#not only was that memory probably fresh in her mind when she was again cornered in tpot 9

[evilherehotel]

guys. guys the similarities. guys listen to me

[venusphoriia]

— Drunken Tears and Soft Confessions

;; ₍ # ₎ ⁀➷ Clarisse La Rue x Fem! Dionysus! Reader

─ you drink away the pain, hoping it will eventually fill the void. It never does.

cw ཿ⠀ friends to lovers (high key implied), self harm, alcohol abuse, depressive thoughts, hurt with comfort, angst to fluff, not proof read. 1.9k words.

ପ a/n ; requested! please read the cw! took a lot longer than I expected, sorry (＃＞＜)♡︎ The ending didn’t come out like I hoped (╥_╥) I hope you enjoy anyway !

The alcohol burns your throat bitterly, the taste just as awful. Normally, pouring yourself a glass would be in honor of celebration or simply a time to enjoy yourself—unfortunately, as of late these times have been different. Instead of laughing joyfully, tears slip past your eyes with each sip you take.

A dull, itching pain worsens as you mindlessly swish the liquid in the glass. Fresh bandages hide deep crimson cuts, results from practice you’ll say, but anyone with the patience to care enough would know better. A quiet sob leaves your lips as you pull your knees closer to your chest.

This torment nearly drives you mad. You drown yourself in liquor, praying it would fill this feeling of emptiness that plagues you each night. You try to cut away at the anxieties, the fear of wasting away into nothing. You try to pinpoint the source of your anguish. Perhaps it was the lack of the will to live, maybe it was the disappointment of never feeling like you’ve done quite enough—or maybe it was the yearning for acknowledgment from the only parent you had left.

You lean back against the wall, tossing back the rest of your drink—a burning distaste following after. It does so little to quell the depressing feeling. You felt pathetic. You stare blankly at the nearly empty bottle before you, your thoughts becoming louder—drowning out all other senses. You’re falling, back into a time you begged you could forget—back into memories you tried desperately to avoid.

Footsteps approach, but they don’t completely break you from your trance. You assume it’s one of your siblings checking on you like they always did. Perhaps, they came to snatch the bottle from you to stop you from sinking deeper into your despair.

“(Y/n)?” The oddly soft, concerned tone of voice pulls you back from your drunken stupor. You recognize her voice—how could you not? But for the sake of what little remains of your pride, you try to delude yourself into thinking it wasn’t. You probably misheard or maybe you’ve truly gone mad; hallucinating her as a form of comfort in such desperate times.

And when she doesn’t speak again, your delusion seems plausible. Your tense body relaxes a bit, and you begin to sink back into your drunken mind. That is until you see her hand gingerly grab the empty glass from your hand, placing it alongside the bottle of liquor. Her fingertips brief brush against yours as she does so and it’s then that you realize she was no figment of your imagination.

She takes a seat next to you, on your disheveled bed, mindful to keep a bit of distance out of concern for your comfort. Although, your comfort is very little as you become painfully aware of your own pitiful state. Your hair a mess, your body felt uncomfortably filthy—you wanted to crawl away into a deep, dark corner and never be found again. This embarrassment made your body language more tense and withdrawn, subconsciously moving a bit farther away to maintain more distance.

She frowns softly. You see her expression out of the corner of your eye and turn away. You’ve seen the same look far too often these days, it was the same one your siblings would give you every time they came to snatch the bottle from your hands. It was a look of concern, unsaid words that drove daggers in your heart. You want to ease their worries, you want to get better, but you can't find the strength within yourself.

A few moments of silence follows. She gently grabs your hand, but you’re quick to pull away. The shame of being seen in such a drunken state by her was too much to bear, “Clarisse, please—”

Your voice comes out weak, your pleading tone wraps around her heart tightly. When you quickly try to pull away, her hand wraps around your wrist firmly. The tight grip immediately makes you wince, a small hiss of pain slipping past your lips. Clarisse loosens her grip with a look of confusion on her face before looking down at your wrist.

