohol and drug use.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!OC

Summary

In July ‘85, an ambitious realtor sells the crumbling Creel house to a family looking for a new start.

Rose McAllister may be living in a grand and gothic murder house in a small Midwest town, but senior year in high school is the stuff of her nightmares: a last chance at a normal school year without being the odd one out, the sick girl, the weirdo from across the pond. Blend in, make it through the year, and make some friends. Stay unnoticed at all costs.

Hawkins, and one seriously loud-mouthed metalhead, is about to flip that carefully laid plan Upside Down.

---

Chapter two: Munson Magic

Ao3 link

---

Chapter One

Rose was fucked. Some unearthly being had marked her for disaster, she was sure of it.

“This isn’t happening, this cannot be happening,” she chanted over and over to herself. “Hawkins is way too small for us to be lost. I’m cursed. And it’s not even nine a.m.”

Her mother sighed from the driver’s seat. “You are not cursed. I just took a wrong turn at the Memorial Hospital. Maybe if I loop around...”

“How do you explain the alarm clocks? You can’t blame faulty wiring this time, all of the electrics were replaced last week.” Rose gestured wildly.

This morning she had woken slow, bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed, with the gnawing feeling in her bones that something was just wrong. Something beyond the weird disorientation of being in a new bed, and a new house. Wooden beams flexed and creaked - no surprise with half the walls stripped down to boards in the remodel - and it hit her: no radio, no cheery blast of synth or guitar or whatever popular music central Indiana’s finest radio stations had to offer, drifting from the alarm on her bedside table.

One glance at the alarm clock confirmed it; grey pixels where the neon red numbers should be. Dead. Another power cut, she thought. But no, as she sat up, brain-fogged, the light from the floor lamp still glowed buttery yellow, casting a faintly pulsing light on the faces of Simon Le Bon, David Bowie, and the newest addition to the posters that covered the exposed brick wall: Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, his rumpled shirt slightly unbuttoned, fedora askew, whip hooked on his belt.

No time to ogle Indy, she’d thrown herself from bed, a clumsy hurricane tripping, hopping and falling down the winding stairs to the second storey hall. The old clock was just about visible through the walnut bannister, its gold pendulum swinging back and forth and heralding her own personal doom: seven forty six, just fourteen minutes until Hawkins High closed its doors and classes began.

“Bollocks! Fucking hell!” She’d cried out.

One alarm clock dead? Fine, no problem, plausible. But when her mother and Jerry stumbled from the master bedroom, awakened by her foul mouth instead of their own alarm clock - which also happened to be dead, despite the rest of the electrics in the bedrooms working fine - an eerie feeling of the unnatural crept up her spine. After a manic rush to brush her teeth, grab her neatly stacked books and throw on some clothes, she found the washer dryer had stopped-mid cycle, and her carefully planned outfit options all lay in a damp, musty heap in the machine drum. It only confirmed that fate, karma, whatever one might call it, was stacked against her.

“Jerry said it might be a power surge,” her mother said, eyes on the road and foot on the gas pedal. “The plant is running on a skeleton crew until they fix the new conductor...convection...honestly, I don’t understand anything he says, but it sounds important. He’s called in additional engineers from Indianapolis to help.”

Rose chewed her lip, literally biting back the dozen denials and witty remarks that came to her mind all at once. If the power had surged, the old bulbs in the lamps should have been the first to go. But Jerry was no-man’s land in the battleground between her and her mother; though her stepfather’s goofy behaviour sometimes begged for it, he was too nice to mock. After meeting her mother two years ago, he launched an all-out campaign to win her over, bringing her tapes, magazines, and a new VHS player so they could watch her favourite films together. But most of all, he made her prim and proper mother laugh more than she had ever seen, even more than when Dad was alive. Against all odds, Rose kind of, just about, liked him.

“The teachers will understand, Rosebud. It’s your first day. And besides, you’ll only be ten minutes late.”

“Exactly,” Rose’s head thumped back on the headrest of the passenger seat. “It’s the end of the fucking world.”

The streets here were endless, a thick wall of trees speeding past in a blur of green, broken by the occasional driveways of modest one-storey homes. All unfamiliar, and strange.

They turned a corner, passing bright yellow school buses, already empty and relieved of their precious cargo, but were met with oncoming traffic and a chorus of loud car horns.

“Jesus, Mum, you’re on the wrong side of the road. Right, go right!” Rose said shrilly, panic swirling in her gut and sending her voice a few octaves too high.

A sudden jerk of the wheel had the tires screeching and her stomach flipping upside-down; the car tilted as it swerved into the right lane, Rose’s fingers digging into the beige leather interior of the station wagon like a drowning man clinging to a liferaft.

“Oops,” her mother muttered mildly. She had no longer than Rose to get dressed and run out the house, but somehow she looked just as mumsy as always. Hands perfectly positioned at ten and two, not a hair out of place in her blonde bob or a single crease in her frumpy crochet cardigan, despite the chaotic driving. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to driving on the wrong side of the road. Jerry would have taken you, but he has a meeting with the Department of Energy at the plant this morning. About the promotion.”

“It’s OK. I’d rather be here with you. As much as I like Jerry, you’re my mum.” Rose said.

Hawkins High School appeared at the end of the street, its squat, single-storey front building surrounded by bikes and cars. They pulled into the parking lot, taking up a space by the front doors. Only a few stragglers remained in the lot: someone chaining up a bicycle, another girl running through the front doors with cheeks pink from exertion, a teacher with a worn briefcase.

Rose instinctively grabbed her mother’s hand, and they sat for a moment in pleasant silence. It was always like this, when mum drove her to the hospital. A minute of respite before the shitshow began.

“Ready?” Mum squeezed her hand.

Nope. Not at all. American high school, a more terrifying prospect than any hospital ward, or any of the sixth form schools at home where she would be unnoticed and normal...well, perhaps not normal, but only the sick girl, not the new kid with a different accent, with no idea how any of this worked. Too late to turn back now.

She launched herself out of the passenger door, clutching her leather satchel to her chest. “Ready.”

The shiny window of the station wagon reflected her own image back to her, a mess of long, red-brown curls that looked like a bird's nest, no time today to tame it with a brush and half a can of Aquanet. She dragged her hands through her hair in a vague attempt to tidy it up, until something else caught her eye in the reflection.

“We have to go back. The dress...I can’t wear it,” Rose said. It was faded green and floral, with a square neckline, and ending just above the knee. A bit old fashioned, maybe, and not exactly her first choice, but her favourite clothes all sat mouldy and damp in the washer dryer at home. It was bought at least four years ago, before Rose’s last growth spurt, when she really filled out. But it wasn’t the close fit of the fabric or the definite visible cleavage that had her worried.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her mother was leaning over to the passenger side of the car, brows knitted in confusion. But when she realised the source of the panic, her whole demeanour changed. Mum’s hands flew to her own chest, and she unbuttoned her cardigan hurriedly. She flung it off her shoulders and threw it to Rose out the passenger door, who swore like a sailor as tugged it over the green dress, buttoning it all the way to the top. The cardigan was shell-pink with a cream Peter Pan collar. It clashed horribly with the dress, but it covered her all the way to her collarbones.

“I'm sorry, are you Rose?” A sweet voice called out behind her. “Rose McAllister?”

Rose turned slowly. The girl behind her was a foil to Rose, hair styled, blue pastel skirt perfectly matching her eyes. She looked like she’d just stepped from a John Hughes movie in those white leather boots, scarf artfully tied at her neck. Preppy with a capital p.

“Hi?” The girl smiled weakly.

“Hi? Am I?” Rose spluttered. “Hi. Sorry, I am Rose. That’s what I mean to say. That’s me, I am she.”

Oh god. Nought to crazy in under ten seconds. It really was her superpower.

Put-together-girl smiled, seemingly not put off by the bundle of awkwardness before her, and shook her hand. “Great, I thought you’d accidentally ended up at the Middle School for a while there. I’m Nancy. Nancy Wheeler, part of the school welcome committee. If you want to say goodbye to your mom, i’ll take you to register for your classes. Janice in the principal’s office has all the forms ready for you, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Rose gave her mother a final smile. “Thanks Mum. See you at three,” she closed the car door soundly.

But nope, instead of leaving, the drivers’ window rolled down and her mother’s blonde bob leaned out the window. “Just one thing before I go...Nancy, you couldn’t point out the nurse’s office, could you?”

Nancy Wheeler paused for just a second, and nodded toward a small brick building over to the right. “It’s just there, Mrs. McAllister. It’s shared with the Middle School.”

Mum smiled as she got out of the car, and turned to Rose’s guide. “It’s Mrs. Gruber, but thank you, dear.”

“Do you have to?” Rose asked her mother through gritted teeth. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I won’t be long. I promise, Rosebud.”

Oh god, the shame. She was eighteen, not eight. Nicknames were acceptable at home, but not in public.

“Sorry Mrs Gruber.” Nancy waved to her retreating figure.

Distance. Rose sought it straight away, shiny new sneakers pounding on the cracked pavement beneath the great big tiger poster on the wall, bounding toward the door. Nothing like your mother tagging along on your first day of school to make classes seem more appealing than hanging about outside.

“So,” Nancy caught up quickly, guiding her into hallways striped orange and green. “I should tell you a little about the school. There are almost a hundred students, about seventy per year. We have band, math club, AV club, drama club, and that’s just for starters. Girls have a soccer team. Usual sports, but you should know basketball is bigger than football here. Go Tigers!” Nancy’s little cheer was lukewarm at best, but she seemed genuinely nice. “ I guess it looks a little lame to someone who just moved from England. I mean, the teachers here are good, but you’re probably used to more academic rigour, right?”

“Not really.” Rose eyed her surroundings nervously, big colourful notice boards peppered with hand-drawn signs about pep rallies, someone offering French tuition, and a whole list of dates and match times. “School is school, but I don‘t think we had as many extra curricular activities at home. Except hockey, and the pub.” And definitely not so many weird ones. In one corner, a wad of chewing gum was stuck on the board, pinning up a strange devil-like drawing, letters H E L L interrupted by a pastel yellow flyer advertising auditions for A Streetcar Named Desire. She desperately wanted to lift it up and find out what kind of hell Hawkins High School was hiding.

“Still, must be hard joining in senior year. You must miss your friends.”

“So much.” Rose lied, plastering on a smile. “I’m just calling and writing to them all the time.” Surely her gran counted. And she did call her friend Elaine from the hospital ward, when Elaine could breathe well enough to actually talk back. One benefit to being new? No reputation to overcome. A new slate, a chance to shine. If only shining didn’t involve being so visible. “Thank you for doing this, I know you probably have to, but it’s nice to not be faced with a thousand faces at once, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancy shrugged it off with a wave.

Janice in the principal’s office gave her a stack of forms, and she went through them one by one with a freshly sharpened pencil whilst Nancy filled her in on the school.

“People here are friendly, most of the time. If you want, I could hook you up with some clubs. I run the school paper and the yearbook committee. It’s a lot, but I plan on early application to colleges - i’m in this fight with my mom and dad about applying to any Ivies - and then i’ll have a lot of time in the second half of senior year. That should tie in nicely with the production of the yearbook.” Nancy was in full flow, working through all the things on her clearly enormous brain. Rose handed back some of the papers to Janice and got a schedule in return, and Nancy led her into a maze of hallways,

“Here’s your locker.” Nancy smiled, patting a metal grill whose beige paint was flaking away. “Your combination is 2-2-6-2, but you can change that anytime. Your first period is English with Mrs O’Donnell. This semester they’re working on classic short stories. Oh, you should know that homecoming is next week. I’m on the committee for that too, since Heather and...uh...a couple of the members left over the summer. And that means I’m probably on the hook for prom committee too, unless Jennifer P shapes up and actually orders the decorations. I know it’s really soon bearing in mind this is your first day, but I could probably get you a homecoming ticket, if you wanted? My boyfriend moved to California a few weeks ago, so i’ll be there stag, manning the punchbowl probably. What I mean is, I don’t know if you have a boyfriend or anything, but girls go stag all the time. Guys too.”

Rose’s face was flushing warm just listening to it. She followed Nancy with her head buzzing, her smile cracking as they stopped halfway down the hall.

“Nancy, I'm going to level with you. I only understood about half of what you said. I have this very vague understanding of the word homecoming from watching a couple of John Hughes films, but what is the difference between homecoming and prom? Isn’t it all just dancing to shit music without alcohol - something which I'm pretty annoyed about, by the way. At home the pubs will serve you from about fourteen, even in your school uniform if the police aren’t about.”

Nancy was shocked, frozen as Rose started rambling. And once she started, it was like a broken pipe, overflowing without any sign of stopping.

“What’s a yearbook?” Rose continued. “Why do you need a committee of people to make a book? College is University to me, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s early to apply, because I have no idea when people actually apply. And you said basketball instead of football, but then you also said girls play soccer...soccer to me is football, so now I'm thinking to myself, McAllister, have you been living under a rock? Do Americans call it football for boys and soccer for girls? Or do the girls get to play football, but the boys don’t - and by that I suppose I mean soccer, not your football where you have to strap on a helmet and thirty pounds of foam padding just to play a bit of bloody rugby. Because at home, girls play basketball, only we call it netball. But not the tough girls, they play hockey. God, when I think about it, everything about sports is so unbelievably stupid, isn’t it? I have no idea why it's life or death to some people. Sorry, I don’t know if you are big on sports.”

Rose laughed hysterically, “You seem really nice, and I can’t believe I'm already proving that I'm a lunatic with no social skils. I feel like I'm trapped in a film or a play and I don’t know the lines, but everyone else does. And at some point, I'm going to end up naked in front of a chalkboard whilst everyone laughs at me, and then hopefully wake up sweating in bed at home in Oxfordshire. Except this isn’t a bad dream, this is fucking real.”

Nancy covered her hands with her face, blue eyes wide with horror. Her gaze drifted from Rose to a point behind her shoulder that suddenly seemed to be interesting.

Rose’s stomach did another flip upside-down. “Someone’s right behind me, aren’t they.”

Nancy nodded. At some point during her unhinged rant they had arrived at an open door. A door to a class full of open-mouthed teenagers gawking at her, like she had three eyes or an extra head.

“Miss McAllister.” A bespectacled woman in a tweed pencil skirt and addressed her, “How nice of you to join us. I’m Mrs O’Donnell, and it seems I'll have the dubious honour of teaching you English for your senior year. Now I don’t know how you do things in Britain, but in America, we arrive at our classes on time.”

Yep, that checks out. All those years wishing for a clean slate, and within moments she’s covered it in dirt. So much for a new start.

“This is my fault.” Nancy bravely interjected. “I’m the reason she was late, Mrs O’Donnell. I just babbled on and on about school, and I didn’t even think about what I was saying. Truth is, the welcoming committee doesn’t really do that much welcoming. We’ve had one new student in the last year, and he was from Illinois. Not counting Billy...” her face clouded over for a second. “Please don’t punish her for my mistake.”

“Hmm.” O’Donnell hummed, fiddling with her tortoiseshell spectacles, clearly swayed by the appeal on Rose’s behalf. “I don’t like tardiness, and I don’t like disrespect. But perhaps I can let you off this time, Miss McAllister. Why don’t you come in and introduce yourself to your classmates?”

With a nervous apology to Nancy, Rose clutched her books and papers, and stepped into English class as gingerly as if it were Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Thirty teens sat expectantly at their tables, books spilling over desks, bags on the floor. They watched her every move , and at least half of them in some kind of sports gear. Which she just insulted, of course. If only the ground could swallow her up, or make her invisible. Anything to take her away from the thirty pairs of eyes that prickled across her skin. Yup, cursed.

A guy with a mullet and one of those fancy green jackets sniggered behind his fist. “Chalkboard’s right there. You gonna take your clothes off, or what? We can do it elsewhere honey, I wouldn’t mind a more private show, if you know what i’m talkin’ about.”

“Nice cardigan,” someone mocked. Rose’s closed her hands in fists, to stop herself from fidgeting with it. Laughter spread across the class like wildfire. Great. Just fucking great.

“Andy, I will not tell you again,” O’Donnell pointed at the lewd-mouthed jock, chalk in hand. “Talk back once more and you’ll join Mr Munson in the principal’s office. Go on then, introduce yourself Miss McAllister. I’m sure the class is just dying to hear more about you.”

Dead. She was dead alright. Deceased. Six feet under. Nancy Wheeler can write her obituary and put it in the school paper. Rose McAllister, gone, and totally forgotten. Cause of death: foot in mouth.

“Hello.” Her voice cracked. “I’m Rose. I moved to Hawkins a month ago, after my stepdad got a new job. Or, he got his old job back at the power plant. He grew up here. As for me, I Iove to read, classics mostly-”

“Nerd alert.” Quipped a girl in a polka dot blouse, just under her breath enough for the teacher not to notice. Cue more laughing from the sporty side of the class.

“I speak French, I, um, I saw Live Aid this summer in London, just before we moved out here.”

