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kentopedia · 4 months

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˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

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h-grangers · 1 year

Text

bad idea right?: theodore nott x fem!reader (based on the first verse of the song ‘bad idea right?’ by olivia rodrigo)

warnings: modern day hogwarts with phones, not proofread!

it’s been months. sure, you’ve seen him in the hallways and during potions class, but the last time you two had interacted was christmas (and it was now nearly summer).

it was too long. too long since you’ve interacted with anyone romantically, actually. that’s why when lavender and parvati asked you to go the three broomsticks, you willingly complied. apparently madam rosmerta had booked the weird sisters for one night only and nearly every student in hogwarts was planning on attending.

as the three of you entered the extremely overcrowded pub, you headed straight for the bar. the plan was that you’d sit prettily on a stool and hope one of the many boys would approach you and offer to buy you a firewhiskey. if not, you’d still buy the firewhiskey yourself anyway. anything to take your mind of him.

no sooner had the handsome boy behind the counter handed you your drink, you felt your phone buzz in your back pocket. if you hadn’t been wearing a very tight black leather skirt, you probably wouldn’t have felt it, and you definitely wouldn’t have heard it with ‘like a hippogriff’ playing in the background.

you took your phone out of your pocket with slightly furrowed brows. the only people who ever called you were most likely in this room or your mother, who would definitely be asleep at this hour.

your mouth fell open as you read the name on your screen. you couldn’t bring yourself to delete his phone number but regardless you hadn’t ever expected to see the name Theo appear again.

your shock prevented you from answering the first time (not that you had even considered it). surely it was mistake? was he not at the party right now? your eyes scanned the room for him. you could make out draco’s blond hair and crabbe’s muscular build but no theo in sight. was it a joke then?

your confusion quickly turned to anger. tonight you were supposed to take your mind off him, but instead he managed made it about himself. the phone in your hand began to buzz a second time and you excused yourself from lavender and parvati (who were too busy eyeing up the bartender to realise that you had left) and went out back to the smoking area.

it was like he was everywhere. the smell of cigarette smoke coming from a bunch of sixth years in the far corner was all too familiar. you leaned against the stone wall and hit the answer button so angrily that it was a miracle that the screen was still intact.

‘i have no clue what you think you’re doing Nott-’

‘where are you?’ his voice cut yours off and his statement took you by surprise. was he actually that dense?

you pinched the bridge of your nose. he was never a controlling boyfriend but he would get jealous very easily. you could understand his question if you two were still together, not six months after things had ended.

‘where every other student in hogwarts is tonight. except for you though, apparently.’

‘the three broomsticks?’ you could practically see his amused expression in your mind. it didn’t help your anger. ‘i thought that you were a ‘let’s skip hogsmeade trips and stay in bed all day’ kind of girl?’

the many memories of you two taking advantage of his empty dorm room flooded your mind and your face flushed red.

‘what do you want Nott?’

‘you.’ his answer was straightforward and simple. you knew you could sense some undertone when he called. of course- this wasn’t a regular call. this was a booty call.

‘no.’ you replied, not even hesitating. it was a bad idea.

‘what’ he teased, ‘can’t remember how to get to the slytherin dorms? i’ll text you a detailed route if you want’

you could hear his heavy breathing down the other end of the phone, mixed with the chatter and laughter of the smokers in the corner and the muffled music coming from inside the bar. he was so bloody seductive and infuriating and annoying and sexy.

‘you do know that we’re done, right? completely through of each other?’ you muttered.

‘speak for yourself.’ he replied back and you bit your lip in thought.

did he stay in hogwarts tonight knowing that if he tried calling you, you’d fold easily? no matter how many times you said you didn’t like him anymore, was there actually a small part of you that knew you’d never actually moved on?

every time you’d pass him in the hallways you’d avert your eyes, but not before stealing a small glance at him. every time you got a glimpse of his hair that you loved to run your hands through, or his lips that were so kissable, your brain did go a bit fuzzy.

like right now. right now, you couldn’t focus on your thoughts, like a monkey was clanging drums around in your brain. you weren’t drunk. you didn’t have time to even take a sip of firewhiskey. you couldn’t blame the fact that you were intoxicated.

no, the reason that you were considering ditching the party was because realistically, no other men tonight would compare to him. because theo was very much superior.

‘i shouldn’t. it’s a bad idea if i see you tonight’ you said. you weren’t convincing yourself though, and most certainly not him.

‘your right. a very bad idea if we do’ he said and you could still hear the amusement in his voice. he was enjoying this. and the fact that you two shouldn’t be together tonight only made it that more exciting.

‘y/nnnnn’ he dragged your name out after several moments of silence. ‘i need you tonight. all of you. every inch of your bo-’

‘fuck it.’ you said loudly, thankful that the smoking sixth years had departed. ‘fine. give me five minutes.’

‘and there’s my girl’ he said, before abruptly hanging up.

you made your way hurriedly back through the bar as if your life depended on it. you were inches from the door before a hand grabbed your wrist.

‘where are you going ?’ lavender said, her nails digging into your skin.

‘back to the castle, the strobe lights are starting to give me a migraine.’ you lied.

‘y/n’ lavender said sternly. ‘was that Nott on the phone?’

of course lavender knew. she could read you like an open book. there was really no point in lying to her any further.

‘listen lavender-’

‘he’s your ex y/n. he had you crying for weeks after you two broke up.’

‘i’m going to talk to him!’ you said, which was technically true. you did want to talk about some things that happened during the break up. ‘besides can’t we reconnect on a friends-with-history-and-now-benefits level?’

‘so your only seeing him as a friend?’ she asked. even in the darkness, you could see her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

‘yes’ you nodded your head earnestly.

biggest lie you ever said.

#theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theo nott x you #theodore nott x y/n #theo nott x y/n #harry potter #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #mattheo riddle #lorenzo berkshire

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alottiegoingon · 3 months

Text

our song

jackie taylor x gn!reader

summary: where the famous singer jackie taylor writes an entire album for actor!reader after three years apart.

warnings: cursing, angst but happy and sweet ending, not proofread.

you were the luckiest person in the entire world. the great jackie taylor, with her magnetic personality and soaring career as a talented singer, had chosen you to be her partner. with millions of fans captivated by her melodic voice and genuine charm, she wasn't just a star but a phenomenon. her albums topped charts, her concerts sold out within minutes, and her presence lit up every room she entered.

as for you, your career as an actor was blossoming. you had worked tirelessly to earn your place in hollywood, landing roles that showcased your versatility and dedication. small and perhaps insignificant ones at first but slowly turning into something that captivated the public. together, you and jackie were a power couple, admired for your talent, grace, and the undeniable chemistry that sparked between you both on and off-media.

♫

jackie reclined on the sun-dappled blanket, her fingers interlaced with yours as the two of you lay in the park, soaking up the warmth of the late afternoon sun. the serene setting offered a rare moment of peace amidst your otherwise chaotic lives, practically a miracle.

“it's still the same as when we first came here,” jackie pointed, eyes sparkling with the memory. “you tried to impress me by catching that frisbee and ended up tripping over your own feet.”

you chuckled, grip tightening around hand. “hey, i still maintain that the ground was uneven. besides, you were impressed. i saw you trying not to laugh.”

she rolled her eyes playfully. “i was laughing with you, not at you. there’s a difference.”

“of course there is,” you teased. “wouldn’t it be wonderful if every day could be as peaceful as this?” murmuring, you gently lose your grip on jackie’s hand to play with her fingers, twirling the rings adorning her index finger.

she exhaled contentedly, leaning her head against your shoulder. “it would be perfect,” she agreed. “though, knowing us, we’d probably get bored. like that time when we decided to make pasta from scratch at 2 AM and almost destroyed the kitchen."

you laughed, the memory bringing a warm glow to your heart. “you ended up covered in flour, and we had to clean the whole apartment. but it was worth it, even if it tasted vile.”

jackie giggled, her eyes widening. “vile? it was insufferable,” she reminds you, marveling at your different perspective, probably because you were too happy being with her to care about the food.

before you could respond, both your phones buzzed simultaneously, pulling you back to reality. you exchanged a resigned glance and picked up your phone to find a message urgently demanding your presence on your manager's office.

fuck. nothing good could ever come off this.

in the sleek, modern office, the atmosphere grew heavy. yours and jackie’s manager gave you both uneasy glances before addressing you.

“thank you for coming on such short notice,” he began, his tone serious. it couldn't be good. “as you know, the fan frenzy is getting out of control.”

that was his polite way of demanding your relationship to end.

jackie raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a wry smile. “so, let me get this straight. you think breaking up will magically stop our fans from being obsessed? what’s next, telling the sun not to shine?”

your manager sighed, running a hand through his hair. “it's about your careers. you haven't released new music in months," he faces jackie for a moment. "and your latest movie faced a lot of unnecessary backlash because of the rumors. this isn’t sustainable.”

jackie’s expression hardened. “so we should just give up on each other because it’s convenient for you? that’s absurd.”

"we’re not saying it’s forever, jackie. just until things calm down. you both have worked so hard to get where you are. don’t let this jeopardize everything.”

jackie took a minute to absorb the suggestion, and your lips parted in shock as she somehow seemed convinced by all that nonsense.

you looked at her, your heart breaking at the thought of losing her. half of you were furious, holding yourself to now jump on the mid aged man in front of you and ripping his fancy hair our for suggesting such a cruel idea. the other half... “jackie, you can't actually be considering this.”

she took a deep sharp breath. “i don’t want to lose you, but I also don’t want to hold you back," you wanted to tell her that she could never hold you back, but you had a immense lump stuck on your throat. "maybe... maybe they’re right. maybe we need to focus on our careers for now.”

“jackie,” you whispered, reaching for her hand. “this isn’t what i want. i don’t care about the fans or the media. i care about you.”

she squeezed your hand back tightly, her voice trembling. “i know. but maybe... maybe this is the only way. for now.”

yet, the 'for now' turned into three years.

♫

three years had passed since the decision was made for you and jackie to go on separate ways. for jackie, those three years became a period of creative hibernation, or at least that's what she told the media. once a prolific artist whose songs resonated deeply with millions, she withdrew from the limelight entirely.

meanwhile, your life had taken a different trajectory. the breakup had fueled a fire within you, driving you to immerse yourself in your work. acting roles came flooding in, and with each new character you portrayed, you climbed higher in the movie industry ranks. yet, no amount of success could fill the void jackie had left behind. you buried yourself in scripts, hiding from the emotions that threatened to break through.

your latest project had brought you to a new movie set, where you worked tirelessly to bring your character to life. the film set became your sanctuary and your proving ground, especially after your ex-girlfriend had came back to the public's eye, releasing a new album out of nowhere.

oh, that's why you had been receiving so many calls and texts and spending a lot of time ignoring every single one. it didn't surprise you that her name was all over the internet, doubling your efforts to avoid her name like the plague. you didn't give a fuck about jackie taylor.

or you liked to think you didn't.

it was during a rare moment of downtime that you heard it—her voice, lilting and haunting, spilling from the trailer of your co-star.

you stumbled upon the trailer nestled within the labyrinthine studio lot. melodies drifted through the half-open door, the familiar voice stirring memories you had tried so hard to forget. curious, you approached quietly, recognizing it instantly.

as you leaned against the doorframe, the lyrics unfolded like a poignant reflection of your shared history. you remained silent, unseen, grappling with the emotions stirred by each familiar verse.

as the song ended, your first instinct was to rush back to your own trailer, tears welling up in your eyes. you should have been studying your lines and preparing for filming, but instead, you found yourself hurrying to listen to your ex-girlfriend's new album after years apart.

with trembling hands, you opened your laptop, fingers shaking as you searched for jackie’s latest album. the cursor hesitated over the play button, torn between reluctance and a deep yearning to hear her voice.

you pressed play and jackie's haunting melodies filled the small space of your trailer. the first song washed over you like a wave, stirring memories long buried in your heart. each verse unveiled a tapestry of emotions—love, longing, regret—all laid bare in her soulful voice.

after listening to the entire album, you became a sobbing wreck by the time the final track ended. all that remained certain was the need to see her, torn between sadness for jackie, pitying her regretful confession delivered so cowardly, and fury at how she chose to reveal it all.

without a second thought, you booked a flight to the city where jackie lived, not caring about the scenes they were supposed to film later that day, leaving it all behind. you had better plans.

♫

jackie had just finished a late-night interview, her thoughts drifting back to you as they often did. the doorbell rang, startling her from her reverie. she wasn't expecting anyone to show up, and definitely not you.

opening the door, she was met with your familiar face, just like she remembered. her heart leaped into her throat, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

"really, an album? you couldn't have called me to tell me this is how you felt after three years?" your voice trembled with a mixture of anger and longing, finally beating the silence.

"it's nice to see you too. you look nice."

"really? i miss you every day since that day and you decided to put your feelings in a stupid album instead of talking to me?"

jackie's attempt to brush the awkwardness away was useless when you could perfectly see the fear in her face. "i didn't know how to reach out to you."

"you didn't know how to reach out to me?" you repeated, your voice rising. "we've been through so much together, and you thought an album was the best way to communicate?"

her expression hardened, hands clenched into fists. "do you think it was easy for me? do you think I wanted to put everything into songs?"

"yes, i do!" you stepped inside, forcing jackie to walk backwards, slamming the door behind you. "because that's exactly what you did! you hid behind your music instead of talking to me like a fucking adult."

"don't you dare judge me!" jackie shouted back, her arms gesturing in agitation. "you think it was easy watching you move on with your life, seeing you in the headlines?"

"move on?" you laughed bitterly. "you call that moving on? i was drowning myself in work because I couldn't deal with losing you. every script, every role, it was just a way to distract myself from the pain that you created when you agreed to that entire breakup shit."

jackie took a step back, her eyes eventually softening, but she kept quiet. she had a great way with words when writing songs, but not in situations like this. "i know," she whispered. "i didn't want to hold you back."

her words hung in the air, the weight of their implications sinking into both of you. you took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

"holding me back?" you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief. "jackie, you were never holding me back. you were the one who kept me grounded."

"i thought i was doing the right thing. everyone kept saying it was the best for our careers, for our future."

"everyone but us," you said, your voice sounded like a broken whisper.

she looked at the living room, then met you again, her expression filled with regret. "can we just sit and talk?"

the last thing you wanted now was to sit and listen to her excuses. still, you had come all the way down there. you were just as scared as she was.

jackie motioned towards the couch, and you hesitated for a moment before following her lead. the place was dominated by an unsettling silence, the air heavy with unresolved emotions.

as you both settled into the cushions, she took a deep breath, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of her hair. "i know i fucked up. i thought i was doing the right thing."

you glance at her, she was having a hard time looking at you.

"i was scared," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "scared that if i fought for us and it didn't work out, it would destroy me. i took the easy way out, and i've regretted it every day since."

"yeah, you did take the easy way out," you said, a hint of bitterness creeping into your voice but soon vanishing. "but i guess i wasn't much better. i threw myself into the first plane and will probably get fired just to tell my ex-girlfriend how pissed i was."

she gave a small, insecure smile. "that's really stupid."

"tell me about it," you mumble, mirroring her sad smile.

jackie laughed softly, a genuine sound that seemed to lighten the room. "we're both a bit stupid, aren't we?"

you couldn't help but chuckle too, the tension in your chest easing slightly. "oh, yes. a lot," you nod, the sad grin shifting to a more comfortable one. "at least we were stupid together."

the corners of her eyes crinkled in that familiar way that always made your heart flutter. "stupid together," she agreed.

for a moment, the two of you just sat there, smirking at each other, a shared understanding passing between you. the silence was no longer heavy, but comfortable, like slipping into an old, worn-in pair of shoes.

jackie shifted closer, her hand reaching out hesitantly to rest on yours. "so, where do we go from here?"

you take a look down at her hand on yours, feeling the warmth of her touch. "well, i guess we start by being honest with each other. no more hiding, no more running away."

she nodded, her eyes earnest. "right. i can do that."

you squeezed her hand gently. "and maybe we can take it slow, figure things out as we go."

jackie grinned, a playful glint in her eyes. "does that mean no grand gestures like flying across the country without telling anyone?"

you laughed, feeling lighter than you had in years. "no promises. i might still have a few dramatic moves up my sleeve."

the two of you talked for hours, sharing stories, laughing about old memories, and making plans for the future. it felt like a weight had been lifted, and for the first time in years, you felt hopeful.

a loud snort falls from your lips when you hear a loud and sudden growl coming from jackie's stomach and she mirrors you, cheeks instantly turning pink.

"do you wanna cook something?" you ask, a specific memory showing up on your mind. "maybe pasta."

"absolutely not. we promised to never try that again," she added, grinning.

"maybe we should break that promise," you glance at the kitchen, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. "try again and see if we can actually make something edible this time."

she raised an eyebrow, amused. "are you suggesting a rematch?"

your smile widened. "absolutely. I think we can do better this time. and if not, well, there's always pizza."

"alright, you're on. but no cheating."

"deal," you agreed, holding out your pinky.

jackie linked your pinky with hers, sealing the promise.

♫

the kitchen soon filled with the aroma of garlic and tomatoes, and before long, you were sitting at the table, enjoying a surprisingly delicious meal. each bite felt like a victory, not just over the failed attempts before that, but over the misunderstandings and pain that were now behind you.

it was past midnight when you found yourselves nestled in bed, illuminated by the gentle glow of the bedside lamp. your fingertips traced idle patterns on jackie's stomach, the hushed tones of your conversation blending with the city distant and muffled noises. with exhaustion catching up, you pulled her nearer, jackie's head resting against your chest as you wrapped your arms around her, finding solace in the shared peace of falling asleep together.

#jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #for 🐺 anon!!#this is how evelyn and celia should've ended.#title definitely not inspired by ts song

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balioc · 9 months

Text

Holiday Engineering: What Not to Do

We can learn a lot from Chanukah, because Chanukah is a garbage-tier holiday.

I mean this in a mostly-detached, mostly-analytic way. Like many people who were raised Jewish, I have some very fond and happy memories of Chanukah. Anything can accrue fond and happy memories, if you have a way of getting people to do it. But Chanukah is full of features that actively detract from its being resonant, impressive, memorable, or fun. It is an anti-advertisement for its community.

If you're a would-be designer-of-holidays, this is actually a really useful thing. Mimicking the good and successful holidays is quite hard; their quality tends to hinge on a lot of idiosyncratic hard-to-replicate factors, and "invent something as cool and punchy as the $WHATEVER" can be a tall order. But it's easy to look at a design failure and say, "I"m not going to do that."

With that, let's go into the details:

CHANUKAH: THE GOOD

Timing. It's a midwinter festival-of-lights. Solid start. Everyone loves those. Brightness and festival cheer, in the long cold winter nights, is practically a need for many. The holiday mostly skates by just on being the winter light festival for the Jews. A+. Or, really, we should knock that down to an A, because Chanukah usually comes too early to be ideal for this purpose, but -- still, quite good.

Traditional food (side dishes). Latkes are incredibly popular, and for excellent reason. If you're trying to settle on a food that everyone will love, "fried potatoes" is a damn good choice.

CHANUKAH: THE NEUTRAL

Symbols. There's really just one that matters: the chanukiyah (nine-branched menorah). Which is, on paper, a very cool and snappy symbol. Distinctive silhouette, ritual engagement, plus the allure of fire. But it loses a lot of points for the fact that you don't actually light the whole damn thing, and get the proper visual effect, until the very end of a long-ass holiday when everyone's enthusiasm and attention have ebbed. On the first night, in particular, you light just two candles in your chanukiyah, and it looks lopsided and sad.

Traditional food (sweets). Jelly donuts are fine, I guess, if uninspiring and uninspired. Chanukah gelt is pretty lame as candy goes...but from a holiday-design perspective, it's hard to go too far wrong with giving kids candy.