She attempts to pull back your sleeve. You quickly reach out to stop her, your free hand grabbing her wrist, briefly stopping her movements. She looks at you, your eyes meeting hers for the first time since she’s walked in. Neither of you speak, but within the same breath, neither of you look away.

You can almost hear your heart beating loudly through the silence, your thoughts in shambles trying to figure out what exactly is she thinking about. Her perception of you is ruined—your mind is convinced—there is no forgetting something like this. The urge to cry is slowly crawling up your throat as her eyes finally break away from yours.

Your hold around her wrists has loosen greatly, she slowly pulls back your sleeve, careful not to hurt you like she did before. She turns your wrist over, seeing the fresh blood that stained the white bandages. She doesn’t need to remove them to know what’s underneath.

“It’s nothing,” You mumbles softly, breaking through the silence as you watching Clarisse stare wordlessly at your bandaged wrists; your intoxicated judgement finds it best to play naive, feigning innocence in hopes to repair this uncomfortable tension in the air.

Clarisse sighs softly, her brows furrowed a bit in irritation, but she remains mindful of her tone. She looks back at you, clearly not buying your words. Her voice is soft, yet firm as she speaks, “Bullshit.”

You roll your eyes, letting go of Clarisse’s wrist before trying to snatch back your own, “I’m fine, it’ll practically be healed by tomorrow.”

A lie. And you both know it. Clarisse allows you to snatch your wrist back, watching quietly for a moment as you gently rub it in a poor attempt to soothe the pain. Clarisse’s quietness breaks your attention away from your wrist, glancing towards her in confusion. You had expected her to say something, anything by now—perhaps even a small petty insult.

She doesn’t. Instead, she stares at you, patiently waiting for you to admit that your anything, but okay. You click your tongue in annoyance before mumbling a few curses under your breath. You realized it was pointless to keep up this act with Clarisse, knowing she could see right through your lies.

“I’ll be fine, this is just…a small setback,” You said perhaps a bit too lightly as you see Clarisse grow a bit more irritated at your poor attempt to lighten the mood. You force a small sheepish smile in hopes to ease the tension a bit. It doesn’t.

“A small setback? Is that really what you want to call this?” Clarisse retorts, a little harsher than she intended. Her eyes don't break away from you once, noticing every little change in your movements. Your gaze becomes much more avoidant, your hands fidgety, and your body language tenses—she realizes she’s coming off too harsh.

Another sigh leaves her lips and she looks away from you. You fall silent, feeling more awkward than anything at the moment. Clarisse isn’t sure of the right thing to say or do, she’s never been good when it comes to emotions or being vulnerable. She’s the daughter of Ares after all.

“You should speak to your father,” Clarisse advises, running a hand through her hair as she looks back at you. She can’t help, but glance between you and the self-inflicted wounds on your wrist. The soft look of concern and—perhaps even—sympathy.

You scoff, a bitter chuckle leaving your lips at Clarisse’s words. In all truth, you would rather be burned at the stake than to speak to him about this. There wasn’t a cell in your body that believed he would even care enough to pretend to listen, “Like hell I will.”

Clarisse finds herself getting annoyed at your dismissive tone, quickly becoming defensive like she normally does, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“Look—I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine,” your words sound far from grateful, completely falling short of how you truly felt. You become a bit harsher in return, building your walls higher as you wish for this whole conversation to be done with. You look down at your hands, biting back tears—not wanting to look any more pathetic than you already felt.

Clarisse falls quiet. She knows she’ll fail at words if she tries to speak and she doesn’t know what other words of advice to give. But still, she wants to comfort you, hating the fact that she’s been too ignorant towards your state for this long.

Hesitantly, Clarisse gently grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. You looked up at her confused, you had a feeling of what Clarisse was attempting to do, but you struggled to fully believe it. She watches you carefully for any sign of resistance or discomfort, you remain placid and she continues to pull you closer.