A silent pause. A peppy blonde cheerleader clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, that is so bitchin. Who was the cutest? Was it Spandau Ballet? They’re British too, right?”

Relief washed through her, almost as intoxicating as the cranberry and vodka mixers all the cool girls at home drank in the Nag’s Head. Not that Rose was often in the popular crowd, not since she got sick. “I’m more of a Queen or Bowie girl myself. Freddie was unbelievable, couldn’t take your eyes off him. Status Quo and The Who were amazing too. But...uh...Spandau Ballet, yeah. Martin Kemp is cracking to look at, isn’t he?”

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” O’Donnell quietened them down. “I see we’ve devolved into cute musicians or whatever you young people class as music these days. Settle down. We have a lot to work through before this assignment. And before you ask, Andy, it’s due next Friday, despite the interruption.”

Andy, that wonderful mouth-breathing specimen of idiot found in schools everywhere, flipped off the teacher as soon as her back was turned.

“Was Edgar Allen Poe on your curriculum at home, Miss McAllister?” She said, whilst writing on the chalkboard.

“No. I haven’t read any.”

“That’s alright, just take a seat and listen. You can get caught up over the weekend.”

The class returned to their books, and Rose fled the front of the classroom for an empty desk at the back of the room. At least this way she could wallow in eternal shame without eyes on her back. Her bag deposited on the floor, she collapsed quietly into the wooden desk, shrinking down as far as she could in the arse-numbing seat. Pencil tapping nervously on her book, until her neighbour took mercy on her and passed over a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories, pages folded over at The Tell-Tale Heart.

Shit. Not one she was familiar with. Give her Shakespeare, give her Hardy or Dickens or any of the Bronte’s - hell, even Tolkein or McAffrey or Pratchett - and she’d be talking a mile a minute about them. Poe, not really in her wheelhouse.

Minutes passed as the class read passages aloud, and talked about the imagery. She scanned the story, reading it through as quick as possible, scribbling down some notes as the class discussed it. Rose flipped over a page and found the story was over already, five punchy pages of compact gothic imagery. Concise. That was a blessing, for her first day.

Behind the battered book, something on the desk caught her eye. A grim reaper in a hooded cowl, hand clutching a gruesome looking scythe. The lines were clean, and it wasn’t just inked on the desk, it was etched, scratched into the wood with a pen or a pin or something sharp. It was good. Clearly someone found O’Donnell’s class so riveting, they turned to the visual arts instead.

“OK.” O’Donnell sighed heavily. “So what do we think about the themes? Someone? Anyone? Becky, how about you?”

Polka dot shirt girl ummed and ahed. “I guess, madness?”

“Yes, Becky. Well done. The concept of madness. Anyone else?”

A hand shot up. Jock number two, sat next to his mullet-haired buddy Andy. “I don’t know about the class, but I have some concerns.”

“What a surprise. I would ask you to share them in private, Mr Carter, but that would be a foolish hope, wouldn’t it.”

“That’s right. Mrs O’Donnell. I think my fellow classmates are counting on me to speak the honest truth, and say what we’re all thinking. I’m shocked that impressionable young minds are being asked to read this explicit material. The narrator killed someone in cold blood, and we’re being told he’s not insane, because he was careful and calm whilst doing it?” Blonde jock paused and looked around, working the crowd like a pro. “I mean, to commit murder, to hack a guy to pieces and bury him under the floorboards...that’s the worst kind of evil.

“And don’t we all deserve to spend our formative years studying something that shows the best of humanity? I don’t know about you, but I turn my mind to Psalms 141: Do not let my heart be drawn to what is evil so that I take part in wicked deeds along with those who are evildoers. Mrs O’Donnell, I say we remove this book from the curriculum. My father supports the idea, and he’s willing to take it to the school board next month.”

“Yeah, what Jason said,” Andy piped up, bumping his friend’s fist. “Let’s throw it in the trash, and the assignment due next Friday. I did like the haunted house part though, with the ghost stuck under the floorboards. Don’t know how a ghost has a heartbeat, though. Weird.”

Rose stifled a smile, and turned back down to the grim reaper on the desk. At some point in all the talk of beating hearts her hand had settled over her chest, over the cardigan covering her dress. still buttoned up. A sudden impulse had her grabbing for a red marker pen, and drawing a heart onto the desk, in the path of the grim reaper’s scythe. She was careful not to overlap the original, so the artist could scrub it out if they didn’t like the random addition to their work.

“I’m sure the school board will give it serious thought, Jason,” O’Donnell grumbled, already ground down before second period. “Any more themes in the work? Come on, come on. This will help in the assignment. Miss Buckley, are you with us?”

A girl blatantly napping on her desk in one corner jolted awake at the prodding of a neighbour, her eyes wired, and hair tousled from lying on the desk. “Themes? Right, yeah. Themes. It’s got haunted houses, and death.” The girl turned introspective, eyes glazing over. “There’s guilt, for having lived through something so scary, right? Like he did all these terrible things, and survived. He kinda wants to get it off his chest and admits to murrder straight away, which is a stupid move for someone who calls himself smart, a lot. Reminds me of a dingus I know. He’s so desperate to talk about all the creepy stuff that happened in that house, even though it will get him in trouble. Guilt just eats away at you. Yeah, definitely guilt.”

The teacher looks almost surprised. “Very astute, Robin. If you can keep awake for the rest of your senior year, you might just get an A in this class.”

“Nice,” Robin smiled. “The previously mentioned dingus will be hearing about this later. So much for the senior slump.”

Rose had little time to ponder what on earth a dingus was, as O’Donnell was talking again. “What about comparisons to other work? Does it remind you of anything we studied last year?”

Silence. It was nice and quiet in the back of the room, and being thrust into the spotlight was the last thing Rose wanted. But this was books, this was her element. Something compelled her to raise her hand.

“Miss McAllister, I realise you won’t have covered last year’s work either, i’ll set you up with a reading list.”

“I had some thoughts about this part,” Rose held up the book. “‘There came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart.’ There’s something so gothic and logical about the prose. It reminds me of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Sir what-now?” Polka dot girl muttered.

“Uh, Sherlock Holmes,” Robin added, feigning holding a microscope to her eye and pulling a funny face. “You know, its elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Yes, exactly.” Rose grinned, delighted. “Sherlock Holmes. And Lovecraft too. I think they both came after Poe, so he might have been an influence.”

O’Donnell looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, her thin lips pursed until they almost disappeared. “I thought you hadn’t read the material?”

“I just did.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to that conclusion within the space of a few minutes?”

Rose eyed her suspiciously. “Yes?”

The teacher looked down over the rims of her glasses. “It would not look good for you to lie on your first day, would it.”

“I assure you, Mrs O’Donnell, I am not a liar. Just a quick reader.”

Snickering floated through the air, disturbing the silent battle of wills stretching across the little classroom. “See? Nerd,” Becky in the polka dots said. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to be smart. My mom said you’re eighteen already, and she works in the office at the power plant. You’re a super senior.”

Desks shuffled, heads swivelled, and now everyone was staring at Rose again. Great, just bloody great.

“In case you were wondering,” Andy said mockingly. “A super senior is someone who repeats the year, cause they failed.”

“Strangely enough, I could deduce that,” Rose said bitterly.

“Enough, class,” O’Donnell tried to regain control, throwing her hands up in the air. “We are not going to discuss the intricate personal lives of our students. Save that for the cafeteria. Back to the book.”

Where was that hole in the ground when she needed it? Rose blocked it all out as best she could, focusing on the cool grim reaper on the desk. Whispers and titters floated across the room again, until Jason the preacher-in-training spoke. “Wait. I know who you are. Your dad - or stepdad, whatever - is Jerry the Goober, right?”

“It’s Gruber, not Goober,” Rose mumbled.

He slapped his jean-clad leg. “Yeah, I knew it. He was class of ‘60, same as my dad. You guys bought the old murder house on Morehead.”

Even O’Donnell stopped, making no further attempt to hold back their stampede of questions

“The creepy old place opposite the playground? Jesus, that place is definitely haunted.” “How many people died there?” “Is there still blood in the floorboards? I bet there is...gnarly.”

Her new home was five times the size of her house in England. Hell, ten times. A wrap around porch, original fireplaces in half the rooms, enough space to swing a family of cats. Three floors and a basement, each room panelled in walnut and grander than the last. True, it was a little...different. Grant, gothic, pretty much in ruins. And yes, Rose had heard there were some horrific acts in the house’s past, something she’d rather not dwell on. But it wasn’t haunted.

“Haunting isn’t real, dumbass.” A guy in a plaid cut-off shirt actually said in her defence, aimed at the one of the jocks. “People watch a lot of Ghostbusters and horror movies, it doesn’t make that shit real.”

“God damn freak,” Andy retorted under his breath. “How’d that place even get sold? Isn’t the old dude that owns it still alive?”

“Someone broke into it last year and cut themselves on a pane of glass,” Rose explained. “The Roane County Housing Board declared it unsafe, so they forced the sale. They said it was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

The bell rang out and made Rose jump, each and every teen grabbing up their books and fleeing for the door. Except Jason Carver, who stayed back for a few seconds to glare menacingly.

“Assignments. Friday.” O’Donnell cried out the door. “And will someone find Mr Munson, he needs to pick up his...never mind, why do I bother.”

---

The crush of students in the hallway moving to their next classes provided Rose with a little anonymity, and the map pushed into her hands by Nancy Wheeler, plus the small size of the school, meant she could navigate to her Chemistry class without asking for help or accidentally pissing off an entire class of peers.

Mr Kaminski’s class was far less traumatic. She said a simple hi to the room and sat down at the back once again, working diligently on a hydrocarbon pop quiz that kept the class mercifully quiet, and focused on something other than the new girl. Chemistry was hardly her favourite, but it was material she had learned long before, schoolwork splayed across the sterile white sheets of a hospital bed, one eye out the window on the world below.

Then the bell of doom rang out again, and the most nerve-wracking forty-five minutes of the day dawned. Lunch. She marched to the cafeteria like a soldier to battle, scouting out the exits, the seating hierarchy and potential to hide from enemy combatants in a corner or behind a pillar of a room.

Yes, the student body of Hawkins High School stared at her. No, they did not approach. Either the students didn’t care about the new girl, they hadn’t worked out who she was yet, or her episode this morning had spread so widely throughout the school that no one wanted to talk to her. So she swiped a tray of congealed looking meat in grey sauce and green beans, and found a spot on an empty lunch table in the corner of the room, poking at the food until her stomach calmed down enough to eat it.

The basketball team entered the cafeteria to a round of applause, their green and white uniforms lurid under the harsh fluorescent lights, smiles brittle as they cheered for some kind of game tonight in the gym. She supposed this was what happened when your first day of school was three weeks into September, on a Friday. Novelty worn off by early afternoon.

Justin from her English class held court in the centre of the room, holding a bright orange ball as he worked the room. She heard a thump, thump, thump as he dribbled it up and down by the cheerleaders’ table. They all preened as he spun it around on his finger, and it looked so ridiculous she almost choked on a slimy green bean.

Another thud, another voice, this one louder. White sneakers hit a different tabletop and plastic lunch trays bounced, an earthquake of dark hair, denim and leather, upending some poor kid’s apple and carton of milk. The guy on the table pranced about, spitting out words so quickly she couldn’t make them out. Whatever it was, his friends laughed. His voice dropped mockingly, arms flailing at the jocks dribbling balls across the room.

Denim rocker guy squatted down with the awkward grace of an alleycat, a jean chain smacking against the table, and dragged his knuckles around, grunting like an ape. His friends laughed harder, each one looking up at him as if he hung the moon.

“Eat it, freak,” Jason shouted across the cafeteria.

Denim guy grunted and beat his chest with his fists. It only enraged the jocks; the more they cursed and shouted at him, the more he responded like a monkey. Rose snorted with laughter. His confidence was off the charts, no fucks to give, shame completely absent. It was kind of hard to look away from. Magnetic, really.

“Brutal, but effective,” a voice agreed at her side. “I think that’s the longest I've seen Munson go without talking.”

Robin from English class casually leaned on her table, with a ‘I care so little about this that it's cool’ vibe about her tousled hair, check shirt and an honest-to-god tie tucked into high waisted trousers. Very Annie Hall. “Sup, new girl. What are you doing on the ghost table?”

“Ghost table?”

“The one place in the cafeteria that’s hidden from the view of the jocks table, great exit path to the doors. Yeah. I see your attempts to hide, new girl. Is it OK if I call you that, or is that totally presumptuous? God, it is, isn’t it. Stupid Robin. What about McAllister. Has a nice ring to it, kinda like a detective’s name. McAllister. Buckley and McAllister, one’s a straight-laced pencil pusher, the other’s a beat cop with a dark past who doesn’t play by the rules, together they must solve a murder...or no, old fashioned detectives like Holmes and Watson,” her accent changed to a strangled attempt at a posh accent. “The curious case of the Hawkins High murder.”

Rose beamed, watching Robin’s elbow slip off the table, the girl reeling backward and clumsily righting herself.

“Mystery solved, partner,” Rose joined in. “Victim, one Jason Carver, brutally killed in the cafeteria, bled of his dignity in front of a hundred witnesses. Suspect, one suspiciously intelligent gorilla wearing a curious sleeveless denim jacket. Murder weapon, a crude, yet cleverly executed, parody of his bestial behaviour. And in front of the cheerleaders too.”

“I knew it,” Robin slapped the table. “I knew you’d be cool. I could just tell. And I may have slept through the incident in the hallway, but several reliable sources have since told me it was crushing to the fragile male ego. I love you already. Come and sit with us, you’re not languishing here all alone.”

A flood of warmth spread through her chest. “Really?”

“Really. Come on, partner. And by us I mean Beth and Linda, we’re over here.”

Rose snatched up her tray, led by the frenetic Robin to a table by the stage, walking right around the table of jocks. Jason Carver shot her a look of...disdain? Intrigue? It was something weird, anyway.

Beth and Linda were leaning over the table, whispering in hushed voices when they arrived.

“Buckley and McAllister, reporting for duty,” Robin dropped onto the bench with a thud, saluting at her friends. “This is the legendary new girl I mentioned earlier. Rose, this is Beth Wildfire, retired goalie, with a leg so full of metal she can’t ever go near a magnet,” she waved at a brunette who sat stiffly, with her leg propped on the bench. “And this is Linda Chen, our fearless leader and captain,” she poked the lunch tray of a girl in a numbered sweater, dark hair pinned back with bubblegum-purple barrettes.

“Football girl,” Linda said appraisingly. “We heard about you. So soccer is for wimps, huh?”

Rose winced and choked on a sip of juice from a carton. “Technically, I didn’t say that. I said the tough girls at home played hockey. But everyone plays soccer at home. It’s clearly the superior sport.”

It got a little awkward after that, each of the girls finishing their lunch wordlessly.

Robin cleared her throat. “Oooh, I forgot to mention we’re the girls’ soccer team, didn’t I...” she trailed off. “All the drawbacks of using the sweaty locker rooms, none of the perks of having a letterman jacket or a sweet spot on the social hierarchy. Hey, did I mention Rose went to Live Aid this summer? In London?”

Robin’s contagious smiles and easy banter made it almost easy; the four of them spoke for half an hour and more, Rose cross-examined on her thoughts about every band from the last ten years (Wham was so overrated, obviously) to movies (anything with Harrison Ford) to fashion (in her head, a slightly more punk version of Princess Di. In reality, whatever looked passable at the time). Having the spotlight on herself was not entirely comfortable, but by the end of the lunch hour she may have just avoided being a complete social pariah.

“So,” Robin drummed her hands on the plastic lunch tray. “I admit, I had an ulterior motive in bringing you here.”

Rose braced herself. “Which is...”

“Soccer tryouts,” Linda interjected, rolling up her sleeves. “We’re seriously down on numbers this year. Two of our team were killed in the fire a couple months back...I don’t know if you heard about that.”

“Shit,” Rose said. “I’m so sorry.” The mall had devastated Hawkins just before she arrived. No small place could lose that many of its people without touching the lives of everyone in the town.

“And Veronica’s parents pulled her out of school over the summer; they moved to Maine. Said this town was cursed, which it probably is,” Linda admitted.

“Ha.” Robin croaked. “Yeah, cursed. Like...like that magic shit’s real. Nope, just a regular old mall fire. Nothin’ to see here, except a whole lotta pain and sadness. And ash. From the totally natural fire.”

Linda eyed her suspiciously. “After Beth broke her leg, we’re down to four players. I don’t think we’ll be able to field a team this season, not unless we find another player for a five-a-side. We have tryouts tonight, would you wanna maybe come?”

“Oh,” Rose’s brows raised. “I’m not sure I can. I can’t do gym this year.”

Beth looked confused. “What do you mean, you can’t do gym?”

“I have a note that gets me out of gym for the whole year. I have free periods instead.”

Robin squealed and stood up. “There’s a note to get you out of gym? For the whole year? It’s senior year...that’s all of gym, gym forever, gym never again. That’s an option? What does one have to do to get one of these notes?”