Music. "Maoz Tzur" is kinda pretty. "Oy Chanukah!" is kinda fun. That's pretty much it, barring some silly kids' music (and I guess that Adam Sandler thing). Nothing that will knock anyone's socks off. But, honestly, two decent songs is more than many good holidays have.

Gifts. Being the big annual gifting holiday is a double-edged sword. It's some super-powerful mojo, culturally speaking. People are obsessed with giving and receiving gifts, in a way that's very hard to excise or evade, no matter how often you trot out your utilitarian language about deadweight loss. Chanukah gets a lot of its traction out of the fact that it's the holiday where you get presents. But. (a) In the modern world, the gifting holiday is unavoidably a locus of stress and misery for many people, and Chanukah doesn't have nearly enough upside serving to support that burden. (b) Chanukah is bad at being a gifting holiday. The gifting is not well-integrated into the event, it's a tacked-on thing copied over from Christmas, and it shows. There's no real ritual surrounding it, no presents-under-the-Christmas-tree equivalent, certainly no Santa Claus. Worse yet, the eight-day-holiday thing means that either you need a set of gifts whose awesomeness is equally divisible by eight (mega-awkward), or else you have inconsistencies and disappointments.

CHANUKAH: THE BAD

Theme. What is the holiday about, when everything is said and done? What is our key takeaway message from all the shit we're doing. "God is great, God looks out for His people, God performs mighty miracles." Stop. Shut up. You fail. That's every holiday, if you're operating within a religious tradition. You need something more than that, something powerful and deep and important and special, to be even halfway-decent as a holiday. But for the vast majority of Jews (including Jews in the most orthodox and observant denominations), that's pretty much all you get. Because...

Mythology. The story of Chanukah, the holiday's narrative raison d'etre, is just unconscionably bad. In some extremely vague sense, it's a story about Jews overthrowing foreign oppressors and casting off foreign influences...which is already pretty bad from a modern liberal perspective, we don't like jingoistic ethnonationalism these days. But the actual events of the Chanukah story are less about Jews-against-foreigners than they are about Jews-against-other-Jews. It is a story about fanatics seizing power and murdering cosmopolitans. Virtually everyone hates that shit, up to and including the most tribal-minded Jews. The rabbis of the Talmud were pretty iffy about Chanukah for exactly this reason, and didn't talk about it much, with the result that the holiday doesn't have much in the way of supporting cultural infrastructure. And you really can't tell the Chanukah myth without that horrible stuff; it's so baked-in that it gets incorporated into even the most sanitized propagandistic Hebrew-school versions of the tale (with exactly the effects that you'd expect on Hebrew school students). The miracle of the oil feels like a tacked-on narrative coda, because it is, because without it the only possible moral of the story would be "kill your neighbor if he's not pious enough for you." But it's much too little, much too late. The miracle of the oil is super lame by miracle standards: no one is saved from danger, there are no memorable SFX, the whole thing is relevant only to the rituals of a long-vanished Temple.

[There are several lessons that can be learned from this particular problem, at multiple levels of abstraction.]

Structure. You can have a good eight-day holiday, but a festival of that length needs an arc. The days need to be distinct from each other. You need to be either building up to a climax, or -- more commonly, as with Passover and [the twelve days of] Christmas -- coming down from a main celebration at the beginning in a long pleasant haze of semi-special time. Chanukah is flat and internally undifferentiated, except for the addition of more candles to the chanukiyah. You can't sustain real holiday feeling that long, and there's no particular day on which you're supposed to do anything special, so it all just turns into a mush of "how much do we care right this moment?"

Activities. The traditional dreidel game is the worst, most boring, most unbalanced game in the history of games. Pushing it on children only makes those children hate Chanukah, and Judaism, and games, and you.

Traditional food (entrees). There's no classic Chanukah dish that can serve as a viable main course, unless you're one of those people who can happily eat fried potatoes as an entire meal. This is a glaring omission. It's particularly bad for Chanukah, because Chanukah has so little else going for it that it really needs to lean hard on the standard holiday "gather for a festive meal" thing.

Social role. As many people will eagerly tell you, Chanukah was a pretty minor holiday for most of Jewish history; it got big largely because of a marketing push in the 19th and 20th centuries, mostly because people got scared about the prospect of the younger generations assimilating, and wanted to give them a holiday to compete with Christmas. Which is maybe the worst idea that anyone has ever had. For more reasons that I can easily list here, modern Western Christmas is an absolute SSS-tier holiday, one of the very best of all time. Setting yourself up as a direct competitor to Christmas -- inviting your own people to make that comparison -- is tantamount to telling them that your traditions and your community are worthless and weak, and that they should join the ranks of the gentiles. And that would be true even if your own offering were something halfway decent. Trying to do it with Chanukah...it's like Estonia declaring war on the US. It's the ultimate "we have food at home." It is, if you'll pardon my saying so, Christian rock.

#holiday analysis

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flowerandblood · 11 months

Text

The Prince and The Fox

[ modern! • Aemond x friend! • female ]

[ warnings: sexual abuse, violence, trauma, panic attack ]

[ description: After the events of her childhood, despite her best efforts, her neighbor and the younger brother of her friend Helaena, Aemond, does not want to know her. This state lasts until a house party organized by his older brother, Aegon, during which an incident occurs that will change their relationship forever. Slow burn, angst, toxic ex-Alys, rough Aemond. This is several anon requests combined into one fic. ]

WARNING: The main plot between the characters takes place in high school. Yes, in high school. The belief that teenagers wait with an intimacy when they are in love in high school is ridiculous to me. Aemond and the character here are the same age. Don't ask me how old they are, in my country you are of the age of consent in your first year of high school and an adult in the last year of high school, so if it is more convenient for you, think about it that way and decide for yourself. In this story, I am not following the trail that they are magically friends right away, but how they become friends and what that even means. I'm writing this fic to give the perspective of young, lost people, not adult women who want to see exactly themselves in everything they read. If that's all you expect, this isn't the fic for you.

I don't want whining about this in my comments or asks. I will delete these and block you. You have been warned.

Aemond + Evans Series Moodboard

This is my first story that has its own playlist, but yes! Get in the mood! Story Music Playlist. Song used in this chapter: Feuer Frei! (Rammstein)

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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She wasn't sure how they became friends. Before she met him she played often with Helaena, they lived in the neighbourhood, and there wasn't much of an age difference between them. They often visited each other to play with their dolls, while her brothers existed for her somewhere in the back, busy with their serious, boyish affairs unavailable to girls.

One day when their mother called Helaena home she was sitting on a blanket on the grass in their garden, pretending that her teddy rabbit had just been drinking tea from her pink plastic cup, when their whole elaborately choreographed scene was destroyed by a dog bumping into her and licking her.

"Vhagar! No! Bad dog!" She heard the growl of a young boy, running up to them and grabbing his happy, shiny labrador with big eyes, who just licked her face, panting loudly, pulling her by the collar, trying to drag her away.

She giggled, wiping her face, and it was only when she looked at him that she noticed a large white bandage on the left side of his face, covering his entire eye and part of his cheek, taped up with plasters. She blinked, curious, and cocked her head.

"What happened to you?" She asked lightly, and he threw her an angry, murderous look, tightening his lips and furrowing his brow.

"Fuck off." He hissed, and she turned all red, close to tears, devastated that he had used such ugly, vulgar words towards her that her parents had forbidden her to use, shouting at him that he wasn't allowed to talk like that, that she didn't like him and for him to go away.

This is exactly what he did, dragging his dog behind him with difficulty, and she took her rabbit and ran to her house across the street, no longer waiting for Helaena to return, distraught.

Her father tried hard to get anything out of her, but he understood little of her loud sobbing and babbling, she could see nothing through her tears, she stood and stammered out mere fragments of sentences from which her parent had by some miracle put together a whole. Her father sighed heavily, running his hand over his face.

"Listen. Helaena's brother, I think his name is Aemond, had a very serious accident. I was told about it by his mother when I met her in the supermarket recently, the whole family is going through a lot. He will have to wear an artificial eye and will be left with a big scar. He feels very bad about it and that is why he is behaving like this. Your question was very tactless." He said finally.

She felt a squeeze in her heart and burst out sobbing even louder, this time because she had offended him, that surely this boy now hated her when she wanted everyone to like her.

"− I didn't − after all − uh − I didn't mean to − I just −" She mumbled in despair, not knowing herself what she wanted to say, breathing hard, almost choking from her sobs, her face all red, she was hot with emotion.

"Come here." Her father said to her, so she walked towards him. He embraced her and stroked her head, saying that she should ask her mother to help her bake cakes for him and bring them to him, wishing him a speedy recovery and apologising so they would both feel better.

She decided that this was indeed a good idea and did exactly that.

The next day she knocked on their front door standing with a box of cakes and was opened by their mother, a beautiful, long-haired woman with a warm smile, she was wearing a thick green jumper.

"Good morning, dear, Helaena is just in ballet class." She said to her in a soft, calm voice, and she shook her head.

"No, ma'am, I've come to see Aemond, I've baked cakes for him and I want to wish him quick recovery." She recited with difficulty what her mother had told her to say, hoping she hadn't forgotten anything, waiting with a pounding heart for a response.

The woman smiled broadly with some kind of gratitude and called out loudly to her son asking him to come downstairs, saying he had a visitor.

Her son came down reluctantly, furrowing his brow, having no idea who might want to see him and when he spotted her he immediately pressed his lips together, furious.

He approached his mother, looking at her distrustfully, and she swallowed loudly feeling a tightening in her throat and tears of shame gathering in her eyes again.

"I'm so sorry for asking you about it at the time, in the sense of what happened to you and that I upset you and that you were sad and that I yelled at you afterwards because I was sad too and − and −" She mused, forgetting for a moment what she was getting at in that sentence, swallowing her saliva loudly and suddenly remembering. "− and − and I brought you cakes that I baked with the help of my mother to wish you a speedy recovery."

She said quickly and held out a cardboard box tied with a ribbon in front of her. Aemond looked uncertainly at his mother, who nodded at him to accept the gift. He did not look at her as he reached out for the package and murmured under his breath, nodding. His mother sighed quietly.

"What should you say now?" She asked him expectantly, and he pressed his lower lip together, looking somewhere sideways, discouraged.

"Thank you." He muttered, turned and headed up the stairs.

"Goodbye." She said quickly, turning and running towards her house, feeling relieved that now she had put things right and now he would surely like her a lot.

She was wrong.

When she came to their house to see Helaena, he immediately locked himself in his room. When they passed each other at primary school he did not respond to her greeting by pretending not to see her even though they were neighbours.

When their parents met each other in the supermarket and started talking to each other, he would approach the shelves and pretend to look at some products, doing everything he could not to talk to her.

He never spoke to her in a bad way again, never shouted at her again, but simply pretended that she didn't exist.

Everything changed when they went to high school and it turned out they would be in the same class. They would then get on and off at the same bus stop, but instead of talking to her he preferred to put his earphones in his ears and browse through the apps on his phone, pretending not to see her.

She tried to talk to him, but he shunned her, treating her like air. She had the painful feeling that from that moment, from the day she asked him the wrong question, she was already crossed out as a person in his eyes.

And then their literary history teacher gave them a homework exercise to do in pairs. Assigning a person to each, when he looked at her he waved his hand as if realising something.

"Ah, Evans, you and Targaryen live nearby, it will be easier for you to work. Next couple −" He said, and she froze, looking at him over her shoulder, his eye wide open, pointed in her direction, he was playing with his pen between his fingers, his lips clenched into a thin line.

He was furious.

She swallowed loudly feeling a tightness in her throat and turned back towards the board, feeling only the loud pounding of her heart.

She ran after him off the bus, seeing him walking towards his house with his backpack thrown over one shoulder, the hood of his dark sweatshirt pulled over his head, earphones in his ears. She grabbed his sleeve to make him stop, and he flinched and looked back, surprised.

"Wait, can we talk?" She asked, breathing fast, and he furrowed his brow, taking the earpiece out of his ear, she could hear some loud heavy metal music coming from it and recognized the song Feuer Frei! by Rammstein.

"What?"

She blinked, understanding that he hadn't heard completely what she'd said. She grunted quietly, letting him go, looking at him expectantly.

"I asked if we could talk."

He looked ahead, letting the air out loudly through his nose with impatience, pulling the other earpiece from his ear, looking everywhere but at her. She guessed he wouldn't say anything, so she started quickly, not wanting to irritate him unnecessarily.

"I know you don't like me and I promise not to annoy you with anything. Let's just go to your place or mine, do this homework and get it over with. Okay?" She asked in a trembling voice and he licked his lips, indecision and frustration in his eyes, something was going on in his mind that she didn't understand completely.

He snorted, shrugging his shoulders and nodded at her.

"Come."

They entered his house greeted by the smell of dinner just being cooked. Their mother welcomed her presence in the company of her son with joy and surprise.

"Will you eat something? The meatballs in sauce are warm and ready." She said warmly, hoping they would stay down, guessing that they were both hungry after many hours of lessons.

She wished he would agree, feeling a burbling in her stomach.

"No. We're going to go do our homework." He said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. He pulled off his shoes, slipped the hood off his head and walked up the stairs without looking at her.

He walked into his room, throwing the clothes and books lying on the floor into the wardrobe, clearly wanting to do a quick tidy up, his whole walls covered with posters of various bands, Rammstein, Electric Light Orchestra, Deep Purple, Guns N' Roses, Led Zeppelin, his bookshelves heaving with books.

"Sit." He said lowly, pointing to the chair he'd set up by his desk, himself sitting down in a comfortable high-backed leather player's chair, spreading out on it comfortably.

She walked over to him, pulling her pastel soft backpack off her back, pulling out her notebook and the book they had just reviewed.

The Little Prince.

She felt that he was looking at her expectantly, so she opened her notebook in which she had written down the exact assignment the teacher had given them. She decided to read it aloud so they could reflect on it together.

"The Little Prince is a metaphorical story. Talk together about a few scenes from the book that moved you most and compare your thoughts, writing down similarities and differences. Analyse at least two scenes in this way."

She glanced at him, tightening her lips, feeling her heart pounding hard. For some reason she was terrified, he was sitting next to her, resting his elbows on his desk, leaning forward, seeming even bigger and taller to her than usual.

She felt strange thinking that he smelled nice, that he used some ordinary, cheap men's perfume.

He sniffed with his nose, not even looking at her, taking a pen in his hand.

"Have you read this book?" She asked, wanting to make sure he knew what they were going to talk about. He threw her a look like he thought she was an idiot.

"Do you have any more stupid questions, or can we get started?" He asked lowly, and she pressed her lips together, humiliated, feeling for some reason that she wanted to cry.

She felt like asking why he couldn't forgive her at last, but decided it was pointless, that he obviously didn't like her because he had such a whim.

She shook her head and he hummed, taking her copy of The Little Prince in his hand and began looking through it.

"Which scene do you want to talk about?" He asked coldly, dispassionately, and she swallowed loudly.

"About the Little Prince and the Fox." She said quietly, feeling him give her a brief glance.

He grunted under his breath, apparently agreeing with her choice, waiting for her elaboration on the matter. She swallowed with difficulty, licking her lips.

"What moved me most was how true this scene is. That the greatest enemy of friendship, or any close relationship, is haste. That only by respecting someone's barriers, only by approaching someone slowly and with understanding, can you really look at them from a distance.

By taming someone, by making that person grow attached to you, you take partial responsibility for that person's feelings, for making them trust you enough to believe that you won't intentionally hurt them with your behaviour. Until we really get to know someone we are just a crowd of people passing each other on the street."

She said in a trembling voice, feeling for some reason tears under her eyelids and a tightness in her throat, her eyebrows arched in pain, her lower lip began to tremble, she played with the material of her white daisy dress in a nervous gesture.

She felt him watching her, an awkward silence fell between them.

She couldn't look at him.

She thought he was going to say something cruel, that he was going to tell her to stop wailing, but he said nothing. After a while he spoke up.

"I see this scene differently. They're both moving towards each other because they're determined to do so. They are both going their separate ways. There is a balance. The Little Prince doesn't force the Fox to approach him, just as the Fox doesn't force the Little Prince to approach him. They do it of their own free will. They tame themselves because that's the decision they made. You can't tame someone who doesn't want it." He said lowly, and she looked up at him feeling tears begin to run down her face.

Was he talking about himself?

Was she the Fox who wanted to tame him even though he didn't want it?

"I'm sorry." It burst out of her chest before she had time to think about what she was doing.

He pressed his lips together and swallowed loudly, clenching his hands lying on the desk into fists, his nostrils moving restlessly in accelerated breathing.

She covered her face with her hand, embarrassed that she just couldn't stop crying, feeling pain in her heart and feeling sorry for herself that she just wasn't able to give him a break, that she kept seeking his attention and interest when he just clearly wanted her to leave him alone.

She couldn't bear the thought that she wasn't liked by every man she knew.

She felt ashamed at the thought that she had been so selfish.

"I can't stand that you don't want to talk to me. That you don't like me, that you pretend not to see me. I think it's driving me crazy and you're right to think that I'm an attention-seeking girl. I'm ashamed and I apologise to you for that because it's not your problem. I promise I'll stop." She said between laboured breaths, shrugging her shoulders, lowering her gaze.

He just looked at her.

"You exaggerate everything too much. You care too much." He said finally, his voice calmer as was his gaze.

She saw him fidgeting involuntarily with his fingers in a nervous gesture, the cuticles around his fingernails peeled and red, they must have caused him pain, but he plucked them nonetheless.

"Stop." She whispered and placed her hand over his, his fingers froze in mid-motion. She heard him swallow loudly, completely taken aback, his healthy eye open wide, his whole body concentrated. She stroked his palms with her thumb, and he didn't push her away.

"I'll leave you alone." She said softly and took her hand away, not believing she had dared to do so, and he just nodded and grunted, looking in her book for the quote he wanted to talk about.

They wrote down silently next to each other what they had talked about, and when they had finished she took her books, packed up and left without saying goodbye to him.

She no longer sought his gaze when he stood next to her at the bus stop, when he sat behind her in class, when she passed him in the school corridor. She realised that she had been conceited and vain in thinking that she would make him like her. She thought there was nothing wrong with someone not fancying her, not wanting to talk to her.

She had to get over it.

She attended extra volleyball classes, loved this sport and had good results at inter-school competitions. The captain of the men's team was Cregan Stark, a tall, well-built, funny black-haired boy who caught her eye from the start.

He would occasionally wink at her from afar seeing her gaze, and she would blush, lowering her eyes.

They were good mates, chatting sometimes during breaks and laughing. Cregan often approached her between classes, throwing in any topic, sometimes accompanied by his colleagues who were also fond of her. She felt butterflies in her stomach when he invited her to a house party that Aegon was organising.

She knew that Aemond would certainly be home at that time, but she figured that he would lock himself in his room and not go downstairs to them anyway, so she readily agreed, glad to see Helaena there as well.

She dressed in her favourite suede black dress reaching mid-thigh with a boat neckline, not revealing her breasts but showing her shoulders, and she wore her favourite shiny black boots. She let her hair down, deciding that she looked the prettiest this way, and literally ran out of the house when she heard a knock on the door.

She and Cregan hugged each other as if they were friends and moved arm-in-arm across the street hearing the loud music in the distance. When they entered she saw a crowd of people, most were her friends from the estate, so she greeted everyone around her, one of the guests handed her a cup with probably the cheapest wine possible.

She took a sip, glancing at Cregan and he winked at her as he always did, this time embracing her, pulling her close.

She felt the heat in her lower abdomen and the flush in her cheeks.

For most of the time they sat together on the couch, talking about everything and nothing, she saw no one around him but him, looking into his big dark eyes as if enchanted. She swallowed loudly when she felt his hand on her thigh, trailing up and down, and pressed her lips together, unsure if she liked it or not.