She hugs you close, wrapping her arms around you firmly. Your whole body tenses, you bite your lip harshly to silence the sobs clawing at your throat. The taste of iron is bitter on your tongue as you struggle to hold back your tears. Your drunken state only makes your emotions feel stronger.

“It’s okay,” Clarisse whispers softly, her voice oddly tender and endearing. Her touch is gentle and comforting, her body is warm as you listen to her steady heartbeat. She holds you tight enough as if afraid it might be the last—and yet her touch remains cautious as if you were the most precious thing she has ever loved, “I’ve got you.”

Her words break you. Your walls crumble completely as you begin to sob heavily. You grab onto her tightly as you cry into her shoulder. She quietly lets you, listening as your tears break through the silence. Her heart aches when she hears you try to mumble indistinguishable words through your broken sobs. Your pained filled rant simmers down into apologies, guilt washing over you in waves.

Clarisse remains quiet, her hand rests gently on the back of your neck—while the other rubs soothing motions on your back. Your cries begin to soften after a while, fatigue slowly creeps through your body. Your breathing heavy from the once harsh sobs that tore through you. Your voice was hoarse as you tried to weakly mumble one last apology.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, pretty girl,” a small, sad smile slips onto Clarisse’s lips, she gingerly kisses away your tears. Your heart flutters softly at the endearing act, a soft chuckle slips past her lips and you swear your heart nearly skipped a beat, “It’s okay, I’ve gotcha.”

You smile softly, too tired to give a response in turn. A few quiet moments pass, your eyes feel a bit heavier and your breathing becomes a bit more relaxed. Clarisse doesn’t mind, shifting into a more comfortable position for you. You grumble softly, causing Clarisse to roll her eyes a bit before placing one last kiss on your forehead.

Clarisse leans her head back against the wall, sighing deeply. She feels your soft breath brushing against her skin, feelings she’s tried to keep buried crawl up to the surface. The words slip past her lips without her notice, a soft confession barely above a whisper. It wasn’t until she felt you smile against her skin that she realized you felt the same.

© venusphoriia 2024 — do not copy or repost any of my works on any other platform, please and thank you !! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Stevie Fic

This is a Stevie first meeting fic based on this amazing art and concept by @your-unfriendlyghost Like most of my stuff its not betaed. Enjoy!

*************

Evie really fucking wants to hit something.

It’s probably a bad idea considering hitting something-  well, someone-  is what got her here in the first place, but right now it feels like her options are fight or cry and she really doesn’t want to cry. 

The bench in the holding cell is cold under her bare legs, her skirt not long enough to properly cover them, but she can’t bring herself to care in the slightest, despite the fact she’s sharing the holding cell with two guys, one a drunk sleeping off a hangover in the corner, the other a tough looking greaser she vaguely recognizes from school, who’s flicking a lighter idly, clearly bored out of his mind. Her right hand is aching something awful, knuckles all split and bloody, but she clenches her fist tighter, letting the skin pull back, watches the small cuts reopen and the blood well up, filling the tiny cracks in the surrounding skin. It smarts something awful, but it’s kind of mesmerizing all the same. 

She focuses on the sharp sting, pretending the tears pricking her eyes are because of that instead of the fact that mom’s here talking to the police sergeant but she’s still never been further away. 

How did this even happen? A year ago her mother was her favourite person in the whole world. It was the two of them against the world, always had been, ever since dad died back when she was six. Mom never used to have a problem with how she dressed or did her hair, never used to care if she made lewd jokes or chewed with her mouth open because mom’s own manners were even worse and she liked them that way. A year ago if any man mom was seeing raised a hand to her mom would’ve punched him herself, fuck the consequences or the injuries, because she wasn’t ever gonna let a man know she was afraid of him, even if she was. A year ago if Evie had swung at someone for a good reason mom would’ve bailed her out and took her out for ice cream, smiled her crooked smile and told her she was right proud of her and her fighting spirit, made her promise to keep it close to her heart.