“Major health issues,” Rose said. She didn’t elaborate. It would be nice to go one full day without being sick girl. “Mum had the note signed by three specialists at the hospital, and I think the school nurse.”

Robin sat down again, flushing and averting her gaze. “Okay then, permanent gym-pass is a no-go. Damn, I was excited for a minute there.”

A thousand questions ran around in Rose’s head. “So you like soccer, but hate gym?”

“Yes, and yes,” Robin blurted out. “I can’t face that rope climbing thing one more time. I might be fast, but I have the arm strength of a cabbage and I fall over like a lot. Wait, does that mean you can’t run or move around quickly or do anything strenuous? Should we be watching you carefully?”

“Not really. I’m better, or at least I should be. It’s just my mum, she’s over protective.”

Cogs were turning in Linda’s head, and she chewed and swallowed a forkful of carrot before speaking. “So technically, you can’t do gym. But what about sports teams outside of school hours?”

“Yeah,” Robin clicked her fingers and pointed them like guns. “I love a good loophole. If it’s out of hours, it doesn’t count.”

Rose hummed noncommittally.

“Oh come on,” Robin whined. “None of the other girls want to come, and I won’t even have to explain the offside rule to you. That takes half the tryout! Otherwise it will only be me and Linda.”

Did she want to throw herself into sports on her first day of school? Probably not. In fact, she didn’t really like soccer, and she only pretended to understand the offside rule when the lads in the pub screamed at the telly, cig in one hand, pint in the other. But the vague promise of a friendship group was too strong a lure. “OK. I’m in, i’ll come to tryouts. But I don’t have a change of clothes, i’m completely unprepared.”

“Yes, McAllister!” Robin punched the air, tie coming loose from her pants. “Come to the girls locker room after last period, i’ll find you something. You know where the gym is?”

Rose hung her arms like a gorilla, imitating the rebel rocker raising hell on the table earlier. “If I get lost, i’ll follow the monkeys in letterman jackets.”

“See?” Robin walked backwards out of the cafeteria, tripping over a bench and recovering swiftly. “Knew you’d be cool.”

---

A quick call to her mother on the school payphone by the front door set it in stone. “Pick me up at seven instead of three please, I have an after school club, think I made some friends, love you, bye.” She said it quickly and slammed the receiver down, so her mum couldn't draw breath to argue or question the change in plans.

Rose nearly skipped to her first free period, immersing herself in the library like a drunk stumbling into a bar after a dry spell. She was in school full-time finally for the first time in a couple of years, and she had a year of uninterrupted studying to look forward to. Her fingers skipped over the spines of Chaucer, Austen, Shelley, until she found the works of Hawthorne, Twain, Fitzgerald and Salinger. Most of them were new to her, one of the benefits of moving across an ocean and beginning a new curriculum. The librarian Ms Miller just about died on the spot, having an avid lover of literature to speak to for an hour. Things for Rose McAllister were looking on the up.

History went by in a blur; most of her classmates were not in Mrs O’Donnell’s English class of misery this morning, so she got to introduce herself all over again, without fucking it up with an epicly bad monologue. Her other classes were fine, turns out mathematics pretty universal and if you’re good at it there, you’re good at it here too.

Two forty-five. The home stretch. Her pencil tapped the desk in agitation, thinking about soccer tryouts. Yes, she might be rusty, but she wasn’t half as weak as her mother made her out to be. And she did know her way around a football pitch, even if it was from watching the boys from the sidelines on the rare occasion she was in school and had a few friends to tag along with. This madcap plan of Robin’s might just work.

When Mr Fitz let the class out ten minutes early so he could make an appointment, she was out of her chair like a shot, peering at her school map. Right past the tiger mascot painted on the wall, through the double doors, and into a room...that was dark, and full of shelving. Ah. Definitely not the locker room.

“I just don’t know, Rob.” Linda Chen’s muffled voice sounded on the other side of a cupboard door; clearly the locker room was just next door. “She pissed off every sports team in the school within five minutes of arriving. Basketball, football, soccer...the cheerleaders just by association. If it wasn’t so damaging to me socially to be seen with her, i’d be kind of impressed.”

“Come on,” Robin whined. “I’m a grade-A klutz and I have verbal diarrhoea, and you guys like having me around, right?”

“That’s different,” the other one, Beth, reasoned. “You’re our friend. I know you’ve been a little off since Starcourt, but-”

“Off? Of course i’ve been off. I saw shit you wouldn’t believe, Beth. Forgive me if i’m not as peppy as I used to be.”

“I know you were there, Rob, but we all lost people that day. And I don’t think I have the energy to be all fake nice to this new girl, when i’m just sad and tired, you know? It’s senior year, its too late for that kind of bullshit.”

“Yeah, well clearly this was a bad idea, Forget it.” Robin spat out. “I just wanted you to be happy, but I won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

Doors slammed and voices faded. The darkness was kind of foggy and Rose couldn’t see far ahead of her, but she stood in the dark for a few minutes, still processing what she had just heard. Hopes crushed, balloon deflated. Can't say she was surprised. Don’t want too much of a good thing, that would break a lifelong pattern. Yes, she could tell that Linda and Beth were hesitant, but Robin too? The one person she formed a connection with on her first day?

She crept out of the janitor’s closet, marching toward the front doors of the school...where her mother wouldn’t be for hours, because she had just called to change her pick up time. Shit.

Rose was not above admitting she considered getting back in that closet for a moment, but that would be completely absurd. Instead she trudged back to the library, where tall bookshelves might keep her hidden and their contents keep her occupied for a few hours on a Friday evening.

A steady trickle of people were heading her way, going from classes to the gym for whatever ball-in-hoop sports stuff she had mocked and derided by accident earlier, clearly alienating the more popular half of the student body in one fell swoop.

Head down, with a notebook covering the bottom half of her face, she inched through the thickening crowd and found the welcome fortress of the library doors...closed. Open hours, eight til three.

“Motherfucker,” She mumbled.

More people streamed toward her, but Rose couldn’t face another witness to her shitty day, and ducked behind the lockers.

An unknown guy’s voice floated through the halls. “...I bet Tommy will break up with her, now he’s at community college in Cartersville. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen in college, and Carol P is yesterday’s news.”

“Carol’s hot.” Meathead Andy from English class offered. “I’ll pick up the pieces if her ass gets dumped.”

“You are such a dick.”

“Just saying what we all think, man. But i’m not counting on it. Maybe I should make a move on the new girl. She might be a nerd, but she’s got a couple of redeeming features, if you know what I mean. Probably hotter than Carol.”

“Did you ever think you just have a thing for redheads? Besides, the new girl is irritating as fuck. And she’s not exactly cheerleader material. I thought she was kinda fat.”

Andy sniggered, his voice fading as he walked away. “Nah, she was just standing next to Nancy Wheeler. Wheeler’s built like a broom handle. And I don’t need a girl to be a cheerleader, just give good head.”

The jocks slithered away to the gym, and the garish orange and green walls began to feel suffocating. She pushed hard on the library door hoping it might somehow be unlocked, but it didn’t budge. Her chest was aching, skin flushing and breathing hard. She tried another. Classroom after classroom, door after door, all fucking locked. What is this, a prison?

Her feet pounded the hallways, pushing blindly until one of the doors yielded and she burst into a darkened space. Content there was no one else around, she flung her back across the room like a discus, crashing into some kind of clothing rack, almost exploding in a puff of red velvet and pink taffeta as it dragged some costumes to the floor.

“Aaah,” the roar came out before she could stop it. Some kind of drama room, filled with dark curtains and crowded rows of props, dominated by a big table. She slammed her fist on it impulsive,, scattering some of its contents to the ground in a metallic crash.

This was as good a place as any to wither away and die, so she walked to the far corner, leaned back and slid down the wall, knees folded beneath her.

There was something comforting about defeat. At least, sitting on the floor in a dishevelled heap, she’d hit a literal rock bottom. Nowhere to go but up.

Yes, she could call home and get a ride back home within the next fifteen minutes. But that meant admitting defeat, reliving the entire experience over and over, prodded and poked by an interfering mother. She couldn’t even hope that Jerry would answer. He was far too honest to keep a secret. Nope, she was stuck here amongst the stage lights, costumes, and decaying dreams of Midwestern theatre kids until seven, which was three and a half hours away.

Plastered on the stage curtain was a sign coloured in orange and red, a cool drawing of a horned demon that looked eerily familiar. Just like the flyer from this morning. Sprawled in bold letters: HELLFIRE. Interesting.

Her velvet-lined, backlit refuge from the high school world didn’t last long. Deep voices bickered passionately in the hall, footsteps squeaked on linoleum, and the door was flung open with so much energy that it nearly popped off its hinges.

“...i’m telling you, man, the frozen lair of Iymrith is just a warm up campaign. I needed to test the mettle of you sheepies before the good stuff next semester. I had to see if you knew your ass from your elbow.” Someone breezed into Rose’s view, a mop of dark frizzy hair, just visible over the huge wooden table that dominated the room.

A squeal of laughter followed, a younger guy’s voice. “Or our class from our elbow. Get it, our class? Our characters’ class?”

“Oh my god, stop Dustin,” a third person protested. “He gets character classes. He’s probably been a DM since we were, like, toddlers.”

“Jesus, Wheeler. Crit hit. I’m not that goddamn old.” The older guy spoke, coming into Rose’s view. He stumbled backward with his hand over his denim and leather jacket combo, as if punctured in the heart. The menace from the cafeteria, gorilla boy, now sentient and walking on two legs. “But the DM in me does thrive on this servant-master dynamic, so keep the subservience coming. My ego could do with a little stroking.”

“Ew...” The ‘Wheeler kid’ moaned; he was lanky, with a grown-out bowl haircut and a grimace peeling apart his lips.

Their leader was unperturbed. He leapt onto a heavy carved chair, wobbling, arms outstretched as he balanced on the makeshift throne. “Bow down, minions. Kneel and pledge obeisance. Damn, I could get drunk off this power. I should get a crown, or something.”

“You already have a throne, isn’t that enough? Or have we birthed a tyrant?” A dark skinned guy with braces shook his head, a trace of envy in his narrowed eyes.

Rose froze like a rabbit in headlights. Her position on the floor was hidden by the clothes rack, but not hidden enough. There were more of them, a hurricane of teenage hormones, awkward haircuts and matching Hellfire shirts swirling about the table and taking off their leather jackets, setting up the table with boards and boxes and...game pieces? She had no clue what they were doing, but they had wider grins and more buzz than the all manufactured cheer in the cafeteria put together.

“Uh...Eddie?” One of the older guys says, holding up something beige and cylindrical. “Drama kids have been messing with our stuff again. I can’t find your goblet, and a couple of the candles are broken.”

“Goddamn thespians,” the rocker Eddie’s voice dropped, all gravelly and menacing. “Completely out of touch with the real world, acting out bullshit stories for the man, nothing but corporate message after corporate message. Harris is gonna know about this the next time he wants to buy off me. Touch Hellfire’s stuff, and i’ll add ten dollars to the going rate. S.A.S. Special asshole supplement.”

“I thought you had to be a girl to be a thespian. If Harris is a guy, does that mean he likes girls, or other guys?”

A kid in an eye-wateringly bright shirt over his Hellfire top, and a cap covering his curls, held up his palms in desperation. “He said thespians, not lesbians, Jeff,” he lisped, pent up with manic energy. “Thespians are lovers of the theatre, not girls who like other girls.”

“Ha. Lesbians.” Someone giggled. Laughter erupted. It might appear to be a weird cult, but they were teenage boys after all.

“Silence,” Eddie the rocker snapper. Commanded, even. One word and the group shut up, watching him warily. He dropped to his ripped-denim kees and crawled under the table. “First Sinclair shakes us off for tryouts - I don’t know how big shiny balls have a greater lure than the harsh, yet beautiful, plains of the Icewind Dale, but hey, critical thinking doesn’t really kick in until you at least finish puberty, freshies - and now my goblet has vanished? It’s all stacking up against me, man. I don’t know, i’m not feeling good about this.”

“Careful Dustin,” one of the group warned. A voice she knew, the one from her English class with the torn up plaid shirt. “You do not want to mess with Eddie’s ambience. I did that once in sophomore year. Set up a session in my garage during the holidays. Let’s just say, the more immersed the DM, the nicer he is during the campaign. You guys don’t want to see him grouchy.”

Wheeler scoffed. “Come on, Gareth. This isn’t grouchy?”

“Not. Even. Close,” Gareth crossed his arms over his plaid-covered chest. “Your buddy Lucas really messed up, skipping out on the third Hellfire night of the year. It’s not even October, and we’re gonna have to bring out a secondary character or something. At least the place could look good.”

“Gareth the Great is right, children. Ambience is a key part of storytelling. It’s all about the mood,” Eddie replied, dragging out the last word. He manhandled the bags on the floor, peering into nooks and crannies, nosing around like a stray dog looking for scraps, completely beneath the table, facing away from Rose. Until, abruptly, he wheeled around on his knees.

Doe eyes met hers, liquid dark and wide, framed by frizzy rocker hair. His manic, dynamic presence froze perfectly, like a VHS tape on pause, cogs in that brain working overtime. He stared blankly at the interloper in his domain, who was scrunched up on the floor, hiding all along in the corner. And right in front of her feet, his shiny pewter goblet.

Rose held her breath. She waited for it. Cursing, shouting, orders to leave. Instead, his lips curled up in a grin, one so contagious and earnest that she couldn’t help but smile back. He raised a finger to his mouth, silver rings pressing against his lips, asking for her silence. She nodded back once. Permission sought: request granted.

Ten seconds passed by without either of them breaking eye contact; Rose hadn’t appreciated just how long ten seconds really was, when you were caught in someone’s gaze. Snared like a rabbit, unable to move, unable to look away. Bordering on weird, but not necessarily bad weird. A standoff, destination unknown.

“Eddie,” The Wheeler kid moaned and kicked his chair leg. “Can we find your goblet later? My sister’s leaving school at seven, and she’s not above ditching us if we’re late.”

“Mike’s not lying,” Dustin backed him up. “She has totally done that before. Ruthless. And every minute we lose searching for goblets is one minute less in the frozen wastes of the Icewind Dale. Just think of how much storytelling you can fit into a minute, Dungeon Master.”

That phrase hit her in the chest. She maintained eye contact, and mouthed Dungeon master?

Eddie, still beneath the table, gave her a wolfish grin, split from ear to ear, teeth shining pearlescent white in the light of the candles. He tried to motion something to her, but knocked his head on the underside of the table in the process.

“Earth to Eddie,” the bigger of the guys called out.

The man in question rubbed the back of his head, snapped out of some deep thinking. “Right, goblet. We have a problem. A naughty nymph must have snatched it and run back to her lair.”

He winked at her, dimple etched into his cheek, and she had to stop her shoulders from shaking with laughter.

Jeff sighed a second time. “What the hell’s keeping you down there? I cannot sub again, I was a terrible DM last year when you had mono. I let you guys defeat Asmodeus in fifteen minutes. Asmodeus, ruler of the Nine Hells. It took me five times as long to plan the damn campaign!”

Rose and Eddie conversed in gestures as the guys above them spoke. A full blown wordless conversation captured with a tiny shrug, a smile, a raised eyebrow. He was clearly trying to tell her something, and wouldn't give her up to the group.

A theoretical light bulb flipped on over Eddie’s head, and he flapped his hands wildly, pointing at the rack of costumes just to her side. Implication clear - get behind it. Wait, what? This wasn’t an escape plan; duck back there would lead her further from the door. Did he expect her to stay there until seven?

“Eddie!” Jeff called out.

Eddie’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and he addressed the group above. “Yup, that’s me. But as Wheeler so kindly pointed out, i’m an old man now. Knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Rose peered behind over her shoulder, checking out the fully hidden spot behind the clothes rack. Target acquired. Unfortunately she couldn’t make it without being seen by the minions at the table.

She nudged her chin toward it and Eddie caught on. Another grin, another gleam in his dark eyes. He rolled out from under the table, groaning theatrically, arm held out.

“Give us a hand, Henderson.”

The freshman smiled so wide his braces almost popped out and complied immediately. It was endearing, actually. He stepped forward, forearm grasping Eddie’s, planting his feet on the floor firmly. But not firm enough.

Eddie grabbed him and tugged him hard, toppling the kid on top of his stomach, wind knocked out with a dramatic groan. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs, with the kid’s neon cap flung across the room.

“Oh my god!” He cried out.

“Sorry, Henderson. Shouldn’t have had that second tray of mystery meat at lunch.”

“You only ate half a bag of pretzels, dude.”

They were distracted, backs turned. She sprung into action, launching behind the clothing rack, cursing under her breath as she nudged the goblet accidentally.

A pink costume became her refuge, layer upon layer of taffeta, the size of a small sedan. She felt hot and itchy just looking at the scratchy fabric. A dress for a princess, or maybe the good witch in Oz?

“This is hazing, isn’t it? Mom told me all about it.” Dustin lisped, hands on hips. “Keep it up, Dungeon Master. If you think a little rough housing will deter this halfling bard, you are seriously mistaken.”