However, she didn't reject his hand, not wanting to offend him, some part of her happy that he reciprocated her interest, that he liked her too, that he found her attractive too.

"Shall we go to the garden?" He asked loud enough for her to hear him, and she nodded with a smile, feeling her own heart beating fast, happy that he wanted to be alone with her.

They walked out into the garden through the kitchen, through a back entrance she knew very well, on the way she felt him grasp her hand in his, she had a feeling her heart would leap out of her chest. They sat down on the terrace bench, he embraced her and hugged her close, and she snuggled into his chest.

She wondered with a blush on her cheeks if he would want to kiss her.

She swallowed loudly and a shudder went through her as, from her shoulder, his hand slowly began to move up to her neck, slipped under the material of her dress and touched her bare breast. She squeezed his wrist, terrified.

"N-no." She mumbled, but instead of stopping, he tightened his fingers on her flesh.

"No, stop." She said terrified, aggressively pulling at his hand, feeling tears in her eyes, cold sweat on the back of her neck, her whole body screaming for him to let her go, wanting to run away, but he wouldn't release her.

"Didn't you hear?" She heard a firm, low voice beside her, and Cregan jumped away from her suddenly, rising from the bench.

Aemond stared at him with his lips tightened, an expression of disgust on his face, his healthy eye wide open, his hands clenched into fists.

"Don't you fucking understand what 'no' means?" He asked him again, louder this time, furious.

She was just sitting and shaking, breathing hard, looking down at her shoes, tear after tear running down her cheeks, she was unable to move or get anything out.

Cregan grunted back.

"Fuck off." He growled, wanting to get past him, but Aemond grabbed him by his shirt and pressed him against the door frame with all his strength.

She stood up quickly, terrified, and covered her mouth when Cregan hit him on the forehead with his head and he took a few steps backwards, Aemond's fist hit his face in return, Cregan half-curled and coughed. They moved away from each other, panting heavily.

"Fucking bastard." He hissed, holding his red cheek with his hand and walked back out into his house, loud music, screams, laughter and conversations of people inside around them.

She sat down on the ground, feeling her whole body shaking, clenching her eyes shut, a strange, high-pitched sound and a sob came from her throat as it finally dawned on her mind what had actually happened.

That he touched her in a way that made her uncomfortable and made her unable to breathe, that she had asked him to stop and he hadn't, how bad it made her feel, how frightening and humiliating it was.

She felt so dirty.

She wasn't sure if what came out of her mouth could be called crying, she felt like she was whimpering and howling, holding her hand to her mouth as if trying to shield herself from what was happening, to no avail.

She heard the rustling of the grass beneath his feet, she felt the gentle touch of his large, warm hand on her back, casual, tender, friendly, comforting.

She snuggled into his black sweatshirt and cried out loud, disappointed, distraught and devastated that she had trusted him, that she had believed him and he did something like this to her.

Why?

Was it because she didn't push him away when he touched her thigh, that she went out with him alone?

Did he think that was what she wanted?

"Shall I go and find Helaena?" He asked in a trembling voice clearly not knowing what to do, how to help her, horrified by what he had seen and her condition. She shook her head quickly, feeling ashamed, she didn't want anyone to know.

She heard him swallow loudly.

"If you want I'll go with you to his parents tomorrow. I'll tell them what I saw. He's been groping you all evening." He said low with some kind of tension, and she froze, drawing in the air loudly at the thought that he must have come downstairs, that he must have seen them as they sat on the sofa, watched them.

Follow them out.

She wondered if he had done it to make sure he wouldn't do anything to her against her will.

It was her fault.

She did not push him away when he touched her thigh.

She went off with him herself.

"No. They won't believe me. He'll say I wanted it myself." She mumbled in a trembling, weak voice between one shattered breath and another.

She could feel his heart pounding hard, that he was nervous too, that he didn't know what he should do. He put his arm around her in a friendly manner, feeling subconsciously that she needed it, that she was terrified.

They both stood up quickly when they heard some girls come out for a cigarette. They raised their eyebrows, looking at them with amusement, one of them waved at them.

"Hey, Cyclops, do you have a girlfriend now?" She asked, the second girl laughed out loud, the third looked at the others disapprovingly, lowering her gaze, pretending she hadn't heard this.

"Fuck off, you stupid bitch!" She growled at her so loudly and with such fury that the girl froze, it seemed to her that she had never called anyone that out loud before in her life.

In a frenzy of desperation, anger and humiliation, she pulled her boots off her feet and, one by one, started throwing them at them until all three of them fled inside the house screaming that she was insane.

"Fuck, calm down! Jesus." He called out to her in shock, grabbing her by her arm. She raised her eyes at him, breathing loudly, his gaze softening a bit.

"Do you want to go home?" He asked lowly, almost indifferently, and she nodded, feeling that she wanted to cry again at the thought of Cregan's touch on her chest.

His hand tightened on her bare breast, refusing to let her go.

An unpleasant shiver ran through her, she felt like she was going to vomit.

First, though, she had to find her shoes, one of which had ended up in the bushes, the other behind their barbecue, all dirty from the coals. She put them on anyway, she was already indifferent to everything.

He didn't even ask if she wanted him to walk her away.

He just followed her.

On the way out they came across Cregan and his mates smoking a cigarette on the road, some of his friends whistling at them, laughing out loud.

"Are you guys going to fuck?" He called from a distance in amusement, she felt that her whole body was shaking, that she was afraid of them and she thanked God that he had gone with her, that he had not left her alone.

She wondered if this was what he experienced all the time at school.

Humiliation.

He stood with her in front of her door with his hands tucked into his black trousers, his face turned in profile.

She knew she shouldn't do this, but she needed it.

She walked up to him and hugged her face to his sweatshirt, standing in front of him like that. She could feel his warm breath on the top of her head, she knew he was looking at her.

She swallowed loudly as she felt his forehead pressed against her hair, he let out a loud breath, something in his voice that she could call sympathy.

"Try not to think about it. If you change your mind and want to go to his parents, I'll go with you. Hm?" He asked lowly, and she nodded.

"Are you going to keep seeing him?" He asked coolly after a moment, and she shook her head, feeling that it made her sick at the thought.

"Good." He muttered, raising his head. She pulled away from him and looked at him, swallowing loudly.

"Gonna give you my phone number. In case you decide to do it." He added quickly, wanting to make sure she didn't understand his proposal ambiguously. She nodded her head.

He dictated a string of numbers to her, which she typed into her phone and added him to her contacts under the name 'Prince'. He saw this and lifted his gaze to her, but made no comment.

They looked at each other for a moment in silence.

"I'm sorry." He said finally. She nodded her head in understanding.

"Thank you for everything. That you… you know. Have a good night." She said softly, without looking at him anymore, and disappeared behind the front door of her house.

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Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy

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deecotan · 2 years

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I’ve been playing around with omegaverse ZS lovechild concept for a while and now here she is! Her name is Minori, she was born sometime during the Strawhats’ voyage so she was practically raised in the Sunny. She exists in an omegaverse canon-divergent AU where the plotline is basically the same as canon, diverging post-Wano and post-Strawhat Jinbe (similar to Film Red situation).

Ramblings below:

I created her with the idea of a lovechild who is different from Aoi, the first ZS lovechild that I created. Aoi is an exuberant, happy-go-lucky person, with a tomboyish appearance and a more “unkempt” look that she imprinted from Zoro. Minori is reserved and quiet, if not somewhat shy, with a more feminine, neater appearance and overall looks that is inspired by Sanji, and by extension, Reiju and Sora. Minori is also set in the canon universe and raised on a pirate ship, in contrast to Aoi who is set in a modern AU One Piece and grew up in a family home.

I originally planned her to use rapier as her main weapon at first, but then I thought it would be a little weird for Zoro’s kid to choose a different type of sword, so I decided to scrap it. The name and the general color palette of the sword remains the same, though.

Additionally, her name was originally supposed to be “Marisol” since it can mean “sea and sun” in Spanish and also because I want to try giving her a more European-sounding name. I decided to scrap it since it won’t fit with the rest of the Strawhats’ naming custom; most of the Strawhats have easy-sounding names that are easy to pronounce both in English and Japanese (Luffy/Ru-fi, Na-mi, Zo-ro, etc), and most of them only consist of 2-3 syllables. Marisol is 4 syllables long when pronounced in Japanese (Marisoru), so I decided to change it to a simpler name.

My Japanese VA headcanon for Minori is Yui Ishikawa. She has the type of voice that gives off “elegant and sophisticated lady who can kill you” energy especially when voicing Mikasa from Attack on Titan and 2B from Nier:Automata.

She spends most of her childhood in Thousand Sunny, and then her early teen years to the rest of her life in Sanji’s floating restaurant in All Blue together with her parents, Zeff, and the rest of the Baratie crew. She would then travel to other islands by herself from time to time, sometimes saving people and getting into fights on the way, and send letters back to her parents that tell of her adventures.

Personality-wise, Minori is a calm, collected person. She tends to keep her emotions at bay and rarely overreacts to anything, and likes to solve problems in an analytical way. Deep down, Minori is also a kind and considerate person, and is especially very compassionate towards those who are in need. She has a strong sense of justice, and believes in the notion that the strong must protect the weak. She is also a bit socially awkward, having trouble befriending people normally as they would usually get scared of her first.

Minori is very inquisitive as a child, often questioning many things and finding solace in reading books. Because of this, she looks up a lot to Robin, whom she thinks is very intelligent and “all-knowing”.

Because she grows up in Sunny, aside from Zoro and Sanji themselves, she is practically raised by everyone in the crew and so has imprinted some of them as well. She appreciates Robin’s morbid humor, has a slightly extensive knowledge in first aid from Chopper, can differentiate between a good and a bad lie thanks to Usopp, and comes to love music from Brook.

People would often call her the “Miracle Child” due to the exceptional circumstances during which she was born. She is a child born into a pirate crew, with that pirate crew being the Strawhat Pirates and her parents being two of their strongest members nonetheless, and she is born when Sanji is being held hostage. (I’ll delve into that soon. Later. One day.)

As a result of spending most of her childhood on a pirate ship, Minori has a much more hardened outlook in life, having learned how to fight and defend herself against enemies. She can be downright vicious when circumstances warrant it, especially when dealing with cruel and powerful enemies.

She trains swordsmanship under Zoro, and as she grows stronger and more skillful in it, she begins to develop her own fighting style utilizing her enhanced speed, agility, and dexterity, of which she inherits from Sanji.

Her sword’s tsuba (hand guard) is circular-shaped and has a wave pattern that looks something like this:

Her epithet “Sword Princess” comes from her exceptional swordsmanship, her fighting style that’s been described as being “elegant”, and her overall wardrobe aesthetic that heavily resembles a princess.

She is noted to have exceptional beauty, and many people have praised her for it. Sanji has been notable for furiously beating people up if he catches them ogling or talking to her inappropriately.

Her name written in kanji would be 美緑, consisting of 美 which means “beauty, beautiful” and 緑 which means “green, greenery (the colors of trees and grasses)”. I think it’s an amusingly fitting name for Zoro and Sanji’s child.

Since she technically exists in an A/B/O universe, she does have a secondary gender as well, which is Beta.

#zosan #omegaverse #omegaverse zosan #roronoa zoro #sanji #minori

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the-24-7-lawlu-library · 7 months

Text

Poll Vote Soulmate AU

Hi lovely readers, We wish you all a great weekend! We hope this fic rec will make it even better for you <3

chains meant to be broken by chenziee (T)

To have a soulmate is a blessing, Law’s mother used to say. She always did so with a soft, knowing expression on her face while stroking Law’s arm, tracing his soulmark with gentle fingers. Law used to believe her… but that romantic naivety soon burned away.

your emotions bleeding colours into my skin by betsib (T)

Law finds out the patient he just performed a life-saving surgery on is his soulmate, and he isn't happy about it. He never wanted a soulmate in the first place. Written for 10 days of LawLu 2023, Day 1 prompt: Soulmates

Hold Fast to Dreams by Purplehairedwonder (T)

Law was nine the first time he had a dream that wasn’t his own. He was in a forest on an island he’d never seen before—the plants and trees were the wrong color for one thing—and he was running from an old man he called Gramps, only the man had looked nothing like either of Law’s grandfathers.

Shadow Dicks by HowLoveGoes (T)

In a modern world, whatever you draw on your skin appears on your soulmate's skin. This includes the dicks your friends draw on you while you are asleep, while your soulmate is working at the hospital on his day shift. Best friends, man.

Smile, the Worst is Yet to Come by IceAngels (T)

Trafalgar D Water Law never asked for a soulmate. And he certainly never asked for that soulmate. Monkey D Luffy would probably end up giving him an heart attack. Law thought. Every time the Straw Hat wearing fellow pirate bounced into his life his blood pressure shot through the roof and something terrible always happened. He thought about Dressrossa, well, not always terrible... but always always certainly insane.

First Thought by Plume8now (G)

Prompt inspired by: "Soulmate [AU] where your tattoo shows the first thing your soulmate thought when they saw you" OR How long did it take for them to figure this out? [LAWLU]

An Unexpected Camaraderie by carrotcouple (T)

On the way to Wano, Law gets a rather violent nosebleed while talking to Zoro.

A Little Bit of Red by Monimo (T)

Soulmates were never something Law put much stake in, even as his parents lauded over them and Lammy fantasized about hers. He had even less faith in them after Flevance was destroyed and he was left wondering where his were. For Luffy the topic of soulmates was always on his mind, he’d have a crew full of his soulmates and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They were all his special people afterall.

A Freaking Miracle by thorsten_is_in_the_hood (T)

In a world where the mark on your body are the first words your soulmate says to you, most have normal and common sentences on them, while one has something stupidly ridiculous and another something truly disturbing.

Cooking and music by Arkantecker (T)

A world where people are born talented to do/make whatever it is that their soul mate is passionate about. In this case, Trafalgar is good at cooking, and Luffy is good at playing music.

A Straw Hat? by Locohelli (G)

When Luffy was still a child, Shanks gave him his straw hat, so Luffy wouldn't miss out on meeting his soulmate when they would be crossing each other's paths. Years later and Luffy still doesn't go anywhere without his straw hat.

Counting the Seconds by TheeGirlWonder (T)

Everyone has a timer of how much time they have spent with their soulmate. For twenty-four years Law’s had stayed at 00:00, until he arrived at Sabaody.

-Mod Raiya

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blueywrites · 2 years

Text

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, smut, fingering (v), oral (f & m receiving), p in v, praise kink, emotional sex, aftercare, infidelity

chapter eight : just pretend (13k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #25-27. The middle song is not mentioned by name.

Weigh down on me, stay 'til morning

Way down, would you say I'm worthy?

Just Pretend — Bad Omens

The entrance ramp to the freeway is less than a quarter of a mile away. You've been inching towards it for the past fifteen minutes, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. The sunlight streams like a piercing veil through the windshield, forcing you to squint despite your sunglasses as you stare dully straight ahead, eyes fixed on the little bumper sticker family on the minivan in front of you. You've barely budged; the mile marker to your right is still winking at you mockingly, and you avoid its gaze. Damn summer rush hour traffic. Shouldn't you all be heading to the beach?

It's crazy to think that exactly one week ago, you were boarding a plane on your way to a tropical vacation in Miami. Now, not only are you back to the daily grind, driving home from the pediatrician's office in a reverse commute back into the city— a direction that usually serves you well in terms of traffic— but you're also in the midst of a major heat wave, with temperatures still close to ninety degrees at six in the evening. Hotter than it'd been in paradise, even. You'd be groaning aloud in frustration if the air conditioning wasn't blasting you in the face with a sweet, blissful chill and the radio wasn't playing Miley Cyrus' new song Flowers, which is surprisingly catchy and equally as cathartic.

'Can love me better, I can love me better, baby….' You've already caught on to some of the lyrics and are singing softly along, head bobbing as your eyes go a little unfocused, staring straight ahead. All in all, this week back to work wasn't bad. Monday was rough because you'd gotten very little sleep Sunday night, but by Tuesday, you'd thrown yourself back into your weekday routine, taking solace in its familiarity. Your head bobs a little more emphatically as Miley belts, 'I can love me better than you can—!' A delighted smile spreads across your lips as you hear the raspy strength of her voice, a smile of mutual appreciation from one singer to another. Okay, Miley, I see you—

The little bumper sticker family your eyes have been resting on is partially obscured by a wafting plume of gray.

Mind blank with confusion, you blink as another waft of gray quickly follows, streaming up from the blue hood of your old Honda Civic. Your eyes dart to the dash, and that's when you see it: the needle of your temperature gauge is now slanted up near the top of that alarming red band. The blaring orange check-engine light is just the icing on the cake.

The spike of panicked adrenaline that pierces your chest is accompanied by only one thought:

Oh, fuck.

Thankfully, fate has dealt you two small miracles this day. First, you're already in the right lane, ready to take the entrance ramp onto the freeway and thus directly adjacent to the shoulder. And second, during your Miley jam session, the minivan in front of you had moved up a few feet, leaving a sizeable gap where previously your bumpers had been nearly kissing. It's surprisingly simple to wordlessly cut your wheel to the right, pull up and over onto the wide stretch of asphalt, and turn your key to kill the engine.

You sit in your panic for the briefest moment before you're scrambling for the door handle, snatching your phone from the cupholder as you stagger from your vehicle. Thankfully, the shoulder is sizeable, and the traffic is still moving at a crawl, so you don't have to fear being hit as you put some distance between yourself and your lightly smoking vehicle. Your heart is still hammering as you unlock your phone, blood rushing in your ears as you pull up your contacts. Your finger hovers over Steve's contact picture: the two of you at the basketball game he'd taken you to for your anniversary last year.

You gaze at Steve's white smile, and you hesitate.

It's almost twenty after six, and you know Steve is on his way to happy hour with his colleague visiting from California. Part of you feels a little pang of selfishness at the thought of interrupting him, though you know he'll be more than understanding when he hears why you're calling. Another part of you whispers that there's someone better to call— someone who knows much more about cars than Steve. Someone who works with them every day, someone who can diagnose your problem and tell you, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you should do in this situation.

No picture accompanies Eddie Munson's contact card, just a little purple circle with a black 'E' in the middle. Your finger hovers there as you hesitate again. Because Eddie's text— his song— is still sitting lonely in your messages app, read but unanswered. Though it's only been five days since you'd seen or spoken to him, it's longer than you've gone without some form of contact in months. And it had felt strange, an absence you couldn't stop noticing, like the gap where a tooth had been. But you also couldn't bring yourself to fill it.

You'd tried to answer Eddie on Monday and then again on Tuesday. But every time you'd pulled it up, staring at the message he'd written and hearing the echo of his smoky voice crooning in your head, you'd been filled with a tangle of difficult emotions, woven so impossibly tight there was no unraveling them.

In the end, the reason you didn't answer Eddie was simple. You just didn't know what to say.

It weighs on you now, your conspicuous silence for the last five days. You're afraid to call him. Afraid to hear that smoke voice come through the phone sounding flat and quiet, bitten curt and short, or edged with irritation. Afraid because this week is the first week in five months that your normal group play plans haven’t been made. Albeit, it’s because Steve had another obligation, but you can’t deny that you were relieved to have an excuse not to see Eddie after your extended silence, or to see Chrissy’s lithe porcelain body, a reminder of what she is and what you are not.

But one last glance at the lingering stream of smoke still floating from underneath your hood, much thinner and weaker now but still present, has you pushing past your hesitance and tapping on the call icon. Because above all else— despite the little read receipt beneath the MP3 file, despite the dove gray paint now chipping on your nails— you know that Eddie is kind. You know he'll help you.

Eddie answers after the first ring. "Hello?"

He doesn't sound annoyed like you'd feared; instead, he sounds mostly surprised, if not confused. His voice makes that poignant yearning bloom behind your sternum, an utterly unhelpful feeling in this situation, especially since you're already on edge because of your car. You try to keep your voice from wobbling as you respond. "Hi, Eddie."