Now? Mom’s so different she might as well be a different person, and if this is the thanks Evie’s going to get for defending her, well, she can fucking fend for herself. If mom wants to simper and smile and bend over backwards for a man who treats her like dirt and Evie even worse she can fucking do it. If she wants to take his side and fuss over his broken nose while Evie’s stuck in this fucking cell then good riddance. But Evie’s never gonna throw a punch to defend her again, not ever. Hell, she might not even stick around the house. If mom’s gonna choose a man she met three months ago over the daughter she’s raised for the past sixteen years, why bother? Home hardly feels like home anymore anyway, what with Dean’s clothes in dad’s old dresser, and his presence sucking the air out of every room. Mom’s art supplies have been shoved into the closet to make room for Dean’s unemployment papers, and last week Evie got home from school to find he’d thrown out all her model airplanes. She’d sobbed- she’d been collecting them since she was six, and building the green one was the last thing she did with dad before he passed- but mom just told her to stop acting like such a child because they ‘were only toys anyway’ and went right back to cooking Dean dinner. As if she didn’t know those planes meant absolutely everything to her. As if she hadn’t scraped and saved to buy her one for her birthday every single year without fail. Like she didn’t even care.

A fresh wave of anger rushes through her at the memory, and the next thing Evie knows she’s on her feet, her fist connecting with the concrete wall. She feels more than she hears something in her hand crack, and the fresh wave of agony is definitely similar to when she broke her arm back in kindergarten, but she doesn’t even care. It feels good. She wants to hit something. She wants to hurt. She wants to throw punches the way her mother taught her in the hopes they will somehow help her forget said mother’s betrayal.

“Hey!” A cop with cropped brown hair raps on the cell door with his baton so hard the bars rattle, “knock it off!”

She glares at him for a second but drops back onto the bench. She tells herself it’s because she really does want to get out of here, preferably today, but deep down she knows it’s because the man’s cold eyes and the way he swings the baton make it clear he’d be all too happy to use it on her. 

“Crazy bitch,” she hears him mutter as he walks off,and she stiffens, suddenly wishing she’d spit on him while she had the chance. 

“What’d you expect?” A different voice answers, “These greasy chics are all the same. Wild as rabid dogs.”

A snicker. “And they dress just as poorly. My Adeline ever stepped outta the house wearing something like that she’d never be allowed back in.”

Their voices fade, getting reabsorbed into the racket of the precinct, but there words have already sunk into her skin, leaving cuts under her surface, making a home in the piece of her thats hates herself. She shivers a bit, hugging her jacket tighter around herself, and glowers at the linoleum floor, pointedly ignoring the prickling uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Between her outburst and the cop’s shouting it’s little wonder half the precinct is staring, but she refuses to give them the satisfaction of meeting any of their gazes. Besides, it’s not like she isn’t already used to being looked at like she’s a freak.

“--I mean?” Evie recognizes Dean’s voice easily, even over the din of the rest of the station, conspicuous due to its deep cadence and domineering tone, “that’s not normal behaviour, nice girls don’t do that. I really think I oughta press charges.”

Her head snaps up and she glares at him, snarling, despite the fact he’s pretending to ignore her. Even if he doesn’t see it, mom will, will know that Evie is nothing short of genuine in her hatred, that she regrets nothing. 

Besides, she knows the threat is an empty one anyway. Dean talks a good game but he knows better than to actually press charges for something like this. The cops hadn’t dragged Evieout for her side of the story yet and they’d been all too happy to put her in handcuffs- Dean’s ruined shirt and self righteous anger when he stormed in here had seen to that- but when she does get a chance to speak she’ll be all too happy to explain why she punched him in the first place, and that probably won’t go over too well with a judge.