But just as the guys finished helping Dustin to his feet, Mike shooting forward to grab his hat, the goblet where Rose just sat began to roll.

“Gentlemen!” Eddie roared, even more maniacally than before, diverting them again. “Before we begin I propose a detour. A side quest, if you will.”

Rose inched out her hand, slowly enough not to attract wandering eyes, and retrieved the goblet, just as they took their seats, wooden chairs scraping heavily on the linoleum.

“What kind of side quest?” Gareth from English class asked.

“Your party is weak. Your ranger Lucas the Fickle-hearted has abandoned you upon the road-”

“That’s not his name!” Dustin protested.

“Yeah, well, i’m rebranding him,” Eddie declared. “Like I said, Lucas the Fickle-hearted has fallen prey to the cheap thrill of a local tourney, drawn to test his mettle upon the melee ground and take his place as a totally righteous, totally boooring knight of the Kingswatch. But you, good sirs, you make it to a humble tavern on the edge of the forest. There you are greeted by an old companion, Eddie the Bard. Tears streaming down his face, he tells you his cherished goblet is gone, a ring of dried crimson wine staining the table where it once sat.”

He sprung forth, grabbing the back of Mike Wheeler’s chair and narrating directly into his ear. “What’s that, you say? Tis merely a pewter cup, worth nothing more than a couple of coppers on the open market? No, gentlemen. This cup is the secret to the bard’s otherworldly music, spelled to give the bearer great luck and fortune. Charisma off the charts, baby. A Goblet of Rock.”

She had no idea what this Hellfire club was actually doing, but it seemed like a cross between a board game and a storytelling exercise. And this Eddie was...good. Really good. But a knot wound tight in Rose’s stomach as he belaboured the importance of the cup in her very hands. A cup he was no doubt trying to work back into the story.

“I say we retrieve the goblet,” Gareth folded his hands under his chin. “Our party is one man down, and we need all the help we can get if we’re going to defeat the storm dragon Iymrith. Maybe this bard will owe us a favour, and give us a companion or an artefact to slay the dragon.”

“Hear hear,” Dustin thumped the table, shaking about some small pieces Rose couldn’t see. “I walk into the tavern at the head of the party-”

“Hey,” Jeff protested, shooting Dustin a jealous look. “I’m the senior member here. I should lead the party.”

Eddie raised a hand. “No one disputes your position, Jeff. But let the little halfling make his move.”

Dustin took a deep breath. “I open the tavern door, toss my hat onto the table, and flag down a serving wench. Our throats are dusty from the road, so I take a few of our silver coins from the last dungeon crawl and purchase six flagons of mead. Eddie brings them to us.”

Eddie leapt onto his chair, squatting on his heels. “Welcome, patron. I would stay and sup a flagon of mead with you fine warriors, but my troubles overwhelm me. Without the Goblet of Rock, my charisma remains too low to wield my mighty Warlock, and shred to my heart’s content. No guitar, no revellers, no coin for Eddie the Bard. I'm in need of help to keep bread on my table and patrons in my tavern.”

Chris chuckled low and ominous. “If it’s steel you’re after, I, the dwarf Thordus Boulderbash, will take my battleaxe and face any man who dares take the Goblet of Rock.”

“Thordus has a fearsome reputation in these parts, my chaotic-good friend,” Eddie pats him on the back. “But this cup thief is no warrior. A nymph of seriously high stealth crept into the tavern as the guests slept, and made away with the cup before dawn’s light woke me from my slumber.”

For a moment, Rose was too captivated by the story to absorb her supposed leading role in it.

Gareth cleared his throat. “This nymph, she pretty by any chance?”

Eddie leaned in, weight on his elbows. “Fairer than the sunrise over the Greypeak mountains.”

Rose’s brain tripped, lights out, power surged. Even someone with her abysmal track record could recognise the flirtatious tone in his voice. Wait...was this just part of the game? Was he like that with everyone? She wished another girl was in the room, so she could get a sense of normality, something to compare this to.

“Niiice,” Gareth drawled.

“Wait, how would you even know it was a nymph in the first place?” Dustin asked, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “She was gone before daybreak, we have no evidence.”

“Well, gentlefolk, I happen to have an enchanted mirror in the tavern. Caught a glimpse of the wild little thing just as she booked it out the window, leaving behind a lock of auburn hair. And we all know that a nymph cannot be slain by steel alone, so break out your charisma, boys, we’re gonna have to find her, and convince her to return the Goblet of Rock.”

They whooped and applauded, more revved up than a crowd of football hooligans, and Rose had to fist her hands in her crochet cardigan to stop herself from joining in. Something was about to happen, and she was hopping around on the scales between terror and excitement, brimming with a nervous energy.

She couldn’t see the table close up, but she heard dice roll and gasps from the guys at the table, Eddie narrating something about scores, determining the outcome of a battle, or perhaps a decision. It was hard to tell, without any context. It took a few minutes, and her brain didn’t take much of it in.

“Adventurers,” Eddie addressed them after a brief burst of action. “The forest glade beckons, a sea of autumn-gold leaves rustles in the wind. You’ve fought hard to get past the elemental spirits, and emerged bloody, but victorious. Now place down your swords, for the final hurdle is one of wit, not one of might.”

“As our party’s bard, I step toward the tranquil pool,” Dustin says gravely, as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. “I take out my lute, and play a tune of such beauty that the nymph hiding in the forest must-”

“Hold on there, halfling,” Eddie silenced him. He looked on edge, his silver rings tap, tap, tapping against the wooden table incessantly. “There are some things a guy’s gotta do himself.”

Mike gawped. “DM’s don’t join in like that, man.”

“You’ll live, sheepies,” Eddie said, dripping in sarcasm. “I, Eddie the Bard, thank the halfling for his admittedly awesome lute playing, and step toward the glassy surface of the forest pool.”

He took a deep breath, stood up suddenly, and turned toward her hidden lair behind the costume rack. Oh god. She was going to die on the spot, she was going to combust from embarrassment if he brought her out. But somehow, even stronger, was the fear that he wouldn’t. He stepped slowly toward her hiding spot, eyes scanning the piles of clothes for a rough idea of where she might be.

“Lady nymph,” he began, voice cracking a little. “You fled my tavern before we could meet, my goblet in your clutches. If you would honour this humble bard with your name, we might determine what you desire in return for the Goblet of Rock.”

“Dude, please don’t make me do a girl's voice again,” Gareth begged. “My vocal cords can’t take it.”

Fuck it. This was the most entertained she’d been all day. All year, probably. Rose swept aside the hangers of clothes with a flourish. She stepped out, to a chorus of shouts and an ear-splitting scream.

Dustin shrieked like a banshee, his hat lost yet again as jolted out of his chair and into Mike’s lap.“Jesus! What the hell?”

“Get off me, man.” Mike said, pushing him away.

“Oh my god, a plant?” Jeff roared. “This is fucking unprecedented Eddie. It’s without precedent!”

“I must be high right now,” Gareth mumbled. “You guys see what I see, right?”

Eddie was right there, tall and frizzy-haired and only two steps away, eyes as wide as saucers. Rose barely had time to notice how tall he was before he dropped to one knee like a chivalrous knight, hand outstretched toward her.

Rose gripped the goblet hard, fight or flight kicking in hard. Ten paces and she’d be out of the door, into the night. Or, at least, into the bleak corridors of Hawkins High.

“Hey,” Eddie said low under his breath, ignoring his friends’ drama behind him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

He held out his hand again, palms wide, sleeves rolled back, ink snaking up his forearm. Close up, he was even more intense, with a jack o’lantern grin. He spoke again, this time loud enough for the group to hear.

“The nymph dares to emerge from the forest pool, bearing the goblet. But will she tell a humble bard her name?”

Brain whirring quickly, Rose realised she’d need a story. Her social skills? Dubious. Eclectic book knowledge, and rambling profusely at the worst of times? Proficient. She couldn’t just use her real name, could she? Nymphs...nature, mythology, natural places. Might just be enough to go on.

“Lady Thorn,” she said, doing her best to imitate his dramatic narrative voice. She placed her hand in his; skin warm, rings cool, surprisingly gentle. “But you, good sir, can call me Rose.”

The group were whooping, chaotic energy rolling off them in waves. Dustin was still hyperventilating, and the guys were giving him shit for reacting like a ten year old girl.

“Lady Thorn,” Eddie clutched her hand in supplication. “We seek the return of the Goblet of Rock. Name your price, fair maiden.”

An hour ago, she’d name a one way ticket back to the Shire. Now, the road to Rivendell was starting to look a little interesting. Question is, was this the Council of Elrond, or a table of leather-jacket clad, hormonal, teenage Nazgul?

“Is that his girlfriend?” Mike asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Nope,” Jeff answered. “We have sighted a UFO: unidentified female object. Contact made, presence yet to be explained.”

Rose frowned at being called an object, but there was too much going on in the room to be distracted by it. She held the goblet in her free hand up to the stage light, pausing for dramatic effect, and to figure out what on earth she might say. “I am new to the land of...”

“Icewind Dale.” Dustin supplied quickly, braces sparking in the spotlights as he grinned.

“...to the land of Icewind Dale,” Rose continued nervously. “I was torn from my simple hedgerow in the Shire and cast to these frozen forests without hope or expectation of returning home again. I seek...uh...I seek a guide to help me navigate these new lands.”

“A guide, huh?” Eddie pondered, turning to the table behind him. “Can we do that, gentlemen?”

Mike was the first to respond. “No traveller walks the road alone on our watch. But first, we roll. She has to have a skill check.”

Eddie threw back his head. “Uh, kid Wheeler, remember what I said about my omnipotence earlier? Don’t forget who the DM is here. Me, buddy. I call the shots.”

Gareth sighed dramatically. “Besides, what are you even rolling against? She has no stats, no abilities, just a name and a goblet!”

Chris shuts his gaping mouth just long enough to ask her: “You don’t happen to have a character sheet, do you? Do you have any thoughts on your alignment? I’m sensing lawful good, but nymphs are pretty wild. Maybe chaotic good?”

Rose was at a loss. “Wait,” she said, brandishing the goblet. “I can’t believe i’m about ramble at completely unknown people again, because it worked out so well for me in English class this morning, but I have no idea what you are talking about. What’s an alignment? A character sheet? Stats?”

“I truly hate to use a sports term, but time out, people,” Eddie declared. He stopped, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, weighing up something behind his dark doe-eyes. “Sweetheart, either that is a world class fake accent, or you’re not from these parts. Have you ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are Dungeons and Dragons?”

“What?” Eddie let go of her hand and paced up and down, hands on his hips. “Really? Like, never? Not heard of a dungeon master...the D20...the ‘we’ll sacrifice your firstborn’ brand of satanic panic troubling the hearts and minds of parents all across America? ”

She thought about it. “Is D20 a band? I don’t really watch much MTV, though my stepdad did just get cable. Are they any good?”

He reeled backward until he hit the table, arms flailing in the air. Anyone else would have left it there but Eddie threw himself backward, rolling on top of the table like an invisible hand was dragging him. “No way. No way. That can’t be happening. But you just played along like a pro!”

She burst out laughing. He was really hamming it up, knocking over everything on the table - the candles narrowly snatched by the guys, whose quick thinking prevented the drama room going up in a puff of smoke.

“It’s not a band, it’s a twenty sided dice,” Mike said slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. “There are other numbered dice too. Not just six.”

“Yeah, we use them to make decisions on our actions, the success of our attacks...you know, it’s just how we roll.” Dustin squealed a laugh. “I said, how we roll...’cause it's a dice.”

Groans echoed across the room, second hand embarrassment so strong you could cut it with a knife, but the corner of Eddie’s lips still turned up into a smile. Their teasing clearly stayed on the right side of friendly.

He vaulted off the table clumsily, and staggered back over, approaching Rose gingerly, like she were a flight risk liable to run at any second. “Wait, wait. Before we return to the Icewind Dale I have to ask. Who are you, and how in the nine hells of Asmodeus did you appear in the centre of Hellfire on a Friday night?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dustin interrupted. “You two really don’t know each other?”

“We go a long way back,” Eddie boasted, chest puffed out. “All the way back to that table incident thirty minutes ago. And trust me, if I'd seen the lady before, I would have remembered.”

That feeling bubbled up again, like warm whiskey coursing through her veins. “I’m Rose. It’s my first day of senior year. My first ever day of high school since we moved. So naturally I've pissed off half the school, some of the teachers, and got trapped in a supply closet whilst the nice girls talk behind my back. My social life has withered and died in a single day, like a fragile desert flower.”

Eddie nodded along. “So a quiet Friday, then.”

“Just fucking fantastic. I found a dark corner to hide my shame, only to find myself in the middle of a satanic cult. Those two John Hughes films that I watched over the summer did not prepare me for this American high school experience.”

“Yeah. It’s less Sixteen Candles, more Nightmare on Elm Street.” He smiled a dopey, lopsided smile, and fidgeted with his hands. “I’m Eddie, by the way. Munson. First days suck, I would know, I've had more than my fair share. The gentlemen behind me here are fellow D&D enthusiasts and members of Hellfire: Jeff, Chris and Gareth are long-time members, and we have some new little sheepies, Dustin and Mike. Lucas too, if he can drop his shiny rubber balls long enough to commit to the campaign.”

A chorus of Hi’s and waves introduced the players to her, but watching them from the corner of the room had given her a decent sense of their personalities and dynamics.

“Come on, guys, shuffle round the table and make space for the lady,” Eddie commanded. He dashed over to the wall and manhandled a heavy wooden chair into place, directly on the right side of his ornate throne. He bowed and gestured at the empty seat, then the colour drained from his face. “I didn’t even ask if you wanted to join, did I. It's not an obligation. You can walk right out of here having nailed the best side quest in Hellfire history.”

“We should warn you,” Gareth imparted wisely, “if you’re looking to be popular around here, this is the wrong place to be. We’re not exactly tight with the jocks or the party kids.”

Eddie pointed to himself with both thumbs. “They don’t call me Eddie the Freak for nothing.”

Her decision was already made, the moment Eddie spotted her from under that table and smiled. Here was a group of strangers going out of their way to make her feel welcome, without knowing a single thing about her.

Rose felt a lump in her throat. “You would put up with a complete idiot who doesn’t know her class from her elbow?”

Dustin’s fist pumped the air. “Yes! Puns are totally cool, I knew it.”

“I don’t mind,” Mike said. “I taught my girlfriend D&D, she had to start somewhere.”

Eddie did a double take. “You have a girlfriend, freshie?”

“She moved to California just before the school year.”

“Ah,” Jeff drew out the syllable knowingly. “Out of state. Convenient excuse.”

“I wouldn’t call it convenient,” Dustin disagreed. “My girlfriend Suzie is in Utah, and that totally sucks. It’s been forty-six days since Camp Nowhere finished, which means two hundred and ninety-nine before I see her again next summer.”

Gareth groaned. “Come on, man. Both the freshmen have girlfriends? How is that even statistically possible?”

Dustin leaned forward intently, “Well if you look at the number of D&D players, profile them by age and cross reference them with the number of-”

Eddie’s hand smothered Dustin’s mouth. “Shh, halfling. He did not mean literally. Besides, the lady hasn’t given us her answer. Sweetheart, do you wanna help us take down Iymrith, the storm dragon? I have a feeling these novices will need a helping hand. It is going to be brutal.”

Rose took a seat at Eddie’s right hand side, and picked up the many-sided lump of red plastic on the board. “I suppose I could join you. Do you know why?”

He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. “Why?”

She dropped the D20 on the table. “Because this is how I roll.”

Dustin dislodged the Dungeon Master’s mouth; fuse lit, laughter exploding from his chest like a stick of dynamite. Groans turned to laughs.

Eddie smiled, and opened his arms wide. “Welcome to Hellfire.”

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Head Full of Ghosts | Chapter 4: Bumps in the Night

Pairing: Astarion x Dark Urge

Summary: Takes place during the events of Baldur's Gate 3 and explores the romance between Astarion and the Dark Urge, as well as the friendships and relationships she has with her companions. Plus, everyone gives shit to Gale about his cooking. Tags: Slow Burn, Angst, Pining, Humor, Violence, Friends to Lovers, Developing Friendships, Developing Romance, Spoilers for the Dark Urge and BG3 in general, Dark Urge as Original Female Character Rating: Mature (Will eventually be Explicit, just not there yet.) Current Chapter Count: 4/? Read on AO3 Current Word Count: 16,755

Author's Note: AND WE'RE BACK! I'm so sorry for not updating this fic in a hot minute. I ran into some gnarly writer's block going into the holidays and the new year, but I'm back on track. I even wrote two one shots featuring these two which can be found on my account. Please enjoy them, and this chapter, with my apologies. Thanks for sticking with me and these crazy idiots.

Astarion sat at the small round dressing table situated just outside his tent, fingers drumming idly against the worn wood as he leaned back in his chair. In his other hand, he held an open book outstretched in front of him, red eyes skimming across the pages.