"...Hi, y/n. Ah, what's—" You hear a bit of shuffling, some noise in the background like he's somewhere out in public. "What's up?"

You're already nervous and unsure, fiddling unconsciously with the ID badge still clipped to the pocket of your scrubs. Your voice goes high, words coming quick as if your mouth is stumbling over itself to explain. "I'm sorry to call you out of the blue; I just— I didn't know—"

You cut yourself off with a quick huff of frustration, dropping the badge and forcibly stilling your fingers at your side. You take a quick breath to start again. "My car started smoking from the hood, so I had to pull over on the highway—"

"Shit—" Eddie hisses, and then his voice is suddenly louder, clearer, like he's taken you off Bluetooth or brought the phone closer to his mouth. His voice has an edge of panicked urgency as he demands, "Are you safe? Is the car still smoking?"

Your lips pinch, a flutter blooming low at the sound of his concern; you glance toward the car, watching for a moment for more wisps of gray. "No, it's not really smoking anymore. I'm okay. I'm standing on the shoulder. It's a wide shoulder, and there's a lot of traffic, so the cars are moving slow. It does look like it's clearing up, though." Are you over-explaining? Probably. "I'm right outside the city," you add as if he'd asked. "I was driving home from work."

"Okay. Okay." A heavy sigh of relief distorts on the other end of the phone, and, Eddie continues much more evenly, "Then, uh… start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

You describe what you remember happening— sitting in traffic, seeing the smoke, then noticing the spike in the temperature gauge. Brow crumpled, voice a little small, you ask Eddie, "So… what should I do?"

"Well, definitely do not drive," he says through a wry chuckle, and before you can help it, you're retorting sarcastically.

"No, really?"

You hear him husk a chuckle, warm and throaty and genuine, and the sound makes your belly flip. “Is it an old car?”

"Yeah, it's my sister's old Civic. I think it's, like, a twenty-ten."

"Right, makes sense. Doesn't usually happen in newer cars, but it's definitely your radiator. Probably overheated sitting there in traffic since it's a hundred fuckin' degrees out today." There's a pause, and Eddie sighs— not beleaguered, just a little light huff before his tone turns business-like. "Look, I'm gonna call my buddy from the shop. He'll come with a tow. It'll be after hours by the time it gets there, but tomorrow we can take a look at it. I had the early shift today, and I'm at the gym now, so it'll be a few, but I'll come give you a ride home."

Instantly you prickle with regret upon hearing that you're disrupting his plans. "Oh, Eddie, you don't have to do that. I can just call an Uber—"

"No," he interrupts you, voice still kind but firm. "I'm coming to get you, y/n. I'm not leaving you on the side of the highway." His tone brokers no argument, and you can't help but feel a flutter of moth's wings at how resolved he is. Like he would never be satisfied leaving you in anyone else's hands but his own. Your throat goes thick.

"Okay?" Eddie prompts when you don't respond.

You clear your throat to keep your voice from wobbling. "Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Eddie. I'm sorry I ruined your gym plans."

"What'd I tell you about being sorry?"

You can hear the smile in his voice even as he chides you lightly; you chuckle a little, unable to help the smile that blooms warmly on your face. "Right. Just thanks, then."

"You're welcome. Ping me your location, and I'll be there soon." You bask in the answering warmth of his smoke before he hangs up.

In the silence that follows, the first emotion that trickles in is relief. Relief that Eddie isn't upset at you, that he hadn't rejected you. Though you didn't really think he would, a tiny part of you still feared he might, so to hear it confirmed has tension melting from your frame. The relief is short-lived, however, when you look down at the front of your navy scrubs, which are wrinkled both from working a full day's shift and from the oppressive heat that is still beating down on your head, heating your hair and making sweat spring at your temples and on your upper lip. After sending your location to Eddie, you quickly pull up your front-facing camera on your phone, feeling a little ridiculous when it occurs to you that every car that passes can see you checking yourself out on the side of the road. The self-consciousness is still nothing compared to the spike of nervous anticipation that flutters within at the thought of seeing Eddie soon, so you push the thought aside in favor of examining yourself closely. And it's just as you feared: your hair is limp, lifeless, and a little tangled, and your skin is dewy from the heat but lacking the charm of mascara, blush, or lip color. Of course, I would choose today to sleep in a little and skip putting on makeup.

You stuff your phone back in your scrubs pocket, working your fingers hastily through the tangles in your hair before flipping your head upside down and shaking it out, seeking some semblance of volume. You swipe at the wrinkles on your scrub shirt next, giving up quickly when your efforts do nothing to smooth out the fabric. Do I have a spare shirt in the backseat? You stare at the iridescent blue shimmer of your Civic, now radiant in the ever-deepening light, wracking your brain for what may be back there and whether it's worth it to try approaching your car considering the smoke. Probably just some empty paper Dunkin' bags, you figure, but you also need your purse, and the smoke seems to be gone, so you venture over anyway.

Sure enough, the backseat search turns up no spare shirts. You collect your bag and detach your car key from the ring, slipping it into your pocket before you pull out your phone again to shoot off a quick text to Steve. 'Car's busted. Have to have it towed.'

He answers quickly. 'God babe, you okay??'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Radiator went because of the heat, Eddie said. He's having a tow truck pick up my car to take it to the shop.'

A longer pause to accommodate the longer response. 'Do you want me to come pick you up? I can be out of here in fifteen minutes.' Your stomach swoops, and you type your reply quickly to head him off.

'No, it's okay, no need to leave. He said he'd give me a ride home.' Before sending, you add, 'Have fun at happy hour!! I'll see you when you get back!'

There's an even longer pause before Steve's final reply. 'Okay babe, see you tonight,' he says, ending with a smiley face. Your stomach settles, and you lean against the back bumper to wait for Eddie. Despite the heat and humidity, you're better off there than sitting inside the car with the engine off. You mourn the lack of air-conditioning as a bead of sweat trickles down the center of your back.

It doesn't take too long for you to spot Eddie's van angling from the left lane to the right. If you didn't recognize his car, the recklessness of the driving would've been a dead giveaway that it's Eddie behind the wheel; still, as he cuts over onto the shoulder, his breaks nearly squeal as he slams them excessively, slowing to a crawl as he approaches you. You huff a little breath through your nose, amusement briefly cutting your nerves. Sweet of him not to run me over.

Eddie's out of the van almost as soon as it rolls to a stop, and you wipe your sweaty palms against your scrub pants as he hops down. The sight of him like this— dressed in sneakers, joggers, and a loose muscle tank, hair scraped back off his neck, striding toward you with purpose— makes your wings flutter so wildly that your head feels suddenly fuzzy and your throat goes dry. You swallow to wet it, gaze darting around his face, catching on those wide honey-brown eyes before they flit away again when your heart thumps.

You manage to compose yourself enough to say, voice smaller than you'd like, "Thanks for coming."

The quick flash of his grin makes you both melt and seize up. "'Course," Eddie replies easily, pausing before you. "I'm gonna check it out real quick," he tells you, eyes sliding away just as yours return his stare. Even that brief flash of contact has you chewing on your lip as you trail after him.

You watch Eddie from a short distance as he feels around the edge of the hood for the catch. As your eyes run over those dextrous hands, those ruddy knuckles absent his usual silver, you can't help but remember the feeling of his callouses rasping against your bare waist, so slow and tender. You feel a thrill of heat bloom low at the memory, though you squash the impulse almost immediately. This is not, in any way, the appropriate time to think about that. Pointedly, you avert your eyes from his flexing biceps as he lifts the hood.

After a brief perusal, Eddie lets it fall with a decisive thunk. "Yup," he says, "definitely the radiator." You hear his footsteps crunch on gravel as they approach, stopping a brief distance from you. You glance up to see that his expression is neutral, but those brown eyes are unnervingly unreadable. "Wanna sit in my van while we wait for the tow? It's hot as balls out here."

The promise of relief from this oppressive heat has you nodding immediately. "Please," you sigh, genuinely grateful, and Eddie rewards you with another flash of his eyeteeth in a broad grin.

"C'mon." He leads you to the passenger seat, opening the door for you in an unnecessarily chivalrous gesture that strikes you as dangerously charming. Dangerous because, as you watch Eddie lope around to the driver's side through the windshield, that impossible tangle of emotions rises within you again, conjuring memories. Memories of broad hands holding you close, of tender kisses pressed to your wet cheeks. Memories of bow lips spilling sweet words about boys and girls, of butterfly-wing whispers during backseat conversations. A war wages inside you, a war between hope and despair, like two hounds with their muzzles locked tight, neither willing to release.

When Eddie pulls himself into the driver's seat, it stirs the air in the van, which is musty with stale cigarettes but blessedly cooler than outside. Silently, he turns the key, and with a cheery chime, the vents sputter and begin pumping air into the cabin. You shoot him a tiny smile, one hand resting in your lap, the index of your other hand running back and forth along the plastic edge of your ID badge. Now that there's nothing to do but wait, you're beginning to feel awkward. And it seems Eddie might feel that way too because, though he's lounging casually back in his seat, his thumb automatically seeks a knuckle before he glances down and notices he's not wearing his rings. He splays his fingers against his thighs instead, and you glance away.

He's the first to break the silence between you. "So, uh…" You look up, catching the quick glance he tosses at you. "Haven't talked to you lately. How are you?"

The question is stilted, anything but smooth, ringing like a sour note between two people who shared an incredibly intimate moment less than a week ago. You appreciate the gesture, even though it doesn't do much to quell your tense emotions. You find yourself babbling in your nervousness. "I'm okay, besides my car, obviously." A little awkward chuckle, and then you're plowing on. "Work's been normal. The same. I spend my days sticking thermometers under tongues and brandishing lollipops to ease the sting of immunizations. You know. The daily grind." It suddenly seems extremely important to explain to Eddie why this Friday is the first in nearly five months plans weren't made for group play. You dart a look at his face before turning your eyes back down to stare at his fingers, voice tight with frenetic energy. "Steve's been working like a fiend since we got back. Just, like, so busy. There's a new project he's heading. He said they're making sure their systems are ready for the student loan relief bill that just got passed. It's all really technical, and he tried explaining the details, but that kind of stuff is just in one ear, out the other for me." Another glance up, and Eddie's watching you with those dark eyes, face inscrutable. You explain, "He's at happy hour with his coworker who's visiting from California tonight, so…" that's why we didn't make plans, is how the sentence would probably end, but you let it trail off into implication.

Eddie nods; you suppose it's to show he was listening, and you rush to continue. "Um, anyway. How's Chrissy? I've texted her a little this week, but not much."

The most minute twitch of Eddie's brow follows; if you hadn't been watching him so closely, you would've missed it. "She's fine," he says simply.

You nod, head bobbing more enthusiastically than necessary. "And, um, how are you—?"

"How come you left me on read?"

You fall instantly silent as Eddie interjects. Just gonna come right out and ask, huh? You suppose it's never been Eddie's style to be subtle. It's not accusatory, his tone, but nevertheless, it makes your chest squeeze tight. Your eyes dart down to your lap as you mumble your excuse. "I dunno. Just… getting back into the swing of things after vacation. I've been busy." It sounds lame as you say it, and you can feel yourself wince as the words come out of your mouth.

Eddie's voice is even quieter when, after a beat, he replies. "Too busy to listen to my song?"

The edge of hurt in his voice has your eyes wide and stuck to his in an instant. Your brow crumples, expression earnest as you rush to say, "I did listen to it, Eddie. I listened to it a lot, actually. I just…" A little oozing guilt seeps up at the bottom of you, regret that you know he can probably read in your face. "I just didn't text you back."

Eddie looks at you with those dark eyes, examining your face silently for a moment. And then the corners of his mouth soften just slightly. "And what did you think?" he asks, brow pinching.

You want to reach out, smooth the wrinkle between his dark brows, bury your nose in the crook of his neck and hold him, or let him hold you.

'I think Eddie's gonna propose!' Chrissy squeals, blue eyes wide and sparkling with uninhibited joy.

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to reach for him, but you twist them together in your lap. Still, you can't help but be honest, and your answer comes out soft, unable to be wholly scrubbed of the tender poignancy you feel. "It was beautiful: the music, the lyrics. Your voice. Your voice is always beautiful," you say, speaking slowly, "and I don't really know why, exactly, but… something about it made me sad."

Eddie's eyes dart between yours— honey brown deepening as the sun shifts, bathing him in a shaft of deepening gold, turning his dark curls richer. The wrinkle eases on his forehead, and your gaze drops to his plush lips, pink and pillowy-soft in the pale quartz of his face. You watch his tongue dart out to wet them before he responds.

But as they part, the rumbling sputter of a truck interrupts. It draws Eddie's gaze to the side window, and you both watch the truck pull off onto the shoulder, skirting around your car to park in front. You meet his eyes when he looks back at you, a moment of hesitation lingering before you exit the car. The loud thunk of a door slamming outside breaks the moment, and mutually, wordlessly, you both open the van doors.

Eddie and his coworker meet by your front bumper, clasping each other in one of those manly, complicated handshakes guys do. You pull the car key from your pocket and pass it to Eddie, cheeks heating at the brush of his hot fingertips against your palm when he plucks it from your grasp. You hope he doesn't notice and step back to let them work on hooking your car up to the tow.

Once they're done, his coworker hoists himself back into his truck. When you call out a thank you through his rolled-down window, he jerks his chin in acknowledgment. Eddie leans an elbow on the doorframe, and after they exchange some brief parting words, you watch your old blue Civic finally roll onto the freeway entrance ramp you'd been staring at nearly an hour ago now.

A nudge at your elbow and your eyes dart to Eddie, who withdraws his hand quickly but motions with his head back towards his van in a silent prompt. You follow him, sliding again into the passenger seat and clicking your belt into place as Eddie falls into the driver's seat, long legs stretched comfortably beneath the wheel.

You're suddenly overly aware of your own body in this space that so clearly belongs to Eddie. The scent of the air you’re breathing— stale cigarettes atop soapy, artificial pine— is conspicuously foreign, and the scratch of the fabric seat under your palms is unfamiliar, too. Though you've ridden in the back of Eddie's van before with Steve, this is the first time you've been privy to the passenger seat. The van is scattered with debris of Eddie’s daily life: gas station receipts and half-full boxes of cigarettes littering the center console, empty fast food wrappers stuffed in the door pocket, the odd guitar pick stuck along the seam of the floor mat under your feet. A life you’re now witnessing up close, inserting yourself into as you ask for his help. Selfish. You press your thighs together, folding your arms in your lap as Eddie turns the key and the van rumbles to life beneath you. Despite the tinge of discomfort, you’ve already accepted his help, so there’s no point dwelling on that now. You let out a slow breath from your nose, squinting as it occurs to you, when Eddie makes no moves to pull out onto the road, that he probably doesn't know how to get to your apartment from here.

"Hey—" Your voice isn't loud, but it still seems to startle him. Eddie's wide eyes dart to you, and you bite back the apology at the tip of your tongue, unable to keep your lips from curling in the tiniest smile as you think about his warm voice over the phone. 'What'd I tell you about being sorry?' "I can put my address in Google Maps if you want," you offer, and Eddie doesn't hesitate to tilt his hips and pull his phone from his pocket, swiping it open before passing it over.

You blink as you take it, the weight of his phone familiar— the same model as yours— but also so conspicuously foreign, just like the smell of his van and the sight of all his personal items scattered around the cabin. Little bits and pieces of Eddie that you can't help but savor. Crumbs that burst with flavor on your tongue. And you can't stop yourself from collecting another morsel: you stare at his phone background for a moment before you open up the apps.

It's a photo of Eddie and three other guys, faces all squashed together to fit in the frame. It’s slightly blurred and grainy like it’d been taken at night, and the handle of a shopping cart peeks from the bottom edge. Eddie looks younger than he is now, and the unmistakable joy on Eddie's youthful face— the brightness of those brown eyes, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, those full lips stretched in a manic, delighted grin— makes your leaves quiver. That poignant yearning rises to the surface, untangling from the rest of your emotions to settle behind your ribs. It comes out in a soft smile as you think about Eddie's eyes while you set your address.

You pass the phone back, and Eddie scans the directions before fitting the phone into the closest cupholder, pressing it up against an open packet of cherry-red Twizzlers. "Don't forget to rate me five stars at the end of your trip," he quips, shooting you a brief grin. Only once you return his smile does he glance out the side window, looking for an opening before pulling off the shoulder in a controlled squeal of rubber. You take a steadying breath, reminding yourself to be grateful for Eddie's help even though his driving makes your heart leap into your throat.

You think back to the conversation the tow truck's arrival had interrupted. 'Your voice is always beautiful,' you'd said, and that emotion that had wrinkled his brow— nervousness, maybe self-consciousness?— had eased. You want to know what he was going to say in reply, but you sense that the moment has passed as you peek at him. Eddie's eyes are focused on the road; one hand lightly grips the steering wheel while the other taps an erratic beat against his thigh.

Eddie's constant motion makes the lack of music suddenly obvious. Before the silence can get awkward again, you ask, "Can we put the radio on?"

"Never gonna say no to that." Eddie's lips quirk in a crooked grin as distorted guitars and haunting vocals suddenly blare from the speakers. No chance of hearing Miley Cyrus on this station, you think dryly. He cranks the volume, settling higher than you find comfortable, but you don't really mind. He starts headbanging lightly, dark curls swaying until the song breaks down into a soft melodic interlude as the singer croons, 'Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?' When the beat drops back in, you bite back a giggle as he resumes more emphatically, both palms now tapping against the steering wheel as he bites his bottom lip, movements frenetic and exaggerated but also oddly endearing. Your giggle breaks free, barely audible above the music; Eddie glances at you, brown eyes glinting as his smile widens through that bitten lip.

"What is this?" you ask, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

Cheekily, he replies, "Metal, sweetheart."

You huff, shaking your head fondly as he resumes tapping on the wheel. But when his hands leave it entirely, beating on his thighs as he gets hectic, you intervene. "I know you're the craziest driver to ever exist and all, but if you kill me before I get home, I can't rate you five stars." Your voice is lightly dry though tight with genuine anxiety, considering how you're currently cruising down the highway and Eddie has no hands on the wheel.

He huffs lightly but quickly complies, and you flash him some playful side-eye. "Thanks," you say, still dry, though not so dry that he would think you're really upset.

You make it into the city without incident, and Eddie's steady speed is significantly reduced once you hit the gridlines, that labyrinth of red and green lights that stretches on perpetually into the distance. You're about fifteen minutes away from home when a song comes on that you actually recognize: Just Pretend by Bad Omens. You find your head bobbing as you watch the setting sun glint off the tall glass buildings that cage you in, towering over the cars crawling block by block toward their destinations just like you and Eddie are. At that first emphatic chorus, when the singer croons, ' I can wait for you at the bottom, I can stay away if you want me to,' you glance at Eddie, expecting to see that emphatic headbanging again. But Eddie's head is still, and his brown eyes are deep and dark as he stares out the windshield. You frown slightly, concern rising at the whiteness of his knuckles where his hands grip the steering wheel. He doesn't return your stare, tongue working the inside of his cheek, eyes pensive and far away. Consumed by the blaring metal and Eddie’s headbanging, you'd briefly forgotten the tangle of your emotions, the war of hope and despair waging within you. But Eddie's shift in mood brings it back. The hounds are still locked in a bitter feud, neither yielding, both equally matched. You turn your eyes to your lap, worrying at the hem of your navy scrub shirt to keep your fingers occupied.

The next time the chorus refrains, the words ' heaven knows I ain't getting over you' grow gradually quieter, and you glance up to see Eddie nudging down the volume. The gesture is simple, but coupled with his shifted mood, it feels meaningful. There's a spike of nervous trepidation in your chest mixed with a tiny shiver of anticipation, and then he's speaking.