Of course, mom could always lie for him, rendering her whole defense useless. But Evie’s trying not to think about that. Surely mom still loves her somewhere. Surely she won’t let her own daughter go to the cooler for a half baked crime even if she doesn’t. 

Right?

“It’s those friends of hers,” mom defends, letting out a trilling, fake laugh, smiling as placatingly as possible at Dean and the cop they’re sitting across from. Her eyes dart towards Evie's and away so fast she’s half convinced she imagined it, “they’re such terrible influences. She didn’t mean it.”

“She broke my nose.”

And I'd do it again, asshole, Evie thinks. Her hand is killing her, but if it wasn’t she’d have clenched her fist at the mere thought. That was the one upside of this whole situation: she’d finally been able to do what she’d been wanting to do for months. She’ll be dreaming of the satisfying crunch Dean’s nose had made when she deviated his septum for weeks. 

“She’s your daughter,” Dean continues, “Don’t you think she ought to be punished?”

“Of course I do,” mom simpers, cosying into Dean’s side, gazing up at him with such a sickeningly sweet look Evie wants to vomit,  “But don’t you think pressing charges is a little harsh? I mean, she’s never done anything like this before.”

“Well you have to do something, Caroline, she’s out of control. Talking back, giving me attitude, not listening to you either-”

He keeps going but Evie tunes him out, done listening to his bitching, God knows she already hears enough of it at home. She hates that he’s here, that he lives with them, that he’s ruined every good thing in her life. She hates the way mom looks at him. 

Most of all she hates that she only swung at him once. 

The guy across from her with the lighter is still flicking it rhythmically, the clicking sound oddly sharp, distinguishable even over the overlapping conversations in the precinct itself, but its owner doesn’t seem so bored anymore. In fact, he keeps glancing over at her and then quickly looking away every time their eyes meet. She has half a mind to tell him he’s gonna waste all the gas in his lighter if he keeps it up, or maybe offer him a cigarette in exchange for a light, but she figures the boys in blue might decide to take some issue with that and she isn’t about to get a full pack of marlboros confiscated when she only just bought them.

“Fine!” Dean is suddenly looking right at her, voice rising above the precinct for real this time, “I won’t press charges this time, but I’m sure as hell not paying her bail. She can rot here as far as I’m concerned.”

The rage is a tidal wave bursting through a dam, all consuming and back full force before she can even blink

“Like you could pay it anyway, asshole!” Her unbroken hand is slamming into the bars and he should be grateful for it because it’s the only standing between him and Evie wringing his thick neck, “Last I checked you were a broke, unemployed loser spending my mom’s hard earned money because youre too much much of a fuck up to have a single cent to your own name!”

He sneers, cruelly, but doesn’t rise to the bait. She’ll catch it for sure next time she’s in the house, and he’ll probably find something of hers to break in the meantime, but for the moment he manages to hold himself together.

“Enjoy the holding cell Evelyn.”

“Seriously?” She turns to mom, half desperate, half pleading, knowing it won’t make a difference and hoping foolishly, childishly, that it will anyway, “You’re just going to let him leave me here?”

“Evie-”

“You’re my mom.” Her voice breaks.

Mom flinches, but she hides it well. Evie notices, because she knows her tells, knows the slight trick of her left eye is her way of hiding heartbreak, just like she knows mom never really got over losing dad as much as she always tried to convince herself she did, knows Dean saw the loneliness that festered in mom’s heart and twisted it to his advantage. She knows that mom is strong in some ways but not all of them and that a part of her has given up. She just hadn’t realized until now that the part of her that gave up had given up on Evie.

“I did it for you,” her voice is shaking, and Dean could be screaming and the precinct could be burning around them and it wouldn’t matter because all she can see right now is her mother’s apologetic brown eyes and the fact that she has let her down for the last time, “for you. Not for me. And this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry,” mom whispers, shame twisting her features, “but- but you did a bad thing Evie, and-and we don’t really have the money for bail right now anyway. They’ll only hold you for a day or two anyway and then you can come home and we’ll figure this out, the three of us.”