Evening had settled in over the camp, bringing with it a chill in the air as the far-off rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. Candlelight flitted from a lantern he had set on the table, providing just enough light for him to feign interest in the words of his book. It was a collection of memoirs that had something to do with the dull and painfully tiresome life of an adventurer who had hunted a variety of beasts up and down the Sword Coast.

Or was it devils? Criminals, maybe?

Hells, he didn’t know. It was all terribly trite and uninteresting. The stories, if one could even call them that, were worth less than the paper they’d been printed on. At least they could burn the pages as firestarter for Gale’s cookpot.

Though…that was probably an equally ineffective use of the book. Gale was still a woefully dreadful cook, in Astarion’s opinion. Which was the only one that mattered, really.

The camp was abnormally quiet this evening, a stiff tension settling over them like a low-hanging fog that wouldn’t lift. The usual clamor and din of frivolous chatter and busymaking had been replaced by an eerie silence that was only broken by the pop and crackle of the central campfire.

Astarion could still hear Wyll’s accusatory bellowing reverberating in his mind. The vampire had burst into camp, alone except for an unconscious Eli who hung limp in his arms. He’d been calling for Shadowheart when Wyll came striding up, all pomp and lofty.

“What did you do!?” the warlock-turned-devil had demanded, reaching out as if to wrest Eli from Astarion’s arms.

Astarion had jerked her away from Wyll’s outstretched hands, snarling.

“I didn’t do anything! Get out of my way! Where is Shadowheart!”

He had tried to bully past Wyll, but the warlock grabbed his arm, working to hold him back.

“Where are Gale and Lae’zel? What in the hells happened!?” he’d berated.

Astarion wheeled on him with a vicious and manic grimace.

“Touch me again and I’ll become the monster you so desperately want me to be,” he’d spat with a low growl.

“What is going on – Nightsinger’s embrace!”  

Drawn by the commotion, Shadowheart had approached and then stopped dead, eyes wide as they landed on Eli’s unconscious form. She directed Astarion towards Eli’s tent, waving off Wyll who had still been asking questions that weren’t helpful to the situation at hand.

“Lay her down on her bedroll. What happened to her?” Shadowheart asked as she and Astarion had approached the tent.

He explained about the encounter with the hunter and how Eli had charged the man just as he’d been taking aim at Astarion, resulting in a poisoned crossbow bolt to her shoulder. Despite the wound, Eli had surged forward, launching an Eldritch Blast ahead of her which took the man off his feet before he could reload for another shot.

Astarion had followed, cursing Eli for her foolhardy rush to play hero. The bolt had been meant for him, and if she got herself badly injured or worse during this debacle, he was going to be the one to have to explain everything to the rest of the freakshow menagerie back at camp. He was already on loose footing with the lot of them, the revelation of his vampirism having gone over about as poorly as he’d expected. Between the jabs, the glares and the threats, the only thing that had calmed everyone was Eli’s insistence that he was trustworthy.

Both Astarion and Eli didn’t mention the small detail of how he’d crept up on her while she lay in her bedroll, fully intending to set upon her while she slept. She had an odd definition of trustworthy…

The last thing he needed was for her to get herself wounded on his account. Which meant that was exactly what would happen, because when he got right down to it everything in his life amounted to nothing more than a shit stain in the annals of history. Nothing ever swung his way, so why not add to it getting the one person who seemed remotely okay with his existence killed?

Astarion’s jaw clenched as he stared at the open book in front of him, candlelight causing shadows to dance and flicker upon the page. He’d taken leave of Eli’s tent after laying her on the bedroll for Shadowheart to examine. The cleric had indicated she’d be able to heal the wound to Eli’s shoulder after they dosed her with an antidote.

Hesitantly relieved, Astarion had walked to his own tent, noting that both Gale and Lae’zel had returned and were currently engrossed in a conversation with Wyll as he questioned them for details about their trip to find Ethel. Ignoring the trio, Astarion had grabbed the first book he could find and set about making himself look busy in hopes they’d all just leave him alone after the events of the evening. He was agitated by the restlessness stirring in his gut, and every so often his eyes would flick to the closed flap of Eli’s tent which was situated across the camp from his own. The panic from earlier had settled into a vexed sort of impatience that sat heavy in his chest. His mind wandered to the other night, when he’d come upon Eli in the ruin and they’d sat together, talking. It had been…nice, just to sit and talk without all the tension and pressure of having to lure someone back to the mansion.

His nights in the city were always pressed by the driving need to bring some poor fool back for Cazador, less he be punished in any number of agonizing ways for his failure. The last time he’d returned to the mansion without a mark, Cazador had forced Astarion to peel the skin from the soles of his own feet and walk endlessly through the filth-infested kennels for three days. He’d trudged the same path, over and over, stepping on rocks and bone splinters and all manner of refuse and sewage. When he was finally released from Cazador’s thrall, he’d sank to his knees and howled out in wretched anguish, able to at last release the screams of pain that had been burning in his lungs for the past days as he wept silent tears and walked. Walked. Walked…

That had been only a week or so before the mind flayers captured him…

Astarion breathed in slow, not needing the air that filled his lungs but calmed by the action, all the same. He shoved the vile memories of Cazador and his enslavement down into a deep pit within himself and tried to think of other, less miserable things. The Barrel-Aged Callidyrran Eli had given him the other night, now tucked away in his tent unopened. It had been a strange thing, to be given something and told there was no expectation upon him to return the favor or provide any sort of reparation. He still wasn’t sure he trusted the gesture, but Eli had not brought the matter up since.

He wondered if she knew he couldn’t exactly drink the wine…or, well, not without adding a bit of blood, anyway. Otherwise it would just taste foul. Another side-effect of his condition. He vaguely recalled having enjoyed the drink once, and like all of his vague recollections he clung to that knowledge with a vice grip, desperate to not lose anymore of himself.

What the hell did Eli get out of all this, anyway? Giving him gifts, vouching for him to the group, letting him feed on her, literally throwing herself in front of a crossbow bolt for him. It frustrated him that he couldn’t parse her intentions.

Astarion’s eyes darted back to her tent, noting that the flap remained closed. He set his jaw, grinding his teeth in thought.

“She’ll be fine, fangs, don’t worry. Shadowheart’s got it under control.”

Astarion’s head jerked in the direction of Karlach, who was standing a few feet from his tent, arms crossed as she peered at him with a small smirk.

“And, hey, if she does end up kicking it, we’ve got weird cryptic skeleton guy who says he can bring people back from the dead, easy-peasy.” Karlach gestured over her shoulder towards Withers with a thumb. “Not sure if I’d bet my own life on the creepy bone man, but it’s an option.”

Astarion frowned at the tiefling who simply grinned back at him. His eyes dropped back to his book.

“I wasn’t worried,” he said flatly.

“Ooooooh, okay. I get it.”

Astarion quirked an eyebrow curiously at Karlach’s reply, looking up just in time to see her wink.

“Wasn’t aware not being able to read was one of those vampiric side-effects, but not to fret. I’ll teach you,” she said, barely able to suppress a laugh beneath her words as she continued to smile with a knowing look that made Astarion shift in his chair.

“What in the hells are you going on about?” he barked, both a bit indignant and confused.

Karlach uncrossed her arms, placing one on her hip and indicating his book with the other.

“You haven’t turned a single page since you sat down,” she explained. “So, you’re either the most eloquently illiterate person I’ve ever met, or your attention is elsewhere.” She jerked a thumb towards Eli’s tent and Astarion scowled at her.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he snapped the book closed and dropped it unceremoniously on the table. Taking that as an invitation to join the vampire, Karlach sauntered over and grabbed the other bistro-style chair at his table. She flipped it backwards, straddled it, and sat, crossing her arms atop the chair back and leaning forward.

Astarion watched her curiously, but said nothing as she situated herself at the table. He and Karlach had exchanged pleasantries and idle chatter since she’d joined their little traveling circus, but he didn’t really know much about her. Well, other than the whole engine-for-a-heart-so-she-could-break-people’s-spines-in-the-hells business. She seemed friendly enough, but Astarion knew all too well how easy it was to put up a sociable front.  

“I’m just tired of all the accusations and suspicion,” he grumbled, pointedly not looking across the camp towards where Wyll was sewing up a patch in his leather armor. “It’s not like I’m Gale, treating our collection of expensive artifacts like his own personal candy store.”

Karlach chuckled and Astarion leaned back in his chair, expression softening just a touch as he stared at the flickering candle of the lantern.

“I haven’t done anything, I just exist. And that’s always enough to disappoint people,” he said, voice low and sharp.

Karlach hummed, considering his words for a moment before she spoke.

“Well, I for one am glad you’re with us, and I know that one is, too.” Karlach nodded her head towards Eli’s tent. “You did good today, soldier.”

Astarion eyed the tent thoughtfully, feeling a bit less dour than he had earlier. He straightened up attentively in his chair when he noticed the entry flap being pushed aside. Shadowheart emerged and, seeing both Astarion and Karlach focused in her direction, began walking towards the pair.

“She’s resting and should be recovered come morning,” she said, waving off Karlach politely as the tiefling rose and offered Shadowheart the chair she’d been using.

Astarion felt a tension he hadn’t even been aware of, ease from him as his posture relaxed.

“Told yah,” Karlach said, giving him another one of her unsettlingly knowing smirks.

“Well,” he said, shifting slightly under both of their gazes. “I’m glad.”

A look passed between Karlach and Shadowheart that Astarion couldn’t quite read. He frowned up at them, but they remained impassive.

“Come on, Shadowheart. With Eli tucked in for the night, we have free rein on the wine!” Karlach spun on her heels and started off towards the camp’s stash of supplies with Shadowheart strolling behind her.

Astarion watched them go, quietly mulling over an idea that had slowly begun to form in his head. He remained where he sat for a long while, uncertainty darkening the lines of his face, before he shook his head with a small grimace and stood.

Turning, he entered his tent, eyes casting about in the gloom for something…

_________________________________

Eli was starving.

She could think about little else as her stomach roiled, slowing churning its own acids around and around. She was past the point of uncomfortable hunger, her gut spasming angrily with a ravenous nausea.

How long had it been since she last ate? Days? A week? She wasn’t sure…

A sickly convulsion gripped her abdomen and Eli sank to her bare knees, heaving bile onto the cold and dingy stone floor. Sweat dripped from her forehead and neck as her body revolted against the lack of food. She vomited until there was nothing left, coughing and hacking as the last dry heaves calmed.

She leaned back and suddenly felt lightheaded, swaying where she knelt then toppling backwards. She felt the back of her head collide with a solid wall, the sharp pain a momentary distraction from the ache in her stomach.

Eli stayed slumped against the wall, too tired to do much else. She could smell the sour stink of her own stomach bile mixed with a dank and stale scent of rot and decay. Blinking against a darkness so deep that even her darkvision struggled to cut through, Eli tried to remember where the hell she was.

Her head was swimming, dulled by dehydration and vicious hunger. She was so confused…

Footsteps echoed from somewhere distant and a flighty panic stirred in her chest. She was afraid. Desperately afraid.      

The footfalls grew louder, then slowed. She heard the abrupt ‘thunk’ of a lock and the angry screech of twisting metal as a cruel bright light tore into the darkness, pouring in through a doorway just in front of her. Eli held her hands up to shield her eyes and with a shock noticed how small they were. They were grubby, scratched and scarred. Nails chewed down and skin cracked and dry, but they were delicate, too.

The hands of a child.

A harsh voice snapped at her from the doorway and Eli tried to see who was there, but the figure was blurred; drowning in the intense light which surrounded them.

“Pitiful. I thought you little spider-blooded mongrels thrived in the dark.”

The voice was familiar. Haunting. It caused a wild sort of terror to hammer at her ribcage.

“Maybe now you’ll be more compliant.”

Fear, hot and vicious tore through her as she felt a hand grip her hair and yank her forward. Her shoulder cracked as it hit the floor, pain burning up her neck and down her arm. She tried to scream as she was dragged out of the dark room and into that blistering light, but her throat was raw and dry…

No.

No. No! NO!

Eli jolted awake, scrambling to get her bearings as her lungs burned with the soundless screams of her nightmare. Her breathing was ragged, catching in her throat as she sat up and blinked wearily, trying to chase the fog from her brain. A dull pain flared in her shoulder and she groaned, mind clearing with recollection as the day before returned to her.

Her headaches, the hunter, Astarion, the crossbow…

Eli peered down at herself, twisting slightly to try and get a decent angle in order to view the closed wound. Her armor had been removed, leaving Eli in her undershirt and a pair of camp pants. She pulled at the shirt collar, trying to see underneath and inspect her shoulder as best she could. An angry scar had bloomed where the wound had been, and she mentally made a note to thank Shadowheart for what she assumed had been the cleric’s work.

Rubbing at her eyes, the ghost of a dull headache still thrumming away at the back of her skull, Eli pulled back the ragged blanket that had been laid over her…then paused. She held the cloth up and away from herself, inspecting it curiously. She didn’t remember owning a blanket…and the scent… Sharp and citrusy, with notes of evergreen and a touch of smokiness. And beneath that…the stale scent of death, slightly rotted and stagnant. She knew that odor. It was one of the reasons she’d pegged Astarion as a vampire upon their first meeting, aside from all of the other obvious hints. He could try and mask it with rosemary and the tang of bergamot, but Eli would know the perfume of death and decay anywhere. The familiarity of it was unsettling, because try as she might, she couldn’t pinpoint why the smell of necrosis was such a balm to her.

Eli rubbed the worn fabric between her fingers, eyeing it closely. She could see careful stitchwork in various places along the edges where meticulous effort had been taken to patch fraying hemming. The texture of the blanket was timeworn and there was a distinct air of mustiness to it. It was old – very old – but comfortable. Eli felt a pang of affection as she folded the blanket and set it aside, cautious to put it somewhere where she wouldn’t accidentally step on it. She stared at it for a moment, thoughts sizzling in her head like small sparks that might set alight a larger blaze if she wasn’t careful. She frowned at herself and turned away, standing with a tired grunt and slamming those nagging and sentimental emotions inside a mental box that she meant to burry deep down within herself.

She seemed only capable of bad ideas these days. Best not to humor anymore.

Stepping out of her tent, Eli took a quick survey of camp. Everything was still, the night dark and deep. Their campfire had burned down to embers that glowed faintly in the gloom and Eli guessed the hour must be early in the darkness of morning. She walked towards the riverbank, stretching out her shoulder and rolling it back tenderly. It would be sore for a few days, she mused, but that was a far cry better than what could have happened had they not had a cleric with them.

Crouching, she cupped water between her hands and splashed her face, still trying to sort through all the thoughts whirring in her mind.

“A saucerer? Really?”

Eli flinched, surprised by the cool, easy voice. She turned her head, grinning up at Astarion who stood a few paces behind her, arms crossed as he leaned against a tree that was growing out from the bank.

“I can’t help it if your sense of humor isn’t as refined as my own,” she said, sitting back onto the sandy shoreline.

A bark of laughter escaped Astarion’s throat and Eli caught herself staring at the delicate hallow between his collarbones.

“Thank the gods for that. Puns are the lowest form of humor, darling.”

A depraved rush sped up her heart and she felt a flush bleed down her neck as the unbidden image of hands pressing down on his throat entered her mind. Astarion’s eyes narrowed at her, shining in the silvery moonlight. He smirked, no doubt noticing her piqued heartrate and the blush below her jaw.

“Happy to see me, my dear?” he purred, uncrossing his arms and stepping out onto the bank.

Eli banished the foul thought from her head as Astarion sat beside her, a brow quirked slyly.

“Happy to see anyone, considering.” She shrugged, ignoring the suggestion beneath his words. He didn’t need to know that her mind wasn’t envisioning the sorts of things he thought it was.

The Urge thrummed distantly in her brain but remained mostly unroused.

“Did you leave a blanket in my tent,” Eli asked, changing the subject before Astarion could make any more quips.

She caught the briefest flash of surprise flit across his expression, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a composed air of hautyness. Eli wondered if Astarion hadn’t meant for her to know he’d been the one to leave it.

“Well, yes,” he said, suddenly rather interested in attending to a smudge of dirt on his trousers, brushing at it. “I noticed that shabby excuse for a bedroll in your tent when I brought you back and figured between the blood loss and poison, the last thing we all needed was for the only rational person in camp – besides me, of course – to catch cold and die.”

Eli brought the back of her hand to her forehead, frowning with confusion as she held it there. Astarion gave her a sidelong look, expression guarded.

“What are you doing?” he asked with slight unease.

“Checking to see if I’m running a fever. I don’t think all the poison’s out of my system yet,” Eli said, giggling as Astarion’s frown deepened.

“You know, I am capable of being a thoughtful and decent person,” he chided with no small amount of irritation cutting through his words. “From time to time,” he added after a brief pause.

Eli just smiled back at him, amused by his fluster and bravado.

“I’m teasing,” she said, unable to keep a note of fondness out of her voice. “It was thoughtful. Thank you.”