"Look, I need to say something."

"...Okay," you reply cautiously, nerves spiking again as you wait for him to continue. Your eyes lock on his face, and you watch Eddie's jaw twitch before he continues speaking slowly and seriously.

"What happened on the way back from the airport… what Chrissy did… It wasn't right."

That hot rush similar to mortification needles down the back of your neck as he glances at you, brow lightly furrowed. You avert automatically from the flash of his brown eyes, not wanting to read the look there. You find yourself wanting to avert from the conversation entirely, to protect yourself from what might come. Regret. Reluctance. Pity. All would be painful, and you don't want any of it.

Quickly, you reply, trying to keep your voice even and pleasant as you head off his concerns. "What do you mean? We've literally all had sex together, so what's the big deal? It's not like we don’t know you’re having sex with each other."

Eddie's frowning now, brow knit tight, full lips pressed into a line. Bothered, but not angry. Despite your attempts, he pushes back. "Sure, but… she didn't need to talk about it like that in front of…."

Your eyes dip back to your lap when he trails off, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. You feel exposed, vulnerable; the hounds growl, teeth gritted tight. Hope and despair warring fiercely within you.

Eddie's waiting for your response. And you try; you really, really try to maintain that pleasant evenness you'd achieved before. But it wavers as you remember Chrissy's bright red acrylics, her happy chattering in the salon chair, talking about her future with Eddie. "In front of me?" you ask, predicting the end of his unfinished sentence. Your voice is dull, nearly impassive. "Why would that matter?"

It would sound nearly impassive to someone who doesn't know you well.

But Eddie knows you well.

You aren't looking, but you hear him huff a humorless chuckle. You tense immediately, heart dropping in that brief pause before he says tightly, "Dammit, y/n. Fuck it."

Eddie turns into a narrow alley between blocks, swerving quickly to the right to pull along the curb. The van skids and rocks as he throws it into park. You're reeling from the abrupt change, eyes wide as Eddie turns to you, looking so serious. Before he speaks, he jams his thumb against the radio dial to cut the music entirely. "It killed me to hear her saying all that. I didn't wanna go along with it; I just didn't know what else to do." His brow creases, brown eyes imploring as they stare into yours. "I'm sorry."

Your heart begins pounding as Eddie stares at you. His obvious earnestness isn't lost on you, and you hadn't realized how much you yearned to hear him say that— to feed your hope— until you heard it. Still, the despair hasn't released you. Its grip has loosened with his words, but it still clings stubbornly, prompting your quiet reply. "Don't be sorry, Eddie." You nearly smile because you won't stop telling each other that, but you can't quite bring yourself to. You swallow, throat thick as you push out the words. Acknowledge the truth. "She's your girlfriend."

Poignant yearning aches within you, rising to the surface as you voice it. Your gaze draws across Eddie’s face, caressing the darkness of his curls; the pale quartz of his cheeks; his brown eyes, wide and framed by long lashes. It lingers there, and you see when those eyes go so soft. Eddie wets his lips, and they fall slightly open. And then his smoke fills the space between you.

"But I don't want to hurt you." Hoarse, quiet. Sincere. "I really care about you."

The smoke settles within, fluttering your wings. It sinks into the peat at the bottom of you, turning to charcoal that nourishes your roots. You feel wobbly, head fuzzing, blood rushing in your ears, but as your green reawakens, the despair releases its teeth.

Hope wins.

Your admission isn't more than a whisper, but it's enough. "I really care about you, too."

Something shifts behind Eddie's eyes, then. They dart between yours, honey deepening to amber as he rasps, "And…" He breaks off, brow furrowed, nostrils flared. His internal struggle is obvious, and the seconds tick by— loaded, motionless seconds that hang heavy in the waning light as evening approaches. You wait, fingers fisting in your lap, for the resolution of that tension inside Eddie, for whatever that will mean for you. Your eyes want to flit away as you wait, but they can't. They're stuck on amber brown, drawn inescapably in, helpless to the pull of its brightness.

You see the moment Eddie reaches his decision. It's written all over his face the instant before he speaks.

"And all I can think about is how much I wanna kiss you right now."

Your breath catches in your throat, but the smoke sinks straight through your scrubs and into your chest. Your reply is inevitable; it was written long ago. As you stare into the light of Eddie Munson's eyes, it comes as a tremulous whisper. "Then kiss me, Eddie."

The flash of those brown eyes and the instant heat on Eddie's face hit you so hard you're left trembling, fingers fumbling the buckle of your seatbelt. You're leaning toward him, straining against the strap, brow furrowed in frustration as it holds you back— and then Eddie's hand is there, fingers brushing hot against yours as he unclips you, and you're free.

You lunge for him at the same time he grabs for you. The center console digs painfully into your hip as you tilt awkwardly over it, hand fisting for purchase in the shoulder of his tank; Eddie's fingers on your face are pressing hard into your cheeks, molding your flesh in a grasp rougher than he's ever been.

But when he finally mashes his mouth to yours, nothing else matters.

The press of Eddie's full lips is ecstasy. They're warm and supple despite the fervor of his kiss, offering sweet comfort and sweltering heat alike. He moans into your mouth— a deep sound of utter relief as your mouth opens unhesitantly, allowing him access to you. His tongue seeks yours, and he tastes like smoke and spice, like cigarettes and cinnamon gum, that flavor so uniquely him. Your desire is a wild thing, more frenzied than you've ever experienced before. Just the feeling of Eddie's hands on your face and his tongue in your mouth has your pussy throbbing already.

The kiss is careless in your mutual haste, borne of desperate need that propels you together without finesse. After a moment, Eddie tilts his face, slotting his lips more ideally against yours, soft nose brushing as he works into your mouth. And it was affecting before, but Eddie's kiss now is utterly delicious— deep and thorough and oh, so sensual. His fingers soften on your face, rasping back to cup your neck, dragging up to palm your skull, unconcerned about the mess he's making of your hair. That low heat catches to embers in your belly, flaring as he licks along your bottom lip. And then he bites down on it, tugging gently in a move that has your mouth falling open in an involuntary gasp and your pussy pulsing hard.

Fuck, you want him. You want him more than you've ever wanted anything in your life.

The sounds of the city filter through the walls of Eddie's van— horns honking, tires crunching gravel, thunks and clanks of cars rolling over sewer grates. You're in a side alley off the main road, but anyone who pulls down this tiny street would see you through that wide glass windshield: cheeks flushed, eyes closed, lips locked as you release the fabric at Eddie's shoulder from your fist to drag your hand up the length of his thigh, feeling around blindly until you cup the hard bulge in his joggers.

You feel Eddie exhale sharply as you touch him; his fingers tighten against your scalp as you press down with the heel of your palm, rubbing along his length. Eddie's hips jerk up into your touch, and your blood sings in your veins, yet he breaks the kiss almost instantly. Your eyes pop open in surprise, though you flush hotter as you see him: eyes burnished with deep need, cheeks stained high, plush lips dark and swollen, chest heaving as he pants. His hand gently cradles your face, fingers splaying against your neck. When his thumb presses underneath your jaw to angle your head up, you can't bite back a little whimper of need.

Eddie's eyes flash, and his voice is gritty as he rasps, "Are you sure about this?" He pauses before adding quietly, "We can still stop."

You consider his words: We can still stop. We haven't yet crossed that line. On this side, rule upheld; step over, rule broken. But it's not just that, not anymore. Not here in Eddie's van.

On this side, faithfulness; step over, infidelity.

The hounds of hope and despair have released you, but this is a beast of a different kind. You know Eddie is right to pause, to take a moment to think before you both do something you can never take back. You search inside yourself— search for that ooze, for that green.

For what feels right.

In your silence, Eddie examines you, and his hand slackens on your neck. "Maybe we should stop," he says finally. And the look in Eddie's eyes— the concern, the gentleness that shines in beautiful brown— resolves you.

Your words come from the bottom of you, from the roots that could never be choked by the ooze of shame and guilt. You cover Eddie's hand on your neck, weaving your fingers together. "Eddie, I want to," you admit, and your voice nearly cracks with the force of your longing. "I really want to."

He shudders a sigh, a full-bodied thing that tremors through him. A sigh of relief. "So do I, sweet girl." The rumble of his smoke voice is so tender, and you drag his hand from your neck to your cheek, listing into his touch as you flutter and bloom. His lips tilt with a gentle smile. "C'mere."

The back of Eddie's van is dark inside; there are no windows back there. The third row of seats has been removed, and you suppose it's to make room for his band gear. The empty space is wide and relatively clear aside from a random assortment of loose cords. It’s lined with fabric rougher than the seats when you press your palms to it and hoist yourself in.

You turn and watch as Eddie hops up after you, one hand wrapped around a handle on the ceiling as he crouches. There's a bundle of fabric stuffed underneath his other arm. He kneels beside you, and wordlessly, you help him clear the cords and spread the flannel blanket as a buffer between your bodies and the scratchy floor. When the back doors thunk closed, you're plunged into darkness until Eddie flicks a switch above him, filling the space with warm light that casts his black and white in a soft glow. The back of Eddie's van affords enough privacy that the sounds of the city recede from your mind.

Nothing is stopping you now.

He's kneeling before you, the lines of his body stretched as he reaches for the ceiling light. You don't know what to reach for first— there are so many different places you could kiss or caress that you're overwhelmed with the possibilities. Eddie is a feast spread out before you, and you're burning to devour him. And it seems that Eddie may be thinking the same thing because his eyes are dark and molten as they drag slowly over you as if he’s savoring the sight. And it's a peculiar thing. So often, the presence of others' eyes on you makes self-consciousness squirm uncomfortably in your gut. But when Eddie consumes you with his heated gaze, you don’t feel self-conscious. Instead, as his eyes linger on your face bare of makeup, your hair limp from the heat and mussed from his fingers, and the formless, wrinkled shape of your scrubs, you feel nothing but desirable.

You're already melting before Eddie tells you, "It's just you and me, sweetheart. Don't hold back."

You can’t.

You won’t.

"Touch me, Eddie," you moan, "please—"

Hearing you beg has Eddie reaching for you instantly, hands pushing up your scrub shirt to expose your soft belly. You help him, pulling it over your head as he shoves your pants down your hips, and you fall back on your butt as he yanks them down to your ankles. You laugh as he grumbles when they get stuck on your sneakers. "Hold on, fuckin'... stupid shoes…" he mumbles to himself, and you sit up to untie the other pair of laces while he works on the first. Your shoes and socks end up flung heedlessly aside, and then you're tearing at Eddie's clothes next. Your arms wrap around each other as he gropes at the clasp of your bra and you drag his shirt up his back, your hastiness more of a hindrance than anything as you mash together, fumbling until you're both down to underwear.

His brown eyes lock eagerly on the generous swell of your bare breasts and the dusk of your soft nipples. "Tits really are so fuckin' perfect." Eddie grins, and you glow with pleasure, smiling broadly back as you playfully tighten your arms to push your breasts together. His brow tugs up as his grin turns wolfish, and without warning, Eddie shoves his face into your ample cleavage.

You squeak a surprised giggle as his curls tickle. "Smother me." His words muffle hot against your skin. "I'd die happy like this."

You laugh harder, breasts shaking as he emerges for air. "You're such a weirdo," you say through chuckles, eyes bright and fond as he tugs you against him in a tight embrace.

"You like it," he hums cheekily, smile charmingly crooked, brown eyes honeyed and warm. You soften, leaning in to bring your faces closer.

"I do like it," you confirm, and the playfulness on Eddie's face fades, smoldering into heat as he drops kisses down the side of your throat— slow and light and delicate at first, then deeper, more insistent as your head tilts to give him access. The press of his fingers splayed against your back, the warmth of his skin against your chest, the sensual caress of his plush lips and tongue; they all settle low in your belly, stoking the embers of your desire. You hum your pleasure as his lips trail slowly back up, teasing until you're throbbing insistently again, body hot and flushed.

Eddie's smoke voice rumbles against your throat as he murmurs, "Been thinking about makin' you cum on my tongue."

"Mmm." You drag your teeth against your lower lip; your voice is hoarse and soft with feminine heat as you reply, "Yeah? You've been thinkin' about me, Eddie?"

He nips and sucks at that sensitive spot beneath your ear, making you shiver with pleasure. "Always thinkin' about you," he mumbles, and you flutter as you wrap your arms around his shoulders in a tender embrace. Eddie sighs as you hold him, hands rasping slowly up your bare back. These words don't just feed your desire— they nourish you deep inside, perking your growth until your flowers quiver and awaken.

Softly, you tuck your face against his curls; your voice is barely more than a whisper as you admit, "I missed you."

I'm sorry I never answered. I thought about you every day.

"I missed you, too," Eddie murmurs back, warm and gentle, and you cup his jaw, kissing him tenderly. He sighs through his nose, relaxing into your hold as your thumbs stroke lightly against his cheeks.

Slowly, your languid kisses heat, turning more fervent. When you feel Eddie's hand dip beneath your panties, you press your hips forward to encourage him. He parts your folds, seeking the honey at the center of you, and the burn in your belly flares as his fingertips graze your clit.

He breaks the kiss but stays close, and his brows jerk in surprised pleasure. "Holy— you're soaked, sweetheart."

You flick his lips playfully with your tongue, pussy pulsing when you see his eyes darken and heat further. "All for you, Eddie," you murmur. He groans and grins crookedly, an eager, manic flash of eyeteeth.

"Is that right?" he husks, and when you nod, he pulls you into a firm kiss that steals your breath.

And once Eddie starts to kiss you again, he doesn't stop. Those kisses travel down your body, trailing heat in their wake as you lay back against the flannel blanket. He presses his face to your covered pussy, and you buck into the tease of his touch over fabric, grinding yourself against his nose as he groans at your eagerness. That wild desire resurges as he bares you, prying your puffy lips apart with his thumbs so he can finally bury his tongue in your wet heat.

Your fire catches instantly as Eddie's broad tongue drags like a slick blaze from your entrance to your clit. There's no reason to muffle your sounds as his fingers quickly circle your entrance before plunging inside. And with nothing to distract you, nothing to inhibit you— with your focus entirely on Eddie and the pleasure he's giving you— you feel that fire lick high up to your navel, tightening so quickly that your mouth falls open in a loud whine.

Eddie moans into your heat, and your hand shoots down to grasp his curls as the vibrations rumble deliciously against you. "Fuck, Eddie," you whimper, hips rolling as he works the flat of his tongue against your clit, fingers moving insistently inside as he pants against your heated flesh. His eyes flick up to watch you intently, brown deep and hazy as his gaze remains locked on yours while he pleasures you, and the sight of his pale face between your plush thighs makes you writhe.

When Eddie curls his fingers, rutting against that soft spot on your front wall as he rests his chin on the soft curls covering your mound, you throw your head back, moaning unabashedly. You feel him press a kiss to your mound, and the tenderness of it makes you whimper; your petals quiver, opening their faces. "Taste so fuckin' sweet," Eddie husks, arm wrapping around your thigh to hold you securely with a hand on your hip. "Could eat you every day and never have enough." And then he dives back in, lips suckling at your clit as he works you with his fingers.

Your chest heaves with your breath, a flush spreading down your neck as his words and his mouth and his hand drive you relentlessly toward your completion. "Oh, Eddie, oh—" His name is all you can say as that tingle spreads low between your hips, licking like fire up to your navel. He hums against your pussy, a little sound of reassurance as if he's trying to tell you he understands. You imagine the cadence of his words, can nearly hear them as if he's murmuring them low in your ear. 'I know, sweet girl. It feels good, doesn't it? I'm gonna make you cum, aren't I?'

Your fist tightens in his hair, holding on desperately as Eddie propels you straight to the brink. "Yes—!" you gasp as if in answer, and then the tension snaps, flooding you with sweet release.

Eddie's fingers slow, working you evenly as your orgasm rushes through your body, washing you with waves of tingling pleasure. You whine and whimper, muscles flexed, hips pushing up into his mouth as he swipes at you with the flat of his tongue. Eddie pulls out his fingers as your hips fall, replacing them with a lapping tongue that greedily gathers your slick until you twitch away, heated flesh oversensitive. He contents himself with kissing your thighs instead as you sigh, stretching luxuriously against the flannel beneath you.

But your orgasm hasn't left you sated; instead, as Eddie's head pops up from between your legs, curls adorably disheveled and pink lips glistening from his attentions, you're even more ravenous for him.

Eddie starts to travel up your body again, but he's moving too slowly for your taste; you haul him closer by the arms, and he grunts and chuckles as your mouth clings to his when he lands at your side. You kiss him hungrily, tasting smoke and spice and musk until you've licked your own taste from his tongue— and then you shimmy down, nose brushing the softness of his belly as you fix eager eyes on the waistband of his boxers.

It's unceremonious how you expose Eddie: not dainty, not coy, just a quick tug of plaid to his knees, rushed in your need. He pops out stiff and flushed, bobbing with his own weight, sticking proudly from that thick snatch of dark curls. You pull his boxers off entirely, hasty to taste the bead of precum weeping from the deep, mouthwatering pink of his tip. You don't have the patience to tease; he looks too delicious, too tempting. You take him into your mouth, humming in relief as you feel him hot and heavy, taste him briny on your tongue.

Your enthusiasm hits Eddie hard. As you quickly engulf him, lips stretching over his length til he's sunk halfway into your mouth, his groaning cry sounds like it was pulled from deep in his belly in desperate surprise. It hits you low, leaving you already tingling with renewed pleasure as you draw your head back, only to take him deep into your mouth again just as quickly. Eddie props himself on an elbow to watch you as you set a brisk pace, and you're gratified when his palm settles on the crown of your head, a heavy weight that doesn't inhibit your motions. You suction your lips around his head as you maneuver your arm to cup his balls, pulsing as you hear Eddie whimper when you knead them lightly. The vein on the underside of his cock becomes your focus; you trace it with your tongue as you start to bob again, savoring every twitch of his legs under your arms, every sound that spills from his plush lips. That smoke voice is tight, pitched higher than normal, and you burn with the knowledge of how you're affecting Eddie. You want to make him feel good; you want to make him feel so, so good.

"Holy fuck, your mouth is like— like f-fuckin’ heaven—" Eddie chuckles breathlessly before breaking off in a sudden sharp moan, hips jerking as you take him even deeper, motivated by his praise. He's always so composed, and your thighs squeeze, pleasure pulsing low as you realize you've reduced him to a stuttering mess. "Oh, fuck, y/n… oh, fuck—" Eddie sounds like me now. The thought is delightfully thrilling, and as you hum in satisfaction, Eddie's fingers suddenly tighten on your head, voice now breathless and urgent, not heated like before. "Wait—wait—wait, hold on—!"

Instantly, you pop off him, eyes wide; you pant through swollen lips, brow creasing with concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He chuckles again, though it's a bit sheepish this time. "Yeah, no, sweet girl, it's— it's really fuckin' good. Just, if you keep doin' that, I'm gonna blow way too fast."

Oh. Your concern melts back into pleasure, and you glow with a smile as you drape your arms over his hips. Eddie's cheeks are flushed; his inked chest rises and falls quickly as you rub your cheek against his stiff length. You pout playfully as you say, "Don't do that."

He laughs again, husky and genuine this time, and your smile widens as you crawl up his body. You straddle his waist, pushing his shoulders down flat to the blanket as you capture his mouth. He presses up into your kiss, returning it eagerly, and when you pull away, Eddie stares up at you with brown eyes bright with awed delight. "Look at you," he murmurs, hoarse and smoky. "Takin' what you want. So fuckin' sexy."

You inhale his words, smoke settling rich and heady in your belly. "Yeah?" You're almost surprised to hear the lowness of your voice, the feminine husk that deepens it to a sultry hum. You sit up straight, reaching back to run your hand over the length of his cock slick with your spit. "You gonna give me what I want, Eddie?"