“Come home?” She can’t help the scoff that forces its way out of her throat, “You think you can leave me here, after everything, and I’ll just come home like nothing happened?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me.”

“Dean’s right,” mom shakes herself and the glimpse of her true self is gone, replaced by the shell of a woman filled with Dean’s slimy thoughts, “you need a few days to cool down. You’re impossible to talk to right now.”

“Imagine how much more impossible to talk to I’ll be when I'm gone and your sack of human shit boyfriend won’t even let you try to find me!” Evie yells at her retreating back, “Huh? Huh, you fucking bitch! Fuck. You.” She punctuates the last two words with a weak rap against the bars, but as suddenly as her anger overtook her it has drained away, leaving nothing but misery in its wake.

The brown haired cop doesn’t have to rap on the bars this time to make her behave. She slinks back to the bench, a woman defeated. 

She doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing. In fact, she still might. It’s taking a lot of harsh blinking and biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling, but she refuses to crumple here, to be weak in front of a room full of men who have already seen her humiliated and powerless, men who have actively participated in making her that way. They will not get the victory of seeing her cry too. They won’t. 

“Here,” suddenly the boy with the lighter is next to her, holding out a stained, but soft looking rag. She must have stared at him a beat too long because he clears his throat awkwardly, cheeks reddening ever so slightly, “for your hand.”

“Oh,” she’d all but forgot about her split knuckles and probably broken ring finger, but when she looks down she can see that it’s started to swell something awful, which has in turn increased how much she’s bleeding, “thanks.”

She struggles to wrap the rag clumsily around her knuckles. Without meaning to she makes the mistake of accidentally twitching her broken finger and drops the rag with a hiss, instinctively cradling her hand closer to her chest.

“Here, let me- I mean- I can wrap your hand for you? If you want?” Lighter guy offers. He’s endearingly awkward, and, Evie has to admit, kind of cute, with his thick dark hair and glowing bronze skin. He looks about as rough as most guys from their side of town, intimidating with his leather jacket and seemingly instinctual scowl, but he doesn’t seem scary. Not really. Not when he’s this kind.

Wordlessly she holds out her hand and he takes her wrist with a gentleness that’s unprecedented from such large callused hands, clearly used to hard work, as he carefully threads the cloth over and around her knuckles, covering most of the cuts without tying anything too tightly.

She’s almost disappointed when he pulls away.

“You’re real good at that.”

“Yeah well,” he grins, suddenly roguish and Evie can see how he could be mean if he wanted to, “it’s not exactly my first time bandaging bruised knuckles. Might be my first time bandaging them on a girl though.”

“Oh yeah?” Despite her misery she can feel a smile tugging at the corner of her own lips.

He nods. “You oughta join a rumble sometime, looks like that right hook of yours does some real damage.”

“He deserved it!” Evie snaps. 

“Looked like it,” The boy agrees, holding up his hands in surrender. He’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “Sounded like it too.”

Something about the way he says it makes her pause.

“He was gonna hit my mom,” she admits, shivering at the memory of Dean’s rage and the way mom had tensed, hands flying up to shield her face. She’d said after, when Dean was still screaming and everything had gone to shit that he’d never done it before, but her reaction had told Evie otherwise. “He was standin’ over her and I could see him pulling back and in that moment it felt like my options were hit or be hit. So I punched him.”

“Tuff.”

Evie blinks. “Ya think?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I really do.”

Something in her chest relaxes at that, at not only his non judgemental assessment of her actions but his clear approval of them. She hadn’t realized how much she needed someone on her side until now.

She looks at him, really looks at him. Aside from his thick hair and smooth skin, he’s got slightly crooked teeth and a strong nose. His eyes are angry, but righteously so, not cruelly so, and there is kindness hidden in the curve of his cheek and the calluses of his hands.