Astarion returned his attention to the smudge, brushing away at the remaining dirt.

“Don’t go making a fuss about it. I owed you, anyway. For the wine,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” Eli corrected him warmly.

She was finding it more and more difficult to tune out that bothersome feeling of affection growing behind her ribcage. But, she’d deal with it later. The company was nice in the small, calm hours of the morning. Especially when she considered the nightmares that were likely waiting for her back in the shadows of her tent.

Yeah. She’d definitely, absolutely turn those feelings off. Later.

[anlian-aishang]

Memories were impossible to discard. They faded on their own, ready or not.

tags: levi x reader, angst, breakup, modern AU, fem!reader word count: 2100

You had been here before, some sunflowery years ago. The black-haired boy from back then was now just a faint glimmer in the ravened man who took his place. On purpose or by coincidence, he had sat in that same spot: the small round table in the back corner of the cafe. Where it began. Where it was ending.

Levi rested his chin on his right hand. Left hand held the mug in his trademark way. You remembered seeing him for the first time - wondering what that hold was all about. Now, you knew the backstory quite well. You knew all of him quite well. A pang in your heart as you realized: despite knowing him so deeply, or maybe because you knew him so deeply, it had come to this. 

Under the table, his legs crossed at the ankles. Beside them, a couple of plain cardboard boxes. He had considered labeling their contents in black permanent marker, but ultimately decided against it. You were a smart cookie. You would know how he packed them. How many trips had you gone on together? How many suitcases had you shared? By now, you were familiar with his methods - familiar with all of him. 

You had thrown together the necessities in a manic fit of heartbreak. Tearing through the closet, you ripped all of your belongings off their hangers - all the ones you could decipher past the tears in your eyes - and threw them into garbage bags. That left some ambiguous white tees and straight-cut jeans, those of yours he washed and folded days later. It did cross his mind that they would still smell of him - his apartment, his detergent - but at that thought, he did not know what to do about it. 

Knees wobbled as you walked to him - both just like and unlike how they had on that first date. Back then, with anticipation. Now, riddled with dread. Seemingly in slow motion, his gaze turned from out the window straight on to you. In that blink, you swore his eye color changed: grey in reflection of the rainy day, brightened blue at the sight of you. Your reactions were contradictory: both a surge of confidence yet a lump in your throat knowing how much you meant to him. 

You winced as you pulled the chair out, metal scraping against the cement floor. Levi’s cheek twitched, you always hated that sound, yet your cringe was so cute when you heard it. With a shaky sigh, you offered, “Sorry.”

Silently, Levi stood his palm up, don’t be. 

Unzipping your jacket, Levi immediately averted his gaze. You had teased him with that move so many times before, just seeing your hand rise to your zipper could do unspeakable things to him. You had not expected that his attraction or memories would die this quickly, but still, he felt inexplicably dirty across from you undressing. Certainly, you would have laughed at him had you seen the way he emptied your underwear drawer: pinching your delicates as far from him as possible, flinging them out of sight, as if he were sinning by the second. A panty raid of his own dresser. 

From the inner pocket, you removed a notepad with a to-do list. Levi recognized it as the one he had gifted you for a birthday two… three? years ago. Brown leather, your initials engraved. He wondered if you remembered, jut his heel against the ground, kicking old habitual daydreams. 

“So,” your sigh was heavy, “shall we get started?”

Levi opened his hands to you. Lead the way. Do your worst. 

“Right…” another sigh, almost as heavy as the first, “so, remaining rent.”

Rent, utilities, furniture, the printer, tv, microwave, toaster, utensils, cups. They were meaningless to you both, but last night, as you clawed for closure, these were the things you clung to and wrote down in a nausea-filled frenzy. Watching your expressions, bargaining within yourself did I really write that? Levi could read you clearly. Crossing off line by line was like driving to a dentist appointment, forcing yourself to a destination both beneficial and terrifying. Accomplishing tasks, devoid of satisfaction. 

The last line.

“Anything else you forgo-”

“I didn’t forget anything.”

A terse eye contact. Did you interrupt me? You thought I’d forget something? He would not say it was without willpower, but he had summoned the proper foresight. When your replacement took your spot in his bed, he did not want them to stumble upon a stuffed animal or a leftover locket. With a bite in his lip, he had scrubbed his apartment from floor to ceiling - deliberately washed away were all traces of you - he hoped his mentality would take after the space. 

“Well,” you raised your brows and ticked, “anything you did forget -”

There’s that anger.

“- or mail that ends up at your place, you can forward to 845 Fairway Avenue.”

A flicker of recognition in his gaze. Through arid bangs, he glanced up to you, your parents’?

You answered with a kindred half-smile, what can ya do?

To anyone else, his half-exhale was nothing. You recognized it as Levi’s laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” you grinned - genuine, “I’ll need it.”

His lips parted in response, you know - if you need a place to retreat to… he cut himself off with a cough. Its replacement, though, was perhaps even more flattering. “You’ll be fine. You’ve always found a way.”

A round of chills, you cursed yourself for them. Compliments were never easy to accept - especially from exes. Your friends had coached you in preparation for the screaming, for the insults, for the I never loved you and the pathetic monologue. But even then, on those drunken nights, you knew that Levi would never. Compliments, though, were an entirely different beast - maybe even worse. 

Your fingers twitched against the thin pages. He knew that you were wonderful. He knew that you knew he felt that way. Long-distance text messages, anniversary dinners, love letters and love marks - they all communicated his infatuation. Whether you set them to the fire or threw them in the trash, that would not make them false then or now. Wait. Were you talking about his feelings or yours? Tears began to well again, though you could have sworn there were none left to cry, supposing that was the tragedy of it all: two good people in love with each other - tearing themselves apart. 

Your lip instinctively quivered, tempted for indulgence, a sucker after the shot, “Guess the past few years had some benefit after all -” your smile pushed your cheeks up, coercing a couple of teardrops. You hoped he would not notice them. You knew that he did. Your voice crackled, “- taking after you.”

Levi hated seeing you cry, and though he had heard it was supposed to make him feel better, it did the opposite as it always had. Imagine them crying over you! Imagine them living in their parents’ basement! He scowled, shitty advice. Your sadness incited only his anger - a feeling of powerlessness. His fists clenched, urging to punch something. Veins in his throat stood, threatening to raise his voice. Eyes began to sting. No. Not this again.

He swallowed it down, self-depricating humor a cheap substitute, “Don’t forget: your good girl -”

Good girl. 

“- vocabulary’s gone rotten.”

That got a couple healthy laughs. Your tears continued to fall even as you giggled. The sight made him sick to his stomach, yet pushed him to provide more medicine. “And insomnia’s contagious. I’ve robbed you of many nights of sleep.”

A flame of nostalgia in your middle: robbed you of sleep - he had. Fire smothered by heart’s weight: sleepless nights, Levi would continue to give you. Your lips alternated between a bright smile and the steepest frown. Adorably nightmarish. Levi felt his chest cave: breaking up with you had been a recurring nightmare - perpetually soothed by snapping his eyes open to find you at his side, hugging you to him, and hearing you promise I’ll never leave you, Levi until he believed it enough to fall asleep again. 

Liar. Liar! No. Even as he tried to hate you, searched for a reason to hate you, his efforts were fruitless. Mascara ran down your face, your eyes tinged red, dressed in wrinkled black fresh off the floor, you were as beautiful as every other day. Others might have been pissed that you marched in here with a list of demands from him even after you had severed his heart, but your partner ex-partner looked on lovingly. Good for you for prioritizing yourself. You always struggled with that. 

As if watching your scene, the sun peeked from behind the nimbus curtains. Bright in his eyes, accidentally causing an end to this film. Its glow cascaded to the boxes at his feet and to your sedan outside. 

“Rain stopped.” His speech had a singe to it, something caught in his throat, words stuck there. He nudged his shoe against the boxes. They grazed your legs, “Let’s -”

Let’s. It was the last time either of you would use it to refer to the two of you.  

“ - get these out there… before it starts again.”

Before it starts again. Feelings, desires, the longing to throw your arms around his undercut, the urge to calm the tremble in your lips through a press of his. I’m sorry. Me too. Let’s try again. 

You nodded, wiping your eyes with the back of your wrists. Sniffles and throat clears, you tried to get back to normal as if preparing for a presentation, as if your audience of one had not seen the breakdown before. “Yeah.”

Levi lifted the boxes like they were nothing. You held the door for him, no please or thanks expected. The walk was wordless. No traffic passing by, not even pedestrians. Puddles along your path. Shoes soaked through, normally enough to ruin your day, but today, you didn’t notice it. All you noticed was the way his hair wisped in the wind, the flat in his brow, a steady stride that outpaced yours despite the weight he carried. He noticed how you fidgeted with the keys, your stare straight down, minute glances his way - praying he didn’t see them, hoping he was reciprocating them to you. Another callback to that blind date.

Like then, he had walked you to your car. Unlike then, he did not hop in your passenger seat. Instead, he shifted your luggage to his left arm and popped your trunk with his right. The way his fingers curled made you press your thighs together. Pupils dilated, you felt ashamed for it. Those hands that stripped you free, words that praised you and encouraged you not to hide - his work was already being undone. 

The loud slam of your trunk seemed to break the sound barrier, break your train of thought. Your focus snapped to him - his steel gaze intently on you. Hands rested on his hips. Breaths regular. All others would see his neutral features and write him off as cold, disinterested, indifferent. Throughout your relationship, you had pled his case to others as the opposite. You feared what he would do without you, what the world would do to him without you there. Your hands started to reach for the pen and notepad in your pockets. A letter to his future lover: here are his quirks, these are the best parts of him, love him, cherish him, avoid my mistakes, he deserves better. 

Selfishly, they snatched his wrist. In the wake of his startle, fingers intertwined innately as they had a thousand times before - on walks, in bed, and in times less trying than this one. As one, your hold moved to your cheek, wiping the last traces of damp. Then, to his lips, where he drank them down. Your salt on his tongue - your taste in him forever. 

“This sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Foreheads fell against one another. Noses touched. Your mouths lingered mere inches away, your exhales his inhales, but failed to meet. Only once your eyes closed did he set his feelings free. Single, silent tears rolled down. Skin to skin, you assumed they were your own. 

Whether he cried then or later, you never knew. Whether you got over him, he never found out. Once upon a time, you had known all each other’s truths. But even in that parking lot, mysteries started to be made. Then came your eye color. After that, his smile. Scents eventually faded. Strands of hair swept away. His music erased from your playlists. Your coffee grounds thrown to the winds. Memories were impossible to discard, they faded on their own, ready or not. 

// masterlist //

[sunflowerabyss]

Stuck in Torment

Pairing: Older!Remus Lupin x Reader

Plot: As he grapples with a mysterious time loop forcing him to relive the same tragic day repeatedly, Remus attempts to alter the fateful events in an attempt to save the one he loves.

Warnings: Character death, angst, fluff

_______________________________________________

The Ministry's vast atrium was a battleground, bathed in the harsh glow of flickering spells and the ominous red hue cast by the veiled prophecy. A cacophony of clashing magic, shouts, and echoing footsteps filled the air as the Order of the Phoenix and Harry's group confronted the Death Eaters.

Remus Lupin, a seasoned warrior, moved with calculated grace, his wand cutting through the darkness as he fought alongside his comrades. The familiar faces of Tonks, Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt blended into a seamless dance of dueling, a desperate symphony against the looming threat of Voldemort's forces.

Amidst the chaos, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, along with other members of Dumbledore's Army, fought valiantly, their young faces marred by determination. Spells ricocheted off walls, and the occasional yelp of pain underscored the perilous nature of the mission. Remus cast protective charms, his eyes darting across the battlefield, searching for signs of danger.

"Watch your left, Tonks!" he called out, deflecting a curse aimed at her. Tonks shot him a grateful smile, her hair briefly turning a vibrant shade of pink. The Order members, though outnumbered, held their ground, the resonance of incantations and clashes echoing through the atrium.

Harry, fueled by a sense of purpose, surged forward, determined to retrieve the prophecy. Ron and Hermione, their expressions mirroring Harry's determination, followed suit. Remus moved with them, his heart pounding as the fate of the wizarding world hung in the balance.

As they neared the Death Chamber, the tension escalated. Moody barked orders, and the intensity of the battle reached a fever pitch. The Death Eaters fought with ruthless determination, their masks concealing the malevolence within. "Stay close everyone!" Moody grunted out, his eye franticly looking around.

The oppressive darkness enveloped the Ministry of Magic as everyone engaged in a desperate battle against the encroaching Death Eaters. Remus tried to maintain a semblance of control; his senses heightened by the anxiety that gnawed at his insides.

The veil of doom descended when the Death Chamber echoed with the ominous whisper of prophecy, and the skirmish intensified. In the chaos, Sirius valiantly fought alongside his allies, but the tide turned against him. In a cruel twist, Bellatrix Lestrange's wicked laughter echoed through the chamber as she proclaimed, "I killed Sirius Black!" over and over, relishing in the twisted victory.

Remus, panic etching lines across his face, tried desperately to hold back Harry as the young wizard lunged towards the Death Chamber's mystical veil, where Sirius disappeared into an abyss of uncertainty.

"Sirius!" Harry's anguished cry reverberated through the atrium as his godfather disappeared behind the mysterious veil, leaving only the haunting whispers of the otherworldly abyss. The sorrow that filled Remus's eyes mirrored the profound loss that had become an unwelcome companion.

The battle raged on, the flashes of spells and curses painting a chaotic tableau of despair. Amidst the cacophony, Lucius Malfoy emerged, a cold and calculated presence. The air thickened with tension as he locked eyes with you, malice glittering in his gaze. Bellatrix's manic laughter still echoed, but her attention shifted to the impending tragedy unfolding before her.

"I killed Sirius Black!" she shrieked, as if trying to convince herself of her twisted accomplishment. But in the cold, unyielding moment that followed, Lucius, his wand held with deadly intent, turned his attention towards you.

In a gut-wrenching instant, the world seemed to freeze as Lucius unleashed an unforgivable curse. The air crackled with dark energy, green light illuminating the space around you, and Remus, unable to stop the inevitable, cried out in despair. The spell struck you with a merciless force, and as you let out a guttural scream before crumpling to the ground, the weight of Remus's heartbreak hung heavily in the air.

"NO!" Remus howled, the anguish in his voice cutting through the chaos. His attempts to rewrite destiny had once again been thwarted, and the pain of witnessing your death anew tore at his soul.

____________________

The haunting echoes of your final moments reverberated in Remus Lupin's mind as he jolted awake, his heart pounding against his chest. The suffocating darkness of his room at 12 Grimmauld Place provided no solace, and the cold sweat that clung to his skin only intensified the anguish that gripped his soul. For the past four months, Remus had been trapped in a nightmarish loop, reliving the same day over and over again—the day you, his dear friend and confidante, met a tragic end at the hands of a Death Eater.

Dragging himself out of bed, Remus descended the creaking staircase, the chilling memory of your demise still vivid in his mind. Lucius Malfoy's cruel laughter and Bellatrix Lestrange's maniacal glee as they took your life and Sirius Black's echoed through his thoughts like a macabre symphony.

Downstairs, the air was heavy with tension as Snape and you engaged in what seemed like a casual conversation. To an outsider, it appeared normal, but Remus, with his heart still heavy from the repeated loss, found it unbearable to witness your animated chatter. He couldn't help but feel a surge of bitterness at the cruel twist of fate that made him witness your death repeatedly while you remained blissfully ignorant.

Remus forced himself to join the mundane activities of the day, all the while concealing the torment that clawed at his insides. His attempts to change the course of events were futile, and with each failure, the weight of despair pressed down on him like an unrelenting force.

As the day unfolded, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shifts in Remus's demeanor. His usual composed and stoic expression betrayed an underlying turmoil. Concern etched across your face, you approached him, hoping to offer some comfort.

"Remus, are you alright?" you asked, genuine worry in your eyes.

He waved it off dismissively, "Just fatigue, my dear. Nothing to worry about."

But you sensed the weight behind his words, the unspoken pain that lingered. Determined to reach him, you pressed further, "Remus, you can talk to me. You don't have to bear it all alone."

A conflicted gaze met yours, the struggle evident in his eyes. "It's nothing, truly. Just the weight of these days catching up with me. I'll manage." Your concern deepened, but sensing his reluctance to share, you respected his boundaries for now.

The day unfolded with a cruel sense of déjà vu. Remus, despite his weariness and emotional burden, tried to inject a fresh approach into the familiar sequence of events. The battle at the Department of Mysteries, the chaotic clash of spells, the ominous echoes of laughter--each element remained unchanged. Yet, determined to break the cycle, Remus experimented with different spells and protective charms.

He cast Protego with unwavering precision, creating a shimmering shield to deflect incoming curses. "This has to make a difference," he muttered to himself, trying to convince the doubts that gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But the relentless onslaught of dark magic persisted, and the battle continued its inevitable descent into tragedy.