You feel powerful when Eddie's wide eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "Fuck yes," he groans keenly as you bite your lip and hover above him, notching him between your swollen lips. His hands settle automatically on your hips, holding you steady as you begin to lower down onto him.

Eddie is thick, and he stretches you tight, but you moan in nothing but relief as you slide down onto him, taking him all the way as your hips fall flush with his. The grit of his hair against your clit isn't overstimulating anymore; it just makes you spark with pleasure as you begin to rock on him.

And you don't rock with tentative little movements like the first time. No, this time, you ride him, chasing your pleasure from the first moment you feel him hot and thick and unyielding inside you. You writhe, abdomen rolling as you lean forward, hands bracing on Eddie's strong biceps for leverage as you fuck yourself on his cock. And all the while, Eddie watches you, eyes glittering with satisfaction as you take what you need from him. He lets you do it freely, happy to give you what you want.

The embers reignite, hot and heady, as Eddie's cock presses against your front wall and his hair grinds against your clit, still swollen from the orgasm he'd given you. "That's it," he encourages you. "Just like that. Good girl—"

You moan, head lolling as his words coax your fire. "Oh, Eddie—" Your voice is breathy and delicate as you sigh with bliss.

Eddie's fingers press into your hips, kneading your soft flesh. His eyes capture yours, holding fast as he says, "Show me how much you love my cock, sweetheart."

Your breath hitches as you flutter wildly, blooming verdant and green. Because it's a daring thing to say, daring words that play at the edge of what's forbidden. Bold. Thrilling.

You feel another thrill race through you as you anticipate the words you'll reply with. Soft, hoarse, delicate, you tell him, "I do love your cock, Eddie. I love it."

Eddie groans in response, and you feel raw, charged like a livewire as you rock harder on his length, lifting higher and falling back down with loud, fleshy smacks. And Eddie's hands are everywhere: rubbing over your wide hips, squeezing the heft of your ass, pressing into your soft stomach, fingers molding into your flesh. Your hips are shaking, your body is swaying, and all the while, Eddie is watching you intently. You're exposed, fully visible, on display— and you don't care. You don't care at all.

Eddie watches you, and you feel beautiful.

And you watch him, too. Your eyes run over his face as if you're gazing at something treasured, something precious. You savor the way his bangs feather against his forehead, damp with sweat; the way his curls fan against the plaid flannel beneath you; the way his soft nose and cheeks are flushed from heat and pleasure, pink spreading down over the pale cords of his neck to the inky armor of his chest. Black, strong, masculine and sharp; but also white, gentle, tender, and kind. Eddie is captivating, all light and charcoal, ink and smoke that feeds your soul. Suddenly, it's not enough to be on top of him, to have his thick cock inside you. You want him as close as he can be. You want him to enclose you in his strong arms, to sink inside you and never, ever leave.

Abruptly, you stop moving on top of him, and Eddie's hands still on your waist as his brow tugs up. "What is it, sweet girl?"

He sounds so soft, so concerned that your plea comes out nearly choked. "Hold me," you beg him. "Hold me close, Eddie; I need you close—"

His hands tighten on your waist, pressing up so you'll lift off him. Quickly, he maneuvers to his knees, widening his stance as he hauls you onto his lap. With your thighs spread wide, you cling to his shoulders as he cups under your ass and presses his length back into you, warm breath puffing against your cheek. This. This is what you'd wanted— for your breasts to squish tight to Eddie's chest, for his lips to seek yours, warm and soft and wet as you writhe against him and he thrusts up into your tight heat.

You pull from the kiss, noses brushing as you whine against his mouth, "Fuck me, Eddie, please—"

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and exhales an eager groan, breath puffing warm against your lips. Your brow pinches as you stare into beautiful brown, arms tightening around his neck, fingers sinking into soft curls. You inhale that smoke voice up close as he fucks into you, splitting you open so deliciously. "Makin' me feel so good, sweetheart," he pants out. "So needy for me."

It's not particularly daring, not as it is, but you can make it so. Turn it bold. "I do need you, Eddie," you admit, soft and whiny, hoping he understands. "I need you—"

Eddie presses his face close, and as he whines against your lips, you bloom. You thrill and pulse with pleasure, licking with tingling fire that tightens in your belly. Arms and legs quivering, you rest your sweaty forehead against his. He jostles you in his grip, readjusting his hands as he grunts, "Tell me when it feels good, okay? Tell me—"

He hikes you up a little higher, hips seeking as best he can in this limiting position, angling until you gasp and your fingers tighten in his hair when he ruts against that soft spot inside you that sparks bright. "Right there," you breathe, "right there, Ed, right there—"

Eddie kisses you, humming desperately as you whimper. You can feel his arms trembling as he holds you steady while the tingle spreads again between your hips, tightening up to your navel as he drives against that spot over and over and over. But this time, you're not afraid. You feel nothing but bliss as you press a tender kiss to Eddie's lips, breaking away with a little panting mewl. "You're gonna m-make me cum again, Eddie," you wobble, voice airy and soft as you communicate your pleasure.

Eddie exhales sharply again, a desperate sigh as he pulls his face back to look into your eyes. His brow is pinched, skin damp with sweat, wide eyes dark and deep. "Cum for me, y/n," he rasps, arms tightening, "It's okay. I've got you— I'll never let you go."

And Eddie's voice is so tender, so soft, and his gaze is so gentle… you think these might be more of those daring words wrapped up in the guise of sweet talk, but you have no time to dwell on them as your pleasure overtakes you and your mind goes blank.

You keen as your orgasm rips through you, white-hot and more intense than the first, as Eddie keeps moving inside you. You blossom with wondrous feeling, tingling pleasure rushing through your tense limbs as you gasp and writhe in his grip; Eddie grunts, working hard to hold you as you squirm on him while you whimper out the depth of your feeling. But Eddie doesn't let you go, just like he promised. He holds tight until you relax, arms shaking as you cling to his shoulders. "Eddie," you gasp a dry sob, and he peppers your cheek with kisses, moving gently inside you. Your want spills out from your lips in trembling words, fingers shaking where they cup the nape of his neck. "Please, fill me up, Eddie. Cum inside me. I want you, I want all of you, please, give me everything—"

Caught up in the heat of the moment, it's more daring than you intend. You feel suddenly that you've peeled your own layers back, exposing the green at the center of you, the white of your flowers, the tiny fruit that has sprouted on your growth. Fear, sharp and acrid, pierces your chest as you realize what you may have revealed. It freezes out from your sternum, frosting along your ribs—

But then Eddie moans, smoke voice tight and high and so achingly sincere. "Anything for you—"

And when his hips stutter, pressing up into yours, and Eddie digs his nose into your neck, you gasp, nearly overwhelmed at the feeling of his seed spilling warm inside you. Your eyes prick with tears as you hold Eddie close, cradling his head as his length jerks and twitches until it finally falls still. Your chin trembles as you rest your cheek against Eddie's hair, reeling with emotion as he holds you for a long moment.

That fear that pierced you— it wanes, soothed as Eddie pulls out and lays you down flat, draping himself over you as quickly as he can as if he doesn't want to leave you for a second. Your thighs are sore and burning, and his cum is leaking thick between them, but it doesn't matter once Eddie presses his weight down on you, enveloping you in black and white. He's still panting, deep, gasping breaths of exertion, skin damp and hot as it sticks to you. You brush back the curls clinging to his cheeks as your emotion wells up, and you're struck with the desire to say more. Shakily, you stare into the light of Eddie's brown eyes and manage a whisper: "Eddie, I—"

But the words choke, sticking in your chest as you gaze at him. Your eyes begin to dart; your thumb traces his jaw, stroking quickly as frustration builds in your chest. Eddie must see your rising distress because he softens, shushing you quietly before he presses his lips to your brow, lingering there. Your breath shudders; bitter and wanting, you're desperate to fight against the blockage and tell him. But when Eddie presses tender kisses to your lips, slow and gentle, you finally give in to his patient coaxing. You release, easing your effort as you wrap your arms around him, drawing your fingertips over the planes of his back.

You cuddle naked in the back of Eddie's van for a long time, smelling of sex and smoke. Cleaning up, getting dressed, checking the time— none of these are your concern, and neither are they Eddie's as he works his fingers gently through the tangles of your hair, and you drag your nails lightly along the ink of his arm, tracing patterns into his wrist and then up to his shoulder. Your legs are woven with his as you lay side-by-side, Eddie propped on an elbow, your head pillowed by the plush material of his folded joggers.

As you draw your finger up a vein in his neck, the sight of Eddie's tank strewn nearby has you musing absently, "I didn't know you work out at the gym."

Eddie eyes you with a slanted smirk. "What," he snaps playfully, "you callin' me a weakling?"

You flush, heat flooding your cheeks as he calls you out. "No! Clearly not!" you defend, withdrawing your finger. "I just—" you cut off, no excuse readily, and he chuckles huskily while you pout.

"Between working at the shop and carrying gear, it pays to keep in shape." Eddie lifts his arm and flexes his bicep, waggling his eyebrows at you wolfishly.

You pretend to roll your eyes, but a smile breaks free. "So, was this gonna be leg day?" You tease, eyeing his pale thighs pointedly.

He laughs again, and you savor the sound and the bright flash of his eyes as he murmurs, "Still got a full-body workout, after all." He ducks close, hand cupping your cheek and stroking back your hair as he kisses you slowly, languidly, like you have all the time in the world.

You hum fondly, contentedly, hand settling again on his shoulder and drawing lightly across his chest. You've been close to Eddie many times over the last five months, but you've never been able to take your time examining the dark body armor he wears— the ink that scrawls across his arms and chest, which you've been captivated by since the first time you saw him on stage. "I love your tattoos," you tell him, and the bright smile that stretches his cheeks makes you warm with fondness. You trace the bats at the crook of his elbow, adding, "I feel like I've never really looked at them. I mean, I've seen them a bunch of times, but…." Your gaze drops to the strange dice on his wrist, thumb stroking the tendons there. You know what you're really trying to say— that even though you've seen them, you don't know them. Don't know why Eddie has them; don't know what they mean to him. And you want to know more about Eddie— to see inside him, down to whatever grows at his core.

"Ask me 'bout 'em," Eddie offers, and your wide eyes dart to his. His face is calm, brown eyes clear, mouth crooked with an easy smile.

"Okay," you say shyly, peering down at his arm. You start with an easy one— the ink on the wrist you'd been stroking. "What are these?"

"Those are dice," he replies, gentle and free of judgment despite the obviousness of the answer. "Used in several different contexts, but I have 'em because of a game called Dungeons and Dragons. I was really big into it in high school. Ran a club and everything."

A tentative smile blooms bright on your face, and Eddie's eyes soften as he sees your enthusiasm. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "It's a role-playing fantasy game, kind of like League of Legends. Have you ever played that?" You shake your head, and he seems to settle in, head resting more comfortably against his palm. "Well, you basically—"

Patiently, thoroughly, Eddie shares himself with you as you examine the tapestry of his ink. He walks you through the weaving of old and new alike— explaining the fuzzy blow-out of that demon head on his chest, done by a kitchen-scratcher when he was seventeen, and the crisp lines of the hobbit door along the curve of his shoulder to bridge the gap between two other pieces, completed last year. A clear pattern emerges— dark imagery, chaotic and unruly in its skulls and snakes and knives, scrawls of metal lyrics, and anti-conformist sayings proclaiming individuality and rebellion. But his collection is not without outliers. You spot a small raccoon, shaded softly and nestled in the crook of his left elbow. "'Cause I always fed the ones around the trailer park," Eddie tells you, smile manic as he adds, "Used to drive the neighbors nuts when they started hanging on their porches looking for more scraps." You grin at his boyishness, head settling in that crook to cover the raccoon as you snuggle closer. And that's when you see it— innocuous, just below his clavicle, small compared to the black widow spider nearby. A simple outline, a stamp of white quartz skin in the heavy black surrounding it, one you've never noticed before. You raise your head to peer at it, brow crinkling confusedly.

"Is that a…" you squint, head tilting. "...a mug?"

Eddie turns his face down, chin wrinkling into folds as he pushes his shoulder forward to see what you're looking at. When a corner of his lips tugs up into a gentle smile, and he looks back at you, his eyes tell you it isn't because he'd forgotten about it. "Kind of different from everything else, right?" You nod wordlessly, and he lays back flat against the blanket, eyes scanning the ceiling, plush lips slack as he goes quiet. You nestle against the plush of his joggers, eyes locked on the side of his face. He looks suddenly pensive and wistful. The dip in Eddie's mood is obvious, and you're about to tell him he doesn't need to talk about it, but then his smoke voice is filling up the back of the van— hushed, low, but unwavering.

"I told you I grew up in a trailer park," he says, brown eyes fixed on the soft glow of the ceiling light. "But I didn't always live there."

Eddie tells you about Indianapolis. About his mother, how the house had smelled of shea butter and burned plastic until she skipped out when he was seven, track marks sunk in her arms. About his father, how Eddie spent evenings in the backseat of a dark car parked outside rundown stash houses until he was old enough to come inside. "He didn't teach me how to fish," he tells you, "but he made sure I knew how to hotwire." He tells you about the drunken rants, the acerbic insults he weathered once his mother left father and son trapped together. About the bruises on his stomach and his arms, but never on his face. Never where they couldn't be hidden.

And once your chest is heavy with the weight of your sorrow, Eddie's lips quirk in a tiny grin. "And then there was Wayne." His uncle, his father's gruff older brother, who plucked him from that house and gave him the only bedroom in his tiny trailer without a word of complaint. He slept on a fold-up in the living room, pulling doubles to put food in Eddie's stomach, a roof over his head. Providing a refuge Eddie could hide in until he healed and emerged, blinking in the sunlight, finally able to be himself at fourteen years old. "He has this gigantic mug collection, and every Christmas, I get him a new one. The most ridiculous one I can find. Used to hide stuff in them, too, to see if he'd ever find them." He chuckles, a husky sound of fondness. "He never did."

Eddie settles, brown eyes sliding to yours as he says quietly, "Wayne's more of a dad to me than my father ever was." You marvel at him— how Eddie could be broken into something rugged and sharp but still remain gentle at his core. Your heart aches for the boy he was, but it yearns, it longs, for the man he is.

"I'm so sorry, Eddie," you whisper, voice thick with emotion. "You didn't deserve any of that. But I'm so glad you had him." When that little wrinkle forms on his forehead, you smooth it with your thumb. Your touch is gentle as you draw it over his brow, stroking slowly. "To go through that and still be as kind, as good as you are…." You swallow thickly. "It's something rare, I think."

Eddie stares at you for a moment, and you hold his gaze until he shifts, rolling over.

Rolling towards you.

Rolling onto his side, head landing on your shoulder as your arms wrap around him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, pressing himself to the length of your body. One hand strokes his hair while the other presses flat to the warmth of his back, and your chin rests against the top of his head.

And there you both lay— still, quiet, breathing one another in. And as you hold Eddie, as he bares himself to you, your roots stretch. Your leaves quiver and your white flowers spread their petals, blossoming soft and full. And the fruit that sprouted abundantly along your green begins to grow plump. It ripens until it hangs heavily from the vine: succulently red, deeply sweet.

Latent and ready to provide nourishment; just waiting for the right moment to burst from your tongue.

–

Eventually, the evening must end. No longer can you just pretend that the back of Eddie's van is all that exists.

It's nearly nine-thirty by the time he pulls onto your street, and when the van rolls to a stop against the curb outside your building, you take a moment to shoulder your purse and check that your phone is inside. You pat down the length of your hair, smoothing the wrinkles from your scrubs, anything to delay the moment you'll leave the smoke and artificial pine of the van's cabin. Anything to keep the tangle of your emotions quelled by the light of Eddie's brown eyes and the rasp of his callouses on your cheek.

As it's fluttering around your thigh, Eddie gently snatches your hand, and you bite your lip as he slowly weaves his fingers between yours. Your eyes catch beautiful brown as Eddie stares at you mutely, gaze all melty soft, the same way you feel inside. Deliberately, you squeeze his fingers; deliberately, he squeezes back.

There are no parting words from either of you. Instead, your hand slips from his, and when you finally step outside, the sweltering heat has waned. Now, the air is balmy like turquoise sea water.

You spend the elevator ride up to your floor chewing on your thumbnail, mind racing to decide how you'll justify the length of your absence. But when you finally turn the doorknob, the interior of your apartment is dark and still. Steve is not yet home. You check your phone; there's a text from ten minutes ago. It's Steve telling you he should be home in about twenty minutes.

This stolen time without your boyfriend is welcomed, and you shed your disheveled scrubs immediately, heading straight for the shower. The spray washes the sweat from your skin. Conditioner smoothes the tangles in your hair. Soap washes the seed from between your thighs. You take your time in the steam, letting it loosen the tangle of your emotions until you can lay them out flat, uncoiling each strand to examine its meaning.

When you emerge, swiping your hand across the condensation on your mirror, you gaze at your reflection. At the brightness of your eyes. The healthy flush of your cheeks. The soft sheen of your hair. The radiance of your skin, a radiance that glistens from the swollen red flesh of fruit now fully grown at the center of you. You acknowledge the truth, calling back to the surface that realization you'd just begun to fathom sleeping next to Steve in the hotel room, watching Eddie's back rise and fall in the next bed over:

Steve Harrington is your boyfriend, but you aren't in love with him anymore. And your feelings for Eddie are stronger than what you felt for Steve, even at the beginning. Because Steve never shone a light on the deep earth concealed at the bottom of you. He never planted a seed, tended your roots, or encouraged your growth. And you aren't angry at him for it. You think he would have if he could. He simply hadn't known how to.

Words don't come easy to you, and you know these won't, either. But you're going to do it anyway.

Tomorrow, you're going to break up with him.

#tkym #blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #steve harrington

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fairytale-poll · 11 months

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ROUND 1B, MATCH 16 OUT OF 16!

*Though I am referring to her as Popelka, her original name in Czech, she is also often referred to as Aschenbrödel, her German name. Additionally, Three Wishes for Cinderella is the English title (with an alternate localized title being Three Gifts for Cinderella). The original Czech title, Tři oříšky pro Popelku, and the German title Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel both are translated as Three Hazelnuts for Cinderella. All names and titles have been tagged. Any local Czech or German speakers feel free to correct me for any mistakes! :)

Propaganda Under the Cut:

Danielle:

This is, imo, the single best retelling of Cinderella out there. She has a great character, her relationship with the prince grows organically rather than happening in a single night, and the scene with the bandits is top tier

The story is told as a historical romance instead of anything supernatural happening. Drew Barrymore is a cute Cinderella, Anjelica Houston is an incredible stepmother, and she's also really nasty to one of the stepsisters too, who ends up taking Danielle (Cinderella)'s side. Also Leonardo da Vinci is hanging around painting a portrait of Danielle at one point.

The Drew Barrymore Cinderella is fantastic. It’s got real history mixed with beautiful whimsy! I absolutely love the butterfly wings and how she spoke up for her step mother and sister at the end (and that they were still punished). I feel like I need to go watch it now.

she’s funny and smart and she’s resourceful (also her outfits are historically accurate!)

Popelka:

She has so much personality. She's funny, smart, kind, has a lot of spunk, and she really does things instead of just waiting for miracles to occur. Also, she's a great rider and has a deadly aim with bow and arrow.

She finds three hazelnuts that grant her wishes by giving the clothes to do what she wants. Beautiful dresses. The prince puts a ring on her finger while she’s in her huntsman’s outfit.