Summoning all his knowledge, Remus altered the incantations, hoping to catch the Death Eaters off guard. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted, attempting to disarm them before they could unleash their deadly curses. The brief reprieve was shattered as the Death Eaters retaliated with even greater ferocity.

Desperation fueled Remus as he ventured into uncharted territory, casting obscure charms and hexes. "Obscuro!" he exclaimed, attempting to blind the Death Eaters and gain an upper hand. The moments of disorientation, however, were fleeting, and the macabre symphony of battle continued, indifferent to his futile attempts.

As the battle reached its climax, Remus faced the pivotal moment where Lucius locked eyes with you. Panic surged through him, and he threw himself into the fray, determined to change the outcome. The familiar words echoed in the chamber, "You're in the way," and Remus intervened with a swift Protego, hoping against hope that this time it would be enough.

But the cold, callous sneer on Lucius Malfoy's face signaled the impending tragedy. "Avada Kadavra!" he spat, redirecting his attention to you. Remus, with a gut-wrenching realization, watched as the curse struck, your form crumpling to the ground.

"No!" he cried out, the anguish in his voice reverberating through the chamber. The loop reset, and Remus found himself back in the cold confines of 12 Grimmauld Place, his hopes shattered once again.

Dragging himself downstairs once again, Remus appeared even more weary than before. The weight of repeated failure weighed heavily on him, etching lines of exhaustion on his face. You couldn't help but notice the vulnerability in his eyes, a glimpse behind the composed facade he usually wore.

"Remus, are you alright?" you asked, genuine worry in your eyes.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping with a weariness that transcended physical fatigue. "It's just… this day. No matter what I do, I can't save you." His voice wavered, the vulnerability seeping through, but he quickly masked it with a cryptic smile.

Confusion furrowed your brow as you tried to grasp the meaning behind Remus's enigmatic words. "Remus, what are you talking about? Save me from what?" The lingering worry deepened in your eyes, a reflection of your genuine concern for the man standing before you, haunted by a reality you couldn't comprehend.

"Nothing, it's--" Remus cut himself off, silently excusing himself before walking away without another word.

"Okay..."

___________________________

Remus, his determination unbroken, decided to take a more strategic approach. The battle at the Department of Mysteries unfolded once again, and this time, he sought out specific members of the Order, warning them of the impending danger. His voice carried urgency as he attempted to alter the course of events.

"Moody, watch your left flank! Tonks, be ready for a surprise attack!" Remus's instructions were clear, and for a moment, it seemed as if the tides might turn in their favor. The Order members adjusted their positions, casting protective spells with a renewed sense of purpose. Hope flickered in Remus's eyes as he believed, if just for a moment, that the tragedy could be averted.

However, the echoes of fate remained unyielding. The Death Eaters adapted to the warnings, countering with a ferocity that matched their previous encounters. The battle unfolded with a cruel inevitability, and despite Remus's efforts to change the outcome, the same tragic events played out once more.

The desperation that lingered in Remus's heart deepened. As he witnessed the familiar scene of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange targeting you and Sirius, a sense of helplessness settled over him. The haunting laughter, the malicious spell--they painted a grim picture that Remus had grown all too accustomed to.

In the aftermath of the battle, Remus trudged back to 12 Grimmauld Place, the weight of repeated failure pressing heavily on his shoulders. The warnings he had issued, the strategic adjustments--they proved insufficient against the unyielding force of destiny. The loop reset, and Remus found himself standing on the precipice of another day filled with relentless echoes of grief.

Descending the stairs once more, he caught a glimpse of you engaged in conversation with Snape. The same casual chatter, the same blissful ignorance--a stark contrast to the turmoil that brewed within Remus. The cryptic nature of his plight weighed on him as he struggled to find a way to convey the depth of his torment without burdening you with the unbearable truth.

You noticed the weariness etched on Remus's face and approached him, concern evident in your eyes. "Remus, are you alright?" you asked, your voice filled with genuine worry.

His gaze met yours, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow in his eyes. "Just the weight of the world, my dear. Some battles can't be won, no matter how hard we try." Remus's words, though cryptic, carried a vulnerability that hinted at the struggle within his soul. The unspoken pain lingered, a silent plea for understanding that remained trapped in the relentless cycle of time.

The cycle repeated, and Remus, fueled by frustration and desperation, decided on a different strategy. As the battle at the Department of Mysteries unfolded once more, he focused on diverting the attention of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. Remus, moving with a sense of purpose, threw himself into the line of fire, attempting to draw their focus away from you and Sirius.

"Lucius! Over here!" he shouted, weaving through the chaotic battlefield. His wand cast spells in rapid succession, attempting to divert the Death Eaters' attention. Bellatrix, however, proved relentless, her maniacal laughter cutting through the chaos as she relentlessly pursued her intended targets.

Despite Remus's valiant efforts, the tragic events unfolded once again. Lucius and Bellatrix, undeterred by the distraction, seized the opportunity to unleash their deadly curses. Remus, witnessing the horrifying scene, felt a surge of fury and frustration. The unchanging reality mocked his attempts to alter the course of destiny.

Back in the cold confines of 12 Grimmauld Place, Remus awoke with a sense of bitter defeat. The room seemed to close in on him as the weight of failure settled heavily on his shoulders. Frustration boiled within him, and the echoes of the repeated tragedy fueled his anger.

Descending the stairs, Remus's usual composure gave way to a simmering rage. The frustration of being trapped in a seemingly endless loop manifested in his demeanor. As he caught sight of you, engaging in casual conversation with Snape, the turbulent emotions within him threatened to spill over. You, noticing Remus's anger, turned your attention to him. "Remus, what's the matter?"

"You just don't get it, do you?" Remus's voice, usually calm and measured, carried a venomous edge. The frustration that simmered beneath the surface erupted, and he couldn't contain the surge of emotion. "All these attempts, all these changes, and it doesn't matter. It's always the same. A futile cycle, and you're oblivious to it all!"

The chatter that kept the halls of Grimmauld Place lively turned dead silent as everyone turned their focus to the fuming werewolf.

Your eyes widened in surprise, hurt and confusion, the sudden outburst catching you off guard. The unexpected outburst from Remus left the room charged with tension. As he turned away, frustration etched across his face, you took a moment to gather your thoughts. The hurt in your eyes was palpable, but you couldn't let the bitterness in Remus's words go unanswered. You quickly follow after him upstairs.

"Remus," you began, your voice steady despite the hurt, "I don't understand what you're going through, but shutting me out won't help either of us. I just want to understand."

He turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of exhaustion and a longing he could no longer contain. "I can't tell you everything, but I need you to know something," Remus began, his voice carrying the weight of the countless days he had spent wrestling with the same torment. "I love you. It's more than just friendship, more than camaraderie. Every day I wake up and watch you die, and it tears me apart because I can't save you. But there's something else… something I've been too afraid to admit."

His words spilled out in a rambling confession, the barriers he had carefully constructed crumbling beneath the weight of his emotions. "I think you're the only one I want to spend the rest of my days with. I'm tired of facing this nightmare alone, tired of not telling you that I'm completely and hopelessly in love with you. Every day, I've been holding back, but I can't keep it in any longer. It's not like telling you is going to change anything anyway..."

You stood there, caught between confusion and a profound realization. Remus's admission, though tangled in the complexities of his emotions, resonated with a sincerity that touched your heart. The room seemed to still, the echoes of despair momentarily silenced by the raw honesty in his words.

Without fully comprehending the intricacies of his struggle, you knew that the man standing before you had bared his soul. The weight of his unspoken love, the burden he had carried in silence, echoed in the air. The conflicting emotions within you converged, and the overwhelming desire to bridge the gap between you and Remus took hold.

In a moment of clarity, you closed the distance between you and Remus, reaching up to cup his face gently. "Remus," you whispered, a mixture of tenderness and confusion in your eyes. "It changes everything. I may not understand everything you're going through, but I do know one thing." Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss against his lips, a gesture that conveyed both reassurance and the acknowledgment of a shared connection.

The next iteration of the relentless loop unfolded with a sense of impending dread. Remus, having memorized the sequence of events, knew the tragic outcome that awaited them at the Department of Mysteries. However, a newfound determination flickered in his eyes as he clung to the hope that this time might be different.

As the battle erupted, Remus focused his efforts on distracting Lucius Malfoy, drawing the Death Eater's attention away from you. The confrontation was intense, spells colliding with a fierce energy, and in the chaos, you seized the opportunity to evade the impending danger. Remus, sacrificing himself to protect you, bore the brunt of the attack meant for you.

A searing pain coursed through him, and the world blurred as Remus felt himself being knocked to the ground. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was your figure, safe and unharmed, disappearing into the chaos of the battle.

When Remus woke, his body aching, he found himself in a cold sweat within the familiar confines of 12 Grimmauld Place. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as the haunting reality of failure settled over him once again. He turned over in resignation, expecting to find himself alone, only to be met with an unexpected sight.

There, lying beside him, was you—alive and well. The shock of seeing you, unharmed and peacefully resting, jolted through Remus. He couldn't comprehend the deviation from the expected outcome, and a mix of confusion and relief washed over him.

"You're… here," he murmured, disbelief coloring his voice. The weight of the countless days he had spent watching you die lifted, replaced by a surreal sense of gratitude that left him momentarily speechless.

You stirred awake, sensing Remus's gaze upon you. As your eyes met his, he found solace in the warmth of your presence. "Remus, are you alright?" you asked, concern etched across your face.

He chuckled, a mix of exhaustion and relief in the sound. "I should be asking you that. I thought I had failed again."

A small smile played on your lips as you reached out to touch his cheek. "You saved me Remus. And Sirius too. It was like...you knew what was going to happen."

"That's because I did."

"What?"

"I'll explain it to you later darling. For now, please just let me hold you." Remus pulled you close to him, your head tucked into his neck, legs pressed together, his arm around your waist securely.

"Hey Remus?" you whispered.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I love you."

In that moment, surrounded by the shadows of 12 Grimmauld Place, Remus Lupin felt a flicker of hope reignite within him. The unending loop had broken, and the person he had spent countless days trying to save was by his side. The weight of the past lifted, leaving room for a future where love and resilience triumphed over the relentless march of time.

[bugzbun]

Slenderman x reader [5]

My heart raced as Jeff lunged toward me with the glinting knife in his hand, his face contorted into a manic grin. The emotions I felt, the panic and fear, surged through me, but I couldn't let it paralyze me.

Instinctively, I raised the kitchen knife I had brought with me, my grip was shaky on its handle and time seemed to slow as our blades clashed, the sound of metal meeting metal ringing in my ears. I could feel the vibration through my hand. 

Jeff's manic laughter filled the air, his strength pushing against mine as he pressed on with the attack. I felt my knees shake as I struggled to keep him at bay, the kitchen knife being no match for his, more menacing blade. ( Think that [y/n]'s knife was used being in the kitchen and all, I could see Jeff keeping new knives on hand.)

Alfie, perched on my shoulder, urged me on. "You can't let him win, [y/n]! Fight back!"

Alfie's words made me feel more determined and I pushed against Jeff with all my might, pushing him back, managing to create some distance between us. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to catch my bearings.

The flashlight, knocked out of my hand, now lay on the ground, casting odd shadows in the forest. Jeff, who I could just make out in the dim light, continued to advance.

But just as he lunged toward me again, a strange sensation coursed through my body. It was as if the forest itself responded to my fear. The very trees seemed to come alive, their gnarled branches extending toward Jeff, restraining him and stopping him in his advance.

I watched in awe as the trees held him back, this was their ancient and eerie power manifesting to protect me.

"Alfie, what's happening?" I whispered in disbelief, my voice trembling.

Alfie's tiny wings fluttered with astonishment as she stuttered to reply. "I-I don't know!"

With the tress keeping Jeff at bay, I found a newfound confidence, I took a step forward, the kitchen knife still in my hand, and faced Jeff. His manic laughter before now had turned to frustration as he struggled against the tree's hold.

"I don't know what you want," I said firmly, my heart pounding in my chest. "but you won't hurt me or anyone else."

The forest seemed to mirror my determination, and the trees tightened their grip on Jeff, the branches twisting and curling around him. He grunted in pain and fury, his struggles were pointless against the power that now protected me. (this sounds familiar, huh?)

I watched as the tress creaked and almost groaned as they seemed to loom over Jeff until he was fully covered by the trees and I couldn't see anything more. 

As the first rays of dawn broke through the forest canopy, the trees released their hold on Jeff, and he crumpled to the ground, defeated and seemingly powerless.

I cautiously approached him, my heart still racing but with a sense of triumph. He was still, I reached down and retrieved a page he had stuck on him, my guess from one of the trees.

Alfie, who had remained on my shoulder throughout the ordeal, somehow, chimed in with relief. "We did it, [y/n]." 

I nodded, a sense of accomplishment and closure washing over me. With the page in hand, we made our way out of the forest, leaving Jeff defeated and broken in its depths. The sun had fully risen by the time we reached the safety of my home. I carefully examined the page we had collected, "CAN'T RUN"

I felt a pit in my stomach as I read the words scribbled hastily on the old page. I looked at Alfie.

"I won't rest until there's an end to this nightmare once and for all."

As I collected each of the pages I had found, I carefully pinned them to the wall in my room. The pages, with their unsettling words and drawings, seemed to come alive in the dim light coming from a little lamp on my nightstand. Their edges, once crisp and clean, now weathered and frayed, as if they had aged centuries in mere days.

As silly as it felt, I couldn't shake the feeling that they, the pages, were watching me. Their inked words danced before my eyes, their cryptic message etching themselves into my mind. I would often find myself staring at the pages for hours on end, losing track of time as my mind delved deeper into their mysteries.

My obsession with finding the remaining ones grew stronger with each passing day, and I would sometimes talk to the pages as if they were my only companions. 

"Where are you other pages?" I'd whisper to them, but no response came from the inanimate sheets of paper. 

But it wasn't just the pages that haunted me. It felt like with each addition to the wall, a relentless drumming sound began to echo in my ears. At first, it was a distant and almost soothing rhythm.

Yet, with each new page added to the wall, the drumming grew louder. It was faint and distant at first but now It was a rhythmic pounding that only I could hear, growing louder. The drumming seemed to almost being coming from the very heart of the forest, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked within. 

As I had pinned the fourth page to the wall, I felt a sense of dread wash over me. Why? Why was this happening? The pages, once a source of curiosity, had changed and become an obsession.

I couldn't ignore the fact that I was changing either. This realization scared me, My thoughts became more erratic, my once peaceful sleep now plagued by nightmares that left me gasping for air. And that constant  drumming, it never ceased. It followed me everywhere, even in my dreams.

One night, as I lay in bed, unable to escape the drumming that pounded in my ears, I heard a voice. It was faint at first, like a whisper carried by the wind. But it grew louder, more insistent, until it felt like it was inside my head.

"[Y/n], you must find them. " the voice urged, its tone urgent and commanding.

I sat up, heart pounding, searching for the source of the voice. There was no one in the room with me, and the voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"The forest is calling to you," it continued.

I couldn't resist the compulsion that gripped me. With trembling hands, I rose from my bed, determined to follow the voice and the drumming that led me deeper into the heart of the forest.

Little did I know that's what it wanted, and my quest for the remaining pages would lead me down a path from which there might be no return.

As I ventured deeper into the forest, the world around me seemed to transform into something strait out of a movie. The trees loomed taller, their branches intertwining like old guardians, and the ground beneath my feet seemed to pulse with an energy. The voice I heard earlier was like a constant companion as it led me further into this surreal wilderness. Its whispers became louder, clearer, almost as if it was walking beside me now, it urged me forward.

At times, I could sense a presence lurking just beyond my vision in the trees. Slenderman, with his featureless face and elongated limbs, tormented me with glimpses of his presence that made my head start to throb in pain and my vision blurred, forcing to look away, sighing in relief when he'd disappear.

I had found the 5th page, "FOLLOWS" it read with a pen sketching of a tree and the shape of Slenderman. The drums, got even louder, I felt like I could feel it in my heart. It sent aches through my chest but I knew I couldn't stop. I need to continue, I had too. 

In the distance I could hear a familiar voice calling out my name. 

"[y/n]!?" It called, echoed with the crunching of leaves under my feet as I continued, passing an odd old faded red silo. 

"Where did this come from?" I thought, my thoughts felt hazy. I didn't care that much, I focused my view on a white page fluttered in the gentle breeze. Th 6th page. I grabbed it with my hands shaky, it was another drawing of Slenderman with words surrounding him "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO" 

I could feel my pulse quicken as I could feel how close I was to finding them all, I hurried to continue on but my foot hooked onto a lifted tree root causing me to trip and fall forward onto my hands and knees. I hissed in pain at small jagged rocks and sticked poked and scraped my skin. The voice called out again, this time it sounded like two. 

"{y/n], come back!" The second one, sounded more mature, motherly. Both familiar. I pushed myself up from the forest floor, pausing to breathe slowly, just in front of me was another page however. My exhale came out shakily as I reached out for it, the 7th one.  "DONT LOOK OR IT TAKES YOU" 

I heard a branch snap behind me and my blood felt cold through out my body. I breathed in slowly and let out a shaky breath.

"[Y/n] Don't!" I heard the same voice yell, and I couldn't help it. I turned my body to to look behind me. 

There looming tall above me was Slenderman but this time more sinister looking, inky black tendrils basically covered his tall form, his hands where longer and more boney looking and sharp like claws of an animal or a demon , His face, had shadowed contours outlining where his eyes and nose would be, but his mouth. 

 I felt my face pale as I felt fear shake me to my core. 

His mouth, this time, was ripped open from the normal white abyss of nothing, it looked like a spiders web that was torn and stringy and through it, I could see a inky black sharp tongue, it dripped with thick black ooze. 

I screamed just as he lunged at me, Slenderman's lunge was swift, his elongated limbs closing the distance between us in an instant. Panic surged through me as I stumbled backward, my scream echoing through the eerie woods.  

Just as Slenderman closed in, a figure burst from the shadows. I couldn't believe my eyes, as I noticed the familiar [m/h/c] hair, It was my mother, (Because moms know everything!) her eyes filled with determination She collided with Slenderman, a force of maternal fury, and they tumbled to the forest floor.

"Leave my child alone, you monster!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the trees. "[Y/n], Run!" 

I stood there, frozen in terror and disbelief. And I knew deep down that my mother was no match for the dark entity that was Slenderman. She had risked everything to protect me, to give me a chance to escape, but it was a battle she couldn't win.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the struggle, Slenderman's inky tendrils writhed and lashed out, while my mother fought back with all the strength she could muster.

The forest itself seemed to watch in silence, as if holding its breath, as they continued. The drumming sound that had haunted me was now louder, a relentless, thundering rhythm that shook through the very ground beneath my feet. My head was throbbing, a splitting headache overcame me. 

"HOLD ON!" I heard the other voice from earlier shout, as something zipped pass me. I could see, in the light of the moon, Alfie. She rushed towards the intense struggle between my mother and Slenderman, her movements swift and determined. Emitting a light that stunned him enough for my mother to seize this opportunity to scramble to her feet, gasping for breath and clutching her side where Slenderman's tendrils had grazed her. Blood seeped through her fingers, staining her clothes. She turned towards me, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and relief.

"[Y/n], run!" she pleaded, her voice strained from pain and exhaustion. The drumming sound grew louder and more unbearable, pounding in my head.

But instead of fleeing, a strange compulsion overcame me. I couldn't ignore the overwhelming urge to plead with Slenderman, to try and reason with this malevolent entity that had tormented my life for so long.

"Please," I whispered, my voice trembling, "please, don't hurt them. I'll do anything you want. Just spare them."

My words hung in the air, the forest silent except for the relentless drumming that beat in my skull. Slenderman paused, his shadowy form hovering ominously, tendrils still poised to strike at Alfie.

For a moment, I dared to hope that my plea had reached him, that there might be some flicker of mercy in this monstrous being. But my optimism was short lived.

With a swift motion, Slenderman's tendrils lashed out at Alfie, Her body was flung through the air, and she collided with a tree with a sickening thud before crumpling to the ground. A pained gasp escaped her lips, and I watched in horror as she lay motionless.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that my plea had fallen on deaf ears, that there was no reasoning with this abomination. Slenderman's evil knew no bounds. I gasped softly, bringing a hand to cover my trembling lips.

My mother, despite her injuries, crawled towards the fallen Alfie, her maternal instinct overriding her own pain. (Aw) She reached out a trembling hand to check on her, her face etched with sorrow. I could see the tears in her eyes, tears of both physical and emotional pain.

Slenderman loomed over them, He almost seemed to feed on their suffering. I felt a surge of anger and helplessness, knowing that I had failed to protect them. 

"I SAID STOP!" I shouted, my brows furrowed in anger, Slenderman turned his attention to me and I stood firm as the drums reached their highest volume now, my heart pounded in rhythm with their relentless beat. The forest around me seemed to pulse with energy, and the world grew darker with each passing second.

"What to you want!?" My voice quivered as I shouted, He was now looming over me extended his long, bony hand toward me. It was twisted looking, fingers were like skeletal branches, reaching out for mine.

I could hear his voice echoing in my mind, it was like a chilling whisper that sent shivers down my spine. His voice sounded like it held an insatiable hunger.

"You," He hissed, a echo of whispers and tormented souls resonating in the background. 

I hesitated for a moment, my gaze locked onto that outstretched hand, feeling the weight of all the terror and despair that Slenderman had brought into my life, But as the drums pounded louder, drowning out every rational thought, I knew there was no other choice. 

Thoughts of Jeff came back to mind, My mother and then finally Alfie's lifeless body. I blinked away tears that stung in my eyes and I sniffled, with trembling fingers, I reached out, my hand inching closer to his.

The world around me started to fade to black, and the drums' rhythm engulfed me entirely. It was a deafening crescendo of darkness. 

Finally I felt his cold slender fingers intertwine with mine, sending an unknown feeling through me and in that final moment, I was consumed by the unknown, my fate forever intertwined with the entity that was Slenderman.

And then, there was nothing. Just the relentless beating of those drums, echoing into eternity.

End

[tangythefox123]

⭐️✨All about me✨⭐️

♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆

Name: Tangy the fox (I dont share my actual name online)

Gender: Female ♀️

Pronouns: She/her/hers (Any female pronouns)

⚠️I want to say i am currently under the age of 18!⚠️

i prefer not to share my age

Fandom i like: Sonic (obviously) and my hero academia

Shows i really like: Sonic boom, mha (my hero academia) sonic prime

Favourite ice cream flavours!: vanilla and bubble gum

Favourite fictional characters: (sth) Silver the Hedghog and Charmy bee (mha) tenya ida

favourite colours: Blue, green and purple!!

favourite ships/couples: espio x silver, Sonic x shadow, Vector x vanilla, blaze x amy, Scourge x manic, tails x cream, Knuckles x rouge, Bakugo x deku, charmy x ray

Ships i dont rlly mind: sonic x knuckles, tails x zooey, tails x cosmo, shadow x metal sonic, amy x surge, blaze x surge, mighty x ray, tails x ray

ships I hate: sonic x amy, mephiles x silver, shadow x silver, silver x blaze, silver x amy, sonic x tails, sonic x sally, shadow x sally, mighty x espio, vector x espio, shadow x amy

Art/edit apps i use: Ibis paint x, Flipa flip and cap cut

Commissions?: i do not do commissions yet, i can do art trades and requests if its an drawing i can do or a ship i like

♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆

[sonicshipbattles]

Amy Tournament: Submitted Ship List

This is the full list of ships submitted for the tournament, omitting any that were disqualified. Please read through it and let me know if anything has been missed or if you feel something should be subjected to an inclusion poll (i.e. a vote to see if the ship should be included or not) Once the match-ups have been posted (which will happen after I've made all the images and arranged them on the grid), all ships will be locked in and there'll be not more editing to what's included, so let me know of any changes quick if you need to

Amy (Black Rose)/Amy (Rusty Rose)/Amy (Thorn Rose) Amy (Modern)/Amy (Sonic Boom) Amy/Anton Veruca Amy/Aubrey (Omori) Amy/Bark Amy/Basil (Omori) Amy/Belle Amy/Blaze Amy/Blaze (IDW) Amy (Nimue)/Blaze (Percival) Amy (Paladin)/Blaze (Percival) Amy/Blaze/Elise/Sally Amy/Blaze/Espio/Silver/Sonic Amy/Blaze/Sally Amy/Blaze/Silver Amy/Blaze/Sonic Amy/Blaze/Sticks Amy/Blaze/Sticks/Surge Amy/Blaze/Surge Amy/Blaze/Tekno Amy/Brittany Miller (Alvin and the Chipmunks) Amy/Coral Amy/Dexter (imaginary boyfriend) Amy/E-102 Gamma Amy/Elise Amy/Espio Amy/Espio/Silver Amy/Fiona Amy (Classic)/her hammer Amy/her love for destiny (tarot) Amy/Honey Amy/Jewel Amy/Jewel/Tangle/Whisper Amy/Jewel/Surge Amy/Johnny Lightfoot Amy/Knuckles (General) Amy/Knuckles (Sonic Boom) Amy/Knuckles/Shadow/Sonic Amy/Knuckles/Sonic Amy/Lanolin Amy/Manic Amy/Maria Amy (Nimue)/Merlina Amy/Metal Sonic (General) Amy/Metal Sonic (Classic) Amy (Rusty Rose)/Metal Sonic Amy/Metal Sonic/Shadow Amy/Metal Sonic/Sonic Amy/Metal Sonic/Surge Amy/Metal Sonic/Tekno Amy/Mina Amy/Nicole/Sally Amy/No One Amy/Rainbow Dash (My Little Pony) Amy/Ricky Amy/Rouge Amy/Sally Amy/Sally/Sonic Amy/Scourge Amy/Shadow (General) Amy/Shadow (Archie) Amy (Black Rose)/Shadow Amy (Rusty Rose)/Shadow Amy/Shadow (Sonic Boom) Amy (Thorn Rose)/Shadow Amy/Shadow/Silver/Sonic Amy/Shadow/Sonic Amy/Silver Amy/Sonia Amy/Sonic (General) Amy (Black Rose)/Sonic Amy/Sonic (IDW) Amy/Sonic (Modern) Amy/Sonic (Nicky) Amy (Nimue)/Sonic (King Arthur) Amy (Rusty Rose)/Sonic Amy/Sonic (Sonic Boom) Amy/Sonic (Sonic X) Amy (Thorn Rose)/Sonic Amy/Sonic (Werehog) Amy/Sticks (Modern) Amy/Sticks (Sonic Boom) Amy (Thorn Rose)/Sticks Amy/Sticks/Surge Amy/Surge Amy/Surge/Tekno Amy/Tangle/Whisper Amy/Tekno Amy (Rusty Rose)/Tekno Amy/Tikal Amy/Trip Amy/Whisper Amy/X-Robot

[bullet-prooflove]

Muffled Screams Part 5: Blame Game - Will Halstead x Reader

Tagging: @daniacat​   @misscharlielulu​   @cosmic-psychickitty​   @tonio-dawson​   @brianbabygirlzvonecek​   @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff​  @ikbenplant​     @gummybabey​    @rosaliedepp​    @annieradcliff​   @mrspeacem1nusone​   @sowrongitslottie​   @readingbookelf​    @earthtolottie​   @crazy4chickennuggets​   @cixrosie​     @halsteadloversworld​   @zaidatorcuatomorgado​   @horny-and-sad27​    @oneandonlychicago​     @lxna-mikaelsxn​   @1234-angelika​   @wolfers-stuff​      @bradshawsdarlin​ 

Part One: Muffled Screams

Part Two: Wonderland

Part Three: The Man In The Corner

Part Four: Red Door

Will’s hands were shaking, the tremble seemed to vibrate up arms and throughout his body as he sat in the doctor’s lounge. He placed his hands on his knees, his fingertips scrapping across the harsh fabric of his jeans. He did it again, and then again, and then again, listening to the noise it made. There was something soothing about the sound, it drew his attention focusing it there, so he didn’t have to think about the blood that was ingrained within his swirls of his fingertips.

His head snapped up as the door swung open as Jay came hurtling through, his blue eyes wide as they fixated on his brother.

“Did she try to kill herself?” he asked, his tone rushed as he collapsed onto the couch along side of Will.

“I…” Will paused, pursing his lips together as he shook his head. “I’m not sure what she was trying to do.” His nails scratched across the denim as he remembered the smears of blood on the wall, the way it seemed to run in copper rivets. “I think something triggered her.” He said pointing to his head. “There’s this song that was playing…”

“What do you mean triggered her? I had coffee with her a few days ago. I thought she was getting better.”

“Is that what she told you?”

Will twisted his head towards his brother, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown. He knew from the look on the other man’s face that you hadn’t been honest with him. You hadn’t told him that you were up all hours of the night pacing, banging things about, restlessly exercising in the living room trying to wear yourself out. Or the fact you’d jump out of your skin because that hallucination, that vision that he couldn’t see would appear like a ghost. Sometimes you’d fall sleep in the middle of a conversation and it would be as if the two of you hadn’t even been talking at all.

“She said she was doing good.”

Jay searched his eyes and Will knew it was time to burst that bubble because the truth was, he couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t tackle this problem alone. There was a bitterness on his tongue, you were always trying to shield Jay away from the worst of things and rankled Will right now. It pissed him off that his brother got to be so naïve, so fucking innocent when he was the perpetrator of this mess. It had been Jay who had talked you into undertaking this case, Jay who knew your history, insisted it could be of use, that you were the only person who could walk in there and make them believe you were one of them. He hated his brother in that moment, hated that he had disrupted your lives, stripped away your future, his future too.

“She isn’t doing good Jay, all you had to do was look at her to see that.” He snapped, the surge of rage sending him to his feet. “You didn’t notice the amount of weight she’s lost or the fact she struggles to focus on a conversation. How about the dark circles under her eyes? Or how fucking erratic and manic she can be? I don’t know what fucking planet you are on, but anyone can see that she is not alright.”

“Will…”

Will held out a hand to stop him.

“Don’t…” he uttered, swallowing hard against the well of emotion in his chest. “Just don’t alright? I can’t do this with you at the moment.”

“Do what?” Jay questioned, raising to his feet. “Tell me how this is all my fault, that I let her down, because I know that Will, I know that’s what I did.”

Something snapped inside of Will, he could feel it like a coil tensing before it finally broke under the tension, under the pressure, under the knowledge that all of this could have been avoided if they all stopped keeping fucking secrets.

“You have no fucking idea what you did.” Will snarled, the anguish pouring out of him. “She was getting out Jay, she was resigning. The day you persuaded her to go undercover was the day she was supposed to be handing in her papers. She was meant to be free of all this shit with Intelligence, all the nightmares, all the fucking trauma she’d endured, and you just drew her back in, played on her fucking empathy for those girls.”

The colour drained from Jay’s face, Will watched it ebb away as his knees seemed to buckle from underneath him. He pressed his hands together in front of him as if in prayer.

“She was getting out…” he repeated, closing his eyes for a brief minute.

“Yeah.” Will crossed his arms over his chest. “She was leaving.”

He heard the choke in Jay’s chest, the way his breath caught. He blinked rapidly as he rubbed his hands over his face.

“I did this.” He said looking up at Will.

“Yea.” Will told him. “You did.”

Big Fan of Will! Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bunnymajo]

Top 5 or 10 Sonic characters who aren't from the games? (or aren't primarily from the games, I guess??)

Hard Mode: I'm not including Surge, Kit & Elias

10) Tekno the Canary - I've only read a smidge of Fleetway and just know her by proxy but I love her. Adorable design, smart tech-y girl, instantly loveable.

09) Saffron Bee - I just feel so bad for her & I think her story is really interesting from her perspective, a teenage girl engaged to become royalty (I can't remember if she was already a princess in her own right) but her home gets destroyed, her fiance captured, they get him back but he's reverted to a childlike state and become his caretaker - there were plans apparently to brutally kill her off?? and now she's fated to never be used again.

I just want this bee to be happy ;.;

08) Lara-Le & Wymacher - I love this little married couple. I'm glad Lara-Le's with someone who respects her, and I like Lara-Le as Knuckles mom, she seems like a nice spunky church lady mom.

07) Kneecaps - Kneecaps! Light of my life, taken from us too quickly. Deserves the world.

06) Anita/Tania the Hedgehog - I love the idea of Sonic having a baby sister so much. I guess Cream kinda takes that roll now? But never forget the OG

05) Manic & Sonia the Hedgehog - Love them both for different reasons. Manic being a chill punk dude with a tendency for kleptomania and Sonia a social debutant that will karate chop you. Sonic having a hedgehog family might not ever come back into play for him, but I hope if it does Manic & Sonia can be part of it.

04) Clutch the Opossum - I didn't get him at first but now I really love Clutch as a mainstay villain. If Eggman is bombastic and always upfront about his villainy - Clutch is more quiet and calculated. A seedy type that's up for a long con, and I think that's an interesting element to the franchise. I want to see what he does next.

03) Bunnie Rabbot - Bunny girl with a southern drawl, powerhouse moveset, body image issues, romance with a goofy man who drinks his respect women juice, has an artistic flare, sweet & sassy. Sometimes I feel like Bunnie was like made to appeal to me specifically.

02) Tangle the Lemur - The whole reason I decided to check out IDW Sonic was because I saw her (and then later Whisper's) design and thought "woah who is that? she looks cute!" and I still think she's immediately charming. She's fun, adventurous, silly, likes to punch, kind & loyal to her friends, what's not to like?

01) Cosmo - I've always liked Cosmo, I think she has a cute design, her more shy & reserved personality was a nice balance to the Sonic X cast. Even if she was always kinda fated to die, her resolve to sacrifice herself was really noble. I hope something can be worked out so Cosmo can come back in some form or another (like at least on some merch, like c'mon Sega!)