I don't know how it's faring in modern day Czechia, but here in Germany, Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel is still THE (non-Disney) Cinderella adaptation and a yearly rewatch for many, despite literally turning fifty this year. It's just so fairytale and also just... good? And she hangs out in the woods and shoots with a crossbow and saves deer and gives the prince riddles and then the music aaa the music!! I guess this isn't just a submission of this version of the character but this version of the story. For those who don't know: This adaptation is based on a Czech author's retelling of the Grimm version of the story, the film was a co-production of Czechoslovakia and East Germany and it slaps so hard it gets played at least 10 times (usually more) on public german television in and around December every single year. This is not an exaggeration, you can look it up, they even make a special, official info graphic with all the air dates every year that people can (and do!) share on social media. In Germany, the main event of Christmas is the 24th, Christmas eve, and on that day they play it at least 4 times (often more) at different times of the day on different public channels (ALL of which any German with a hooked up tv has access to) so anyone who wants to watch it gets a chance to. And Aschenbrödel herself in the movie STILL holds up as a (within reasonable expectations) feminist character, she's skilled, she's smart, she's witty, she and the prince actually talk and they like each other for their personalities, like... yes, there's a couple of flaws with the movie that time has pointed out, but mostly small, background things or things you simply cannot expect a movie from 1973 to get right. It's SO well made and just plain charming, it has truly stood the test of time and I would be devastated if it weren't included. It's also my mum's favourite movie (she's from East Germany and was born in 1969 so she's had regular access to it basically all her conscious life) so we would actually usually watch it multiple times each year and even record it (first on VHS, later again on DVD) so we could rewatch it any time and yet, I literally never got tired of it. It's just good & magical & I love it. Even my brother, who usually didn't care for fairytale movies at all and would much rather play video games in his room, would come down and sit with us to watch this one, THAT'S how good and magical this movie is.

And if all that hasn't convinced you yet but you speak German, here it is on YouTube, go watch it:

[Link]

(I won't provide a Czech link since I can't vouch for any of them as I don't speak czech)

Anyway, dear tournament runner: Have a pic of Aschenbrödel, in my favourite of her magically provided outfits, for the poll:

[Link]

She is the Cinderella of like eastern central Europe and the Story is a little different (she's no. 1 girlboss, beats the prince in a shooting contest and instead of a fairy she has 3 magic hazelnuts/ a magic owl)

#cinderpoll #round 1 #round 1b #danielle de barbarac #ever after #cinderella #popelka #aschenbrödel #three wishes for cinderella #three gifts for cinderella #three little nuts for cinderella #tři oříšky pro popelku #drei haselnüsse für aschenbrödel #fairytale #poll tournament #poll bracket #character polls #polls

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kirimoochi · 1 year

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hell/heaven.

₊˚ ᗢ kazuha x fem!reader, modern au.

⤷ based on keshi's "hell/heaven." mentions of alcohol & sex.

want to read the other part? read: limbo.

“Tell me more, I adore you.”

You lean your head against the inner frame of the car, your eyes staring off into the distance as Lumine drives the two of you home. The car ride would have been completely silent had it not been for the soft music playing on the radio. You both finished a night partying at Hu Tao’s place, and it was time for you to return home. Your eyes flicker to the photos that were left in the nooks of her car, ones that were filled with photos of you, her, and her twin brother Aether.

A night of drinking didn’t do much to erase the feeling in the pit of your stomach. The one that would create butterflies out of nothing. The one that would somehow do cartwheels and flips whenever you saw that stupid, literature major who always stops by your apartment to study (despite living further away from you). A few shots here and there left you feeling a bit tipsy.

The girls wanted to have an outing and you couldn’t say no. How could you? Yoimiya and Hu Tao were looking into your eyes with puppy-dog eyes. They said that after having a long test, they were willing to get shit-faced just for a weekend. You didn’t entirely agree on the second half. However, the thought of getting a bit of relief sounded nice. And a relief it was for maybe a few minutes.

It wasn’t until Kokomi, from your chemistry class, asked you about your relationship with Kazuha. She peered up at you with a shot glass wrapped between her fingers, the look in her eyes almost mischievous. Perhaps Gorou told her something that made her want to ask you this. She never seemed all too interested in your relationships beforehand. Yet something sparked her interest. It might have been the longing looks that the man gives you whenever you turn your head, or the way she notices him buy things that remind him of you, or whenever Gorou barks her ear off about what Kazuha was saying that day.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about him again,” She says, steering the car. Her words snap you out of your thoughts and you shake your head. The blond shifts the music to a lower volume so that when she turns her head, she could hear your voice clearer than the harmony.

“What if I am? What are you going to do about it?” A giggle escapes from your lips but it quickly subsides to silence. The girl pushes her lips together as she resists the urge to roll her eyes at you. Tonight, you were quiet. A little too much for her liking.

She had grown used to hearing you talk about your “boy troubles.” And although she might have pinched your cheek or nudged your elbow whenever you went on a tangent about him, she was starting to miss it. She doesn’t understand why you like this man so much. She has seen him slip out of the bathrooms with a girl hanging by his arm, or the flask that slips of his bag whenever they share a class. Don’t even get her started on the excessive smoking that happens whenever he is partying. She honestly finds it a miracle that you didn’t know about a lot of these things.

Or perhaps you already have, and accepted it as Kazuha.

You raise your hand and bring it to cover the lower half of your face. You were head over heels for him. Ever since you met him back in freshman year of high school. You liked that goofy smile of his, that little tooth that sort of sticks out looked a lot more charming than people gave credit. You liked the way he would push the bridge of his glasses with his slender fingers, his autumn eyes turning their attention to you whenever you said his name.

“Why don’t you just ask him out then? Tell him to meet up with you on Saturday,” Lumine chuckles, “You need to buy your biology textbook right? Let em’ tag along.”

“Yeah but what if he gets bored?” You pout.

“Bored? Of you?” She nearly slams the brakes.

As if. She sees the way he looks at you. While she may not approve of his daydreaming or smoking habits, she’s impressed by the dedication he has to keep your friendship. If she was in his shoes, and she didn’t already have a boyfriend, she wouldn’t have hesitated to jump ship and kiss you on the spot. That's how much of a supportive best friend she is.

“You’re crazy.”

Lumine speeds up the car, rolling down the windows as you open up your phone to text Kazuha. She turns back up the music to a louder volume, the thumping causing both of you to laugh. The wind blows through your hair and you feel the adrenaline kick in. You figure that while the alcohol is still coursing through your veins, you might as well shoot your shot.

“I’m devoted, hours turn to minutes when I listen to you talkin.”

You hate that you weren’t the type of girl Kazuha might be into. You’re probably not as pretty as his project partner for a poetry class. Most definitely not as confident or outgoing as Kokomi and Beidou. And especially not a smooth talker like Ningguang. You wouldn’t even consider yourself extremely reserved and meek like Ganyu. You’ve faced the battles that come with standing beside him. Rumors don’t slip your ears as much as people think.

And even when you are swarmed like hives by your insecurities, when he looks into your eyes with those autumn-colored irises, he makes you forget everything you were worried about. You can only hope that he doesn’t see the underlying truth.

You weren’t good per se. You had terrible habits. When you say you’re at home studying, you’re in the car with Lumine running errands late at night, oftentimes sitting on the curb eating dry powdered donuts. You like to drink a little more than you should, which ends up with the blond carrying you back to her car with a paper bag. You push yourself too far when you know you shouldn’t, the times Lumine found you passed out in your chair or public libraries were too many for her to count. You weren’t one to back down from a drinking challenge, especially when Beidou and Ningguang are participating. Competitiveness runs through your veins.

You love that adrenaline that gets you high at night. It takes away from the stress that comes with being an underpaid teacher’s assistant, working overtime on weekends, and having agonizing 8 am classes. You’ve even started to balance being a wingman to Childe’s extravagant plans to impress Lumine. Each time he comes over to your table, you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes every time he brings up the poor idea of sneaking into her dorm to throw a surprise party.

You blink once before nodding to whatever Kazuha said. He gives you an endearing smile as he reaches out to hold your hand, bringing you away from the thick crowds. Your face feels hot when you walk beside him. You think it's the sun, others might say it was your nervousness getting the better of you. A small smile creeps up on your face as you interlace your fingers, hoping that what you feel was more than mutual.

“Is this hell or heaven? You decide.”

You let out a small whimper when he kisses you for the first time. Your stomach explodes with fireworks. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you rock back and forth as he keeps you on his lap. You brush through his long hair with your fingers, combing through it as you continue this game of push and pull. You feel shivers when his slender fingers press against your hips, holding you still. You fear that you’re going to get drunk off of this feeling.

You had to admit that the excuse to see him was a poor one. You asked him if you could come over to listen to his newest song, the one that he planned on performing with Aether and Xiao. However, seeing him in that comfy caramel sweater that you gifted him on his birthday, wearing the same cologne you’ve grown familiar with, it became increasingly hard to keep your heart from leaping out of your throat. He asked you politely in that smooth voice if you would like a drink as he played, to which you replied a little too eagerly.

Parting away from him, he chases after your lips. You hold back another sound from escaping your mouth. You suppose underneath your texts, you wanted a little bit more. Maybe a few slips of the tongue and words will spill out of your mouth if you drank. However, it didn’t take much alcohol for you to lean forward, quietly asking him under your breath if you were allowed to kiss him.

He flinched at first, unsure of what to answer, but with the way his ears turned red, that flushed expression on his face, the slow nod of his head… you knew those were signs that he wanted you just as equally as you did.

You knew it was wrong to think of your best friend like this. To think about brushing through his hair as he squeezed you firmly against his body. To wrap your legs around him to keep him still. Kazuha, your best friend and closest confidant. Your maple leaf and darling, how could he not be yours? The boy that used to walk you home after volleyball, the one that would buy you ice cream whenever you cried, the one you leaned your head against during movies, you wanted him. All of him.

Everyone has their vices. You were more than willing to give up your lifestyle for him. More than willing to let him into your heart even when people say he’s just trouble. When you note the way he kisses you, or how he wraps his arms tightly around your waist when you jump into his arms, you felt safe. Shielded from this world that seemed a little too hard. A little too overbearing. He was your breath of fresh air. As ironic as the situation is.

You let out a surprised gasp when Kazuha flips you over onto the bed, his fingers interlacing with yours as he presses his forehead against yours. The moment is intimate. You feel raw and exposed despite keeping your clothes on. You both stare into each other’s eyes, giving a few “heys” here and there. Without much hesitation, using your opposite hand, you pull him down, kissing him once more.

He’s yours, and you don’t want to let go of him.

⤷ this one is waayyy different from limbo in the case where reader is a lot more "adrenaline-hooked" so her thoughts are sporadic. sort of contrasts kazuha's calm but conflicted personality in limbo.

#₊˚ ᗢ kirimoochi #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kazuha #kazuha kaedehara x reader #kazuha kaedehara #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader

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tomorrowxtogether · 6 months

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Tomorrow X Together are rebels with a cause in first-look photos for Minisode 3: Tomorrow

From rebellious rockers to fairytale princes, there’s no concept that Tomorrow X Together can’t pull off.

The K-Pop group (pronounced ‘Tomorrow By Together,’ or TXT for short) is officially back with its sixth mini-album Minisode 3: Tomorrow, and to celebrate, Entertainment Weekly is exclusively revealing five never-before-seen concept photos that highlight Soobin, Huening Kai, Taehyun, Beomgyu, and Yeonjun’s versatile style.

The snapshots are part of the group’s "Ethereal" and "Romantic" photo concepts for the album, each of which, Taehyun tells EW, “distinctly encompasses a unique story and emotion that we wanted to deliver visually through Minisode 3: Tomorrow.”

They’re also completely different from one another aesthetically. The "Romantic" photoshoot draws upon Snow White-inspired imagery with the quintet's dreamy outfits, while their "Ethereal" snapshots turn TXT into modern-day rock stars — complete with their own winged guitars, amps, and big rig. Minisode 3: Tomorrow's final two concepts — "Light" and "Promise" — further expand upon the group's artistry as they're seen outfitted in ballet slippers, angel wings, and crowns.

“We wanted to [experiment] with a diverse range of fashion styles,” Yeonjun says. “I think, at this point in time, one of our greatest strengths as a band is our versatility, not only in music and performances but also in aesthetics, which we always aim to absorb and make our own.”

And yes, in case you were wondering, those winged guitars were seriously hefty. “During the 'Ethereal' version concept shoot, I was surprised by the weight of the guitar!” Beomgyu recalls. “It was quite cold on set, and I thought it was so cute how we would huddle around the heater during breaks, which added a heartwarming touch to the experience.”

TXT fans, called MOA (short for 'moments of alwaysness'), will also spot that the concepts directly relate to the group's past albums. “The props like the truck and guitars are reminiscent of our previous releases ‘0X1=LOVESONG (I Know I Love You)’ and ‘LO$ER=LO♡ER,’” Taehyun says. “I hope MOA enjoy the throwback!”

That connection can also be heard on Minisode 3: Tomorrow. Leader Soobin says the group is “connecting the dots from our previous releases" with the record, especially on their title track, “Deja Vu.” He adds, "Including lyrics such as ‘I ran away countless times,’ and ‘be my eternity,’ from ‘Run Away’ [from their 2019 album The Dream Chapter: Magic] added a nostalgic touch that I think our fans will enjoy rediscovering."

While TXT is honoring its past, the album still has its own story to tell. One of EW’s concept photos (below) features the group sitting on a truck that reads, “We made a promise when we were young. That’s the reason I have to live for tomorrow.”

“The phrase hints at the underlying story of Minisode 3: Tomorrow,” Soobin explains. “It means that we will remember our past promises and embark on a journey to find 'you' to charge forward and face a hopeful 'tomorrow' together.”

Beomgyu describes the seven-track album as a “treasure trove of diverse sounds” that “represent the stories of today's generation.” Throughout their careers, TXT has never been afraid of openly and honestly discussing the physical and mental hardships that come with adolescence and, now, young adulthood — the 23-year-old’s favorite track on the album, “Quarter Life,” is actually about navigating a quarter-life crisis.

“Taehyun, Huening Kai, and I participated in the lyric writing to express the inner thoughts that we have at this point in our lives,” Beomgyu says about the song. “I love the track's mood and melody, too!”

In fact, four of Minisode 3: Tomorrow's tracks were penned in part by the members of TXT. Yeonjun — who co-wrote “I’ll See You There Tomorrow,” “The Killa (I Belong To You),” and “Miracle” — says that the album’s lyrics “have greater depth and uniqueness” this time around because they’re framed through the members' worldview.

“We have collectively been improving in our lyric writing, and I think it shines through in this album,” he says. “As we aim to give voice to the common experiences of our generation, we tried to focus on applying our own stories in the lyrics.”

And, just like in their "Ethereal" concept photos, TXT will soon find themselves hopping aboard a tour bus and hitting the road when their upcoming Act: Promise tour kicks off stateside next month. The 11-date concert series will see the members perform across the country, including two nights at Madison Square Garden in New York City.

“We are visiting even more cities across the U.S. this time around, so I'm thrilled to meet and interact with more MOA!” Huening Kai says. “Our fans will be able to see some brand new performances of tracks from our new album, so I hope they can look forward to it. Just like our album's opener, ‘I'll See You There.’”

Minisode 3: Tomorrow is available now.

#txt #tomorrow x together #240402 #article #ew #soobin #yeonjun #beomgyu #taehyun #hueningkai #minisode 3 tomorrow #minisode 3

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itsnotzka · 1 year

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Hello! Huh, what's this? A silly, cheesy little thing, I'd say ;)

TW: (very mild) alcohol, talking about stalking in a not very serious manner Genre: ...fluff? Silly fluff? Confused fluff? Word count: 5,3k Characters: Jake x Phil You can also read it on Ao3.

Not your stalker

With a quiet, contented sigh and a smile on his face, Phil finally let the last customer out and closed the door of Aurora behind them. He turned around and took a few steps towards the center of the pub, taking it all in. The wooden floors creaked softly under his feet. The air was thick with the comforting scent of dust, cigarette smoke, and the faint aroma of old furniture.

He knew it wasn’t the most pleasant smell for most, but for him, it was everything. To Phil, it was more than just a smell; it was a reminder of all he had, and almost lost just a couple of months back.

Every time he started cleaning up Aurora for the night, he thought about the day he was accused of a crime he didn’t commit and thrown into jail for a few weeks, with basically no explanation. The memories still lingered in his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

For quite some time, nobody really cared about him. They had other things on their minds, such as their missing friends being found. He knew he wasn't a perfect person. People tended to either love him or hate him. However, at that time, those he thought were his friends simply didn't care, while those who couldn't stand him laughed behind his back. There was somehow no in-between.

The bartender couldn't help but smile, still lost in thought. He was released from custody only because someone had paid his bail. Then, mysteriously, his lawyer found evidence of his innocence. Normally, there would be nothing unusual about this—lawyers have their own methods for uncovering the truth and exploiting legal loopholes—but the sudden clarity of this particular situation was nothing short of a miracle. At least it felt that way. Despite the happy outcome, his lawyer seemed eager to sever all ties with Phil as soon as possible. In fact, he refused to even accept any money from him, leaving Phil with a sense of both gratitude and absolute confusion.

He hadn’t told his sisters about it. At first, he suspected they might have been involved, but he quickly dismissed the thought. He knew Jessy and Angela all too well; they were always quick to point out his flaws and mistakes, even the smallest ones. Surely, they wouldn't have helped him without a big, wonderful lecture about his life. So he just told them the case was solved, period.

He stopped caring about it and moved on. At least, that's what he was telling himself. He shook his head in frustration, trying not to overanalyze everything once again.

He walked over to the bar, slowly making his way through the tables, turning off the lights, picking up empty beer mugs, and wiping down the surfaces. Unable to shake his thoughts away, he changed the music to something less modern to keep his mind off things, but it didn't help either. Then he was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the bell hanging above the door.

“I’m sorry, I already closed the pub,” he said, turning towards the sound. “Come back tomorrow, eh?”

Only then did he look at the person standing in the doorway and frown. He didn't recognize them. He knew basically every face, every name in Duskwood, after all. He knew at least something about everyone. Those were the advantages of running the only pub in town! Rumors came to him, and tourists, if they appeared at all, came early and didn't stay long.

And yet… there was a stranger in front of him.

The man didn’t answer. He just raised his brow slowly, glanced at Phil, and then looked around the pub.

“Look… I'm tired, I've already cleared the tables. I can give you a beer to go, but that's it,” the bartender said again, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance.

“I don’t drink,” the stranger replied, his voice resonant and clear, his eyes meeting the bartender's.

Phil paused, the corners of his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read the stranger's face, but it was particularly hard. “So, can I help you with anything else?” he asked with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't sure, but the stranger seemed to give him a small smile. Then the man closed the door behind him and briskly walked down the two steps that led inside the pub.

“I just thought I could finally visit this place,” the man replied casually.

The bartender sighed deeply, trying to keep his composure. "Listen, man… I already told you, Aurora is closed for the night," Phil said firmly, walking over to the door and opening it wide. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you stay here. Now be so kind and get out, or I'll call the police.”

"Oh? The same police that were stupid enough to arrest you?" the stranger’s mocked.

The pub was quite dark, with most of the lamps already turned off by Phil. But at that moment, the light of a street lamp shone in through the open pub door, casting a warm glow on the stranger's face, finally illuminating his features.

As the bartender glanced at his unexpected guest, he noticed the fairly young man was likely around his age, if not a few years older. His all-black outfit, complete with a backpack clearly designed for carrying a laptop, gave him a serious and tidy vibe. Although his nearly black hair seemed neatly combed, it curled in every direction, as if mocking his efforts to keep it in check. Phil couldn't help but notice the man's tired, dark eyes. Yet there was something about his gaze, a level of… maturity that Phil had not expected to see.

“Get out,” the bar owner repeated, but without much conviction.

The stranger laughed softly but ignored his words, calmly and surely walking over to the bar. Laying his heavy backpack on one of the barstools, he sat on another, resting his hands on the counter.

“Could I get some coffee?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the somewhat confused bartender.

Phil was not a person to be easily upset. True, sometimes he could say too much or react too harshly, but only with words. He was good with words and with people. But for some reason, the stranger didn't seem to care about that… and it was annoying.

“What do you want from me? Didn't you hear what I said?” Phil snapped, his frustration boiling over. He slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the room. Turning to the man, he stomped over, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Grabbing the stranger's arm, he spun him around on the stool with such force that he almost fell off his seat.

Phil was surprised when the stranger didn’t react with fear or surprise, but instead looked at him with an understanding gaze, as if he knew something that Phil didn't. The bartender's anger slowly dissipated as he studied the man's reaction, taking a small step back.

"Now, to answer your questions…” the man sighed, shifting on the barstool once more. “First, I'd appreciate some coffee or something else with caffeine. For your other concern… of course, I've heard what you said, but I don't necessarily want to leave. The truth is, I feel like I owe you this meeting… or at least an explanation."

Phil scoffed. "Oh, you think so?"

"Correct," the stranger exhaled. "I should have done it sooner, but somehow, well... To be completely honest with you, Hawkins, I think you were getting on my nerves a bit too much," he added with a lopsided smile.

"So, you know who I am?" Phil's anger was replaced by curiosity in less than a few seconds.

The bartender then quickly bit his bottom lip, refraining from asking the stranger more. He was well aware of one of his greatest flaws and, even though he didn't like to admit it to himself too often, he secretly enjoyed being the center of attention. No matter what.

"So... no coffee then? Well, that's a shame," the stranger rested his hands on the counter once more and pointed to a soda drink on the right side behind the bar. "So let’s put it this way. The truth is, I happen to know quite a bit about you accidentally, even though you probably don't know who I am. Before you jump to any conclusions - no, I am not your stalker; no, I am not trying to extort money from you; and no, I am definitely not involved in any scheme or conspiracy that would require your involvement."

"You know about me... accidentally ?" Phil repeated doubtfully, walking behind the bar and facing the stranger. "What kind of bullshit is that?"

"Oh, well..." he chuckled again, "I wouldn't say it’s bullshit. Not entirely, at least. You see, we both became involved in the same case a while back, and I was actually forced to learn more about you. You understand that I did not do this for my own enjoyment, although I must admit..." he hesitated, then cringed, "You are not very cautious with what you post online; that was so easy... So yes. It was, at least to some extent, accidental."

"The same case...? Wait, wait, hold on..." Phil resisted the urge to grab his own head in surprise. "Are you... that guy? That hacker or whatever. That tech-savvy guy that disappeared after Hannah was found? No way it’s you… Police say he's dead. That he died during the mine fire."

“I have two pieces of information for you,” the stranger leaned forward conspiratorially and spread his hands. “The first one... I’ve heard you were a good bartender. I somehow can’t picture that, you know?”

Phil looked completely confused as the man rolled his eyes slightly and nodded meaningfully at the soda bottle once more. Gritting his teeth, Phil blindly reached into the fridge, pulled out a bottle, slammed it against the counter, opened it with the agility of a truly experienced bartender, and pushed it towards the man, ending with a jazz hands gesture.

Annoyed jazz hands gesture.

The man only chuckled and nodded in approval, taking a sip of his long-awaited drink.

"And the second thing?" the bartender urged.

“The second thing!” the stranger chuckled. “The second thing is… I don't think you trust the police after all the trouble they caused you, so do you think you should trust them if they say that guy is dead? You’re talking about that Ironsplinter mine fire, correct?”

“Yeah… there was no way he survived that.”

“Oh?” the man chuckled, “I think his chances were quite good, actually.”

Phil frowned, “How so?”

"Well..." the stranger spread his hands again. "I'm not an expert, but I know a thing or two about mines. Actually, I know a lot about many things, but it doesn't matter now... I won't bore you with the details because you probably don't care, but believe me, there are many safety features in mines like that one that can help you survive fire, explosion, shockwaves... It's just a matter of knowing your surroundings well. The amount of air can be a problem during a fire like that, but it can also be remedied. So… maybe he didn't die after all. But what do I know?”

“That's… interesting,” Phil concluded, and the stranger snorted.

The bartender fell silent, analyzing every single word the stranger had said. It was already clear to Phil that he would not tell him anything directly, especially not about himself. The man didn't confirm anything explicitly, but he didn't have to. Phil already knew the answer to his question.

“Alright, I get it… So should I call you Jake, then? That was the name of that techie guy, if I remember correctly.”

“Was it, really?” the stranger smirked. “In that case, you can call me whatever you want, Hawkins. Jake is a name as good as any.”

“Really? Okay then, Techie,” Phil placed his palms on the counter. “You’ve said you owed me… why exactly? Why are you here?” he reiterated, still confused by the stranger’s presence.

Jake paused for a moment, his piercing gaze fixed on the bar owner. Phil was not one to be easily intimidated, but there was something about Jake that made him uneasy yet intrigued at the same time. Was it his unwavering confidence, his carefree attitude, or maybe something else entirely?

“I understand that my visit may seem unnecessary, but I felt compelled to come,” Jake responded, his tone measured and deliberate. “You see, there’s something about you that… let’s say, that doesn’t add up to me.”

“Oh…” the bartender nodded, feeling annoyed and somehow disappointed again. “So you want to accuse me of more things, then? Tell me I should rot in jail, like some other wonderful people?”

“No... nothing like that,” the man chuckled nervously, his dark hair falling onto his forehead. He brushed the locks away with a casual flick of his hand, trying to hide the fact that he was clearly troubled. As he paused to collect his thoughts, his eyes darted around the room. Finally, he spoke again, his voice hesitant and uncertain.

“I know someone anonymously paid your bail, and I may know more about that. I may know a lot about that. And I believe it still bothers you, so I think I should share it with you. And, well… I suppose what I'm trying to say is that this meeting has been weighing heavily on my mind. I've been thinking about it quite often, trying to figure out what to say or… how to say it, and I think I still don’t know… I mean… okay, here's the thing. Do you remember the second person who got involved in this case by accident?” Jake continued, “You… you invited her to Aurora. She never came here, but still, you did, and—”

“The girl? Shit… okay, now I think I get it,” the bartender sighed deeply and nodded, as he couldn’t believe it was that simple. It was always that simple when there were feelings involved. “Don’t tell me… It hit your ego, didn't it? You liked her, right? Did you come to tell me I was not only released from the arrest thanks to you, but they actually arrested me because of you in the first place? You got jealous of that girl, and that's why I had a shitty couple of months? Was it your revenge?”

The stranger shrugged, but his awkward smile said it all.

Guilty as charged.

“Great... so you almost ruined my life over some chick I don't even know?! Only because I invited her here? I did nothing wrong! Couldn't you explain it between you two? You had to get me into this… And you still have the nerve to come to my bar and—”

“No, wait,” the alleged hacker silenced him with a gesture. “I mean… you almost got it right. I do feel guilty you were in that arrest for quite some time, but for a different reason…” the stranger rubbed his neck nervously. “What if… hypothetically, of course, what if I knew right away how to get you out of this? I knew you were innocent and I had proof for that? But... she was so interested in you... and you in her! And I didn't want you to be interested in her… I guess I was just… confused about you. Shit, it doesn't make sense, does it?”

Phil frowned, but slowly the meaning of the stranger's words began to dawn on him. He wasn't after the girl who helped solve the case. Techie was after… him.

He was jealous of… him?

Was that even possible?

He knew he should be angry. Furious even! It was about his life! Countless hours wasted in the arrest he didn’t deserve! Yet, somehow… The guilty look on the stranger’s face made it fade away. He'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder who that mysterious hacker was from back then, or why exactly he was involved in the case. He knew back then that the answers to these questions were just beyond his reach, but now, miraculously, he was sitting in front of him, almost vulnerable and almost exposed. His fascination overcame his anger. The stranger's eyes were full of remorse, and for a moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy.

Sympathy and something else, but he wasn’t sure what it was…

Curiosity!

It had to be just curiosity.

“My, my… So I think you are my stalker, after all…” The bartender hummed, taking two steps away from Jake, but somehow couldn't help but smile.

“No. No, no. Nuh-uh! This statement is definitely not true!” The alleged hacker protested immediately, pointing his finger at Phil as he blushed a bit, his heart pounding in his chest. "I know things about you, and I learned them without your consent, that is correct. Good luck to you with suing me. But I— it’s not my fault. And I didn’t— I wasn’t really— I just wanted to understand you better!" He paused and took a deep breath. "Didn't I help you after all?! You got out, didn’t you? And I am not a stalker! Jesus, I think I need a real drink… " he trailed off.

The bartender was taken aback by the unexpected outburst and blinked a couple of times in confusion. However, he soon burst out laughing, unable to hold it any longer. "Wow, you really lost your cool there, man… You’ve just admitted to some weird things…" he said between chuckles, "I didn’t think it was possible! In fact, you sound exactly like a stalker trying to explain himself, you know." The bartender knew his mocking tone only made the situation more awkward and uncomfortable for the stranger.

“Yeah.. Coming here was a mistake, I guess…” Jake scoffed, grabbed his backpack, and was about to jump off the stool and leave the pub, but Phil, without thinking too much, grabbed his forearm. The stranger winced in surprise, but as his dark eyes met the calm eyes of the bartender, he slowly sat back down.

“Alright, okay. You’re not my stalker, yeah?” Phil smiled,letting go of his arm, “But I think you still owe me more explanation. Fair?”

“F-fair,” the stranger muttered.

To Phil's surprise, Jake leaned forward from his stool and across the counter, invading the bartender's personal space as if it was absolutely nothing unusual. The stranger's arm accidentally grazed Phil's shoulder as he gently pushed him away and reached for a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from behind the bar. Before Phil could even register what was going on, the stranger was already sitting back on his stool, pouring the liquor generously into the glasses.

“I… thought you said you don’t drink,” Phil observed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. And I thought you were a self-absorbed, narcissistic, brainless drama queen, and yet here we are, engaging in a somewhat intelligent conversation. How about that?”

Phil chuckled, a bit taken aback, as he watched Jake down his drink in one swift motion, followed by a wince and quiet grunt. With a solid tap, the stranger placed the glass back on the counter, exhaling audibly.

“That’s some terrible whiskey, Hawkins,” he admitted, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another.

“It’s my finest one, Techie,” Phil smirked, “And the most expensive one, too.”

“Still quite terrible, for my sophisticated taste… And don't call me Techie.”

“Then don't call me by my father's stupid name.”

Jake blinked a couple of times, as if realizing something. “Right. I forgot he was an asshole, too. Bigger than you.”

“You forgot— oh, Jesus…” the bartender whined, “Don't tell me you even know about my father? I didn’t post anything about that online… How the fuck? How much do you exactly know about me, Stalker?”

“Again with the stalker…” the hacker poked Phil’s chest with his finger, “Listen, the thing about your father is quite well-known around town, isn't it? It's not that weird that even I know about it… and I didn't have to dig too deep to—”

“Damn it, Stalker.” Phil shook his head in disbelief, “You're a walking red flag. I should have thrown you out as soon as you came here. Why am I even still talking to you?”

“Oh, come on, I've never— I am not that bad.”

“Any other sane person would have handed you over to the police a long time ago, Stalker. You do realize that, don’t you?” Phil finally took the glass into his hand and sipped his whiskey.

“But you won’t do that,” the stranger smiled as he clinked his glass with Phil’s, “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?”

“That's very possible. So what do you think about me, then? Besides that I’m a brainless douche, that is…”

The bartender's question lingered in the air for a few seconds before Jake spoke up. His voice was clear and confident, matching the intensity of his gaze, "I have a couple of thoughts, actually," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, taking a sip of his whiskey as well, "Ready? First and foremost, I think that you have an overinflated sense of self-importance," Jake's tone was stern but not unfriendly, "Secondly, you have a habit of getting under my skin. I can't explain it, but something about the way you carry yourself and the things you say just... irks me, but that much you already know. It's like you're actually trying to push my buttons or something!" He shook his head in frustration. "And finally, I think you may be a ginormous asshole, but you're also… intriguing in a way that I don't—don't quite understand." Jake paused once more, letting his words sink in. Then he, once again, angrily poked Phil’s chest with his finger, "And I don't like it. Not. One. Bit.”

“Oh? And you’re very weird, Stalker. You know that, right?” A little pissed off by the stranger's behavior, Phil grabbed Jake's hand and moved it away from his chest, but didn't let it go afterward. Suddenly, he felt a strange warmth spreading throughout his whole body, an electrifying feeling caused by the touch of the hacker's skin on his own. The stranger looked straight at him, his big, dark eyes almost like they were trying to read his soul. The expression on his face reminded Phil of a deer in the headlights and it definitely didn't help him with getting rid of the hacker.

As Phil slowly released his hand, the silence between them engulfed them both. Jake’s Breathing became heavier, and his cheeks, once pale, now glowed with a blush.

The bartender rested his elbows on the counter right next to him. Close enough to feel the slight touch of fabric of Jake's hoodie on his skin. The stranger's earlier confidence seemed to have disappeared, and the bartender couldn't tell whether it was the alcohol or Jake's confessions that had caused this change.

After a brief moment of silence, the stranger spoke up, "I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward slightly.

The bartender furrowed his brows. "What exactly are you sorry for? Because I could name a few things now..."

The hacker smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, "I didn't mean to be annoying, "he admitted, his hand idly drifting towards the bottle of whiskey on the counter. He rested his hand on it but refrained from lifting it. “I'm not exactly a people person, you see. I just… I wanted to get you out of my head. It didn’t quite work out as I expected…”

Feeling the weight of the moment, Phil gently placed his hand on the whiskey bottle, his fingers brushing against Jake's. The hacker hesitated, his gaze locked onto Phil's intense stare.

In a soft, almost whispered voice, Phil spoke, "Easy there. You're not much of a drinker, and if there's something you want from me, I want you to be clear-headed enough to ask for it. You're already a puzzle without the alcohol. Stick to your soda, Stalker."

Jake's eyes shifted from Phil's to the bottle, as if contemplating its significance.

After a moment of reflection, Phil continued, his voice measured, "Alright, let's lay it out. You're quiet, so let me see if I understand correctly..." He released his grip on the bottle, meeting Jake's gaze with a steady intensity. "You're suggesting that I'm getting under your skin, but I'd argue otherwise. I have a feeling you actually like me, and you're just not sure how to handle it. That’s your dilemma, Techie.”

"Wow, okay. If what you're saying would even be true," Jake said dismissively, "Would that even be a problem? Like, you know… my problem?”

Phil leaned in closer to Jake once more, a small smile forming on his lips. His fingers traced the hem of the stranger's sleeve playfully as he leaned forward more, "Well, we could always make it my problem, too," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, “Because, believe it or not, you somehow… fascinate me, too.”

“Oh?”

"Don't get me wrong... You obviously have issues, and I have a feeling your mere presence means trouble. But, the thing is, I don't mind trouble. Life’s boring without it, right? And maybe I should keep an eye on you… to stop you from stalking me further. So… which is it? Do you like me or hate me?"

Jake’s dark hair fell across his face, but Phil could still see the glint in his eyes, "I still can’t decide… Can I say it's both?"

Phil’s smirk grew wider, “It never happens, you know. People either love me or hate me. But you…” he shook his head, “You’re different.”

“Is that a compliment? Are you telling me I’m special? It could be good and bad, you know…” Jake chuckled as he playfully pushed him away, his hand lingering on his chest a little too long.

Then Phil realized he was somehow already long gone... The stranger had managed to wrap the bartender around his finger without him even noticing. The mischievous twinkle in Jake's dark, deep eyes was impossible to resist, drawing Phil towards him like two black holes. Phil found himself powerless to resist the pull, feeling as though he had absolutely nowhere to run.

“What?” Jake asked, noticing Phil was staring at him without saying a word, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I have an idea how to help you with your dilemma. Can I… check something?” Phil tilted his “Um, what exact—” Jake wanted to ask, but he didn’t get to finish his question.

Phil was tired of guessing. He sighed, taking the stranger’s face into his hands, his fingers gently entwining with the strands of Jake's dark, tousled hair. As he leaned in, his heart raced, and he could feel the warmth of the hacker's breath on his lips. Yet, to his surprise, Jake tensed up, his eyes widening in a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. Phil's fingers tightened slightly on Jake's hair, reassuring and firm.

Their kiss was soft, almost tentative, their lips barely grazing each other's. Yet, Phil's tongue slowly found its way into Jake's mouth, and the man welcomed it with a quiet sigh.

That was it. That was what Phil wanted to achieve.

Phil couldn't suppress a chuckle as the taste of whiskey lingered on Stranger's lips, a soft, breathless sound passing between them. He felt Jake's hesitant smile against his own,a silent acknowledgment that he finally realized what it was all about.

The bartender was suddenly glad that there was a bar counter between them, otherwise he would have pulled the stranger much closer.

“Shit… you really did that,” Jake mumbled as they broke the kiss, but they stayed close, “And you know what’s worse? Fuck, Hawkins, I think I liked that…”

Phil's lips curved into a smirk, his voice low and hoarse as he looked deep into the Stranger’s eyes that no longer felt strange to him, “Liked it, eh? Well, well, well... Seems like we've stumbled upon something interesting here.”

Jake exhaled, his reddened lips still curled into a smile, “Don’t get any ideas, Hawkins…”

The stranger leaned back a bit as Phil’s hands let go of his hair. Then he playfully tugged at Phil's t-shirt, the fabric stretching slightly as he did so.

Suddenly, the watch on the stranger's hand emitted a high, short beep, interrupting the moment. Jake’s expression changed immediately as he glanced at the device. He sighed heavily in frustration, and without any explanation, moved away from the bartender, hopped off the stool, and grabbed his backpack.

Phil was left quite confused. He quickly jumped out from behind the bar and grabbed the stranger's arm, wanting at least some sort of explanation, “Hey, whoa… What is it?”

"I have to go. I'm sorry,” the stranger said quickly, his tone tinged with regret.

"Wha— Why?" Phil asked, his grip on the stranger's arm tightening, “Is it because we–”

"No," he replied with a slight smile. "I don’t really want to go. But it doesn’t matter. You wouldn't believe me anyway."

Phil's brows furrowed in confusion. "So.. you're just leaving me like that? After we–" he scoffed. "Will I… will I even see you again?"

The stranger paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. Then, he smiled slowly, his fingers lightly tugging at the hem of Phil's shirt once more. "Even if I wanted to come back here, which I do not confirm at all," he said, his voice teasing, "I would… probably come here tomorrow, same time. Purely hypothetically, of course. We could… get to know each other better. Properly. Without any hint of stalking."

Phil's heart skipped a beat at the prospect. He needed to see him again.

"Is that so, Stalker?" Phil said, grinning, “You mean I could get to know you better. You already know all about me, right?”

The hacker snorted, “Oh, come on, I thought we’re past it…”

“But I don’t want you to go,” the bartender admitted, his voice softer.

The stranger smiled in a way that made Phil’s head spin, “Too bad, Drama Queen. I’m already gone.”

“Well then, Techie. I’ll be thinking about our next, hypothetical meeting.”

A snort of amusement escaped Jake's lips, but his eyes betrayed his hesitation as he held Phil's gaze, “See you never. I demand coffee next time. And maybe some better whiskey…”

At that moment, it seemed like the hacker wanted to say or do something, but he only managed to muster a frustrated grunt. He shook his head, allowing his dark curls to tumble with the motion, and reluctantly, after a couple of long, long seconds, he finally let go of Phil's shirt. A sly smile then crept across his face, a spark in his eyes that made Phil's heart skip a beat. Despite his temptation to keep the stranger with him for even just a bit longer, Phil grudgingly let him leave.

With a final glance, the stranger turned on his heels and strode out of the pub, disappearing into the night.

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood fanfic #duskwood phil #duskwood jake #fanfiction #phil hawkins #jail #jake x phil #itsnotzka #iamjake

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