“You’re Steve, right? I’ve seen you around school before with that friend of yours. The blond one.”

“Sodapop, yeah,” He gives her an odd look, slightly pleased but clearly taken aback, “I gotta be honest, I’m not used to people knowing my name and not his.”

“Oh,” It’s her turn to blush, “well, I-I guess he never really made much of an impression on me.”

“Well since you seem to know my name, does that mean I made an impression on you?” 

“No,” her cheeks are burning and she doesn’t sound convincing, even to herself, but if she’d seen Steve Randle doing pull ups when she walked past the boys gym class once and made a point of learning his name, that’s no one's business but her own. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t mean anything before now. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and she should probably be annoyed because he’s definitely teasing her but it’s such a nice sound, carefree and inherently defiant, that it’s hard to do anything but enjoy it.

“Someone call for a jailbreak?” 

Before Steve can properly answer they’re interrupted.

Speak of the devil, Evie thinks, silently cursing Sodapop as he grins through the bars at Steve, flanked by an older boy wearing ascuffed letterman jacket and the brown haired cop from earlier. He couldn’t have waited to get here just a few minutes longer?

“Took you long enough,” Steve rises fluidly to his feet as the cop unlocks the cell, and nods at the other boy, “Hey superman. What’re you doin’ here?”

“Gotta be over 18 to bail someone out Steve-o,” Sodapop singsongs, before the older boy can get a word in, “an’ I figured you wouldn’t want me gettin’ mom or dad involved unless I had to.”

“Thanks man,” Steve pulls them each into one of those odd half hugs boys do, clapping the big one called Superman on the shoulder as he pulls away, “speaking of, any chance you’d be willing to sign for one more person? I’ll pay the bail, I just need your signature.”

He looks over his shoulder expectantly and Evie realizes with a start that he means bail for her.

“What? No! Steve you guys can’t- I don’t got the scratch to pay you back-”

“Well I ain’t about to leave you here by your lonesome all night, and it don’t seem like your mom’s fixing to come back anytime soon. Darry here won’t mind signin’ the papers since I’m vouchin’ for you.”

‘’Course not.” The older boy agrees.

Evie bites her lip, considering. She really, really doesn’t want to stay here, especially without Steve for company, but she also doesn’t have the funds to pay him back.

“I really can’t pay you back-”

“Listen, if you really wanna pay me back you could agree to go out on a date with me?“

“O-oh,” she smiles down at her feet, “I- yeah, I’d love to.”

“Really?”

He really shouldn’t sound so shocked. She’d basically been the one to admit to liking him, after all.

“Yeah. Really really.”

“I’m Evie by the way,” she tells him as she and Steve walk side by side out of the precinct, realizing she has yet to introduce herself, despite how long they’ve been talking.

“Oh,” Steve's grin is playful, “I know. I make a point of learning the names of pretty girls.”

“I guess I must’ve made an impression on you too, huh?”

He gently takes her non broken hand in his, twining their fingers together.

‘Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess so.”

[shartletswritings]

You've Dug Your Own Grave

CHAPTER 5: New Normal

TW: Violence, Smexual Content ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Yet again, I'm up too late writing. I don't think I'll ever be 100% satisfied with this chapter, but I need to get it out so I don't rip my skin off in an attempt to make it perfect. Please enjoy!!!

            You didn’t speak the next morning. Actually, you haven’t spoken to Scar in the past twelve days, not that you’re counting or anything. In his defense, he tried. You just… can’t bear it. And besides, there is nothing to talk about. You have lived your whole life without him, and you see no reason why that should have to change.

            You woke up the next morning with a skull-splitting headache and only a distant memory of what happened the previous night. It took a cold shower, fresh clothes, and meeting Scar’s eyes from where he sat in the corner of the mess hall for the events to come rushing right back to your mind. To say it was mortifying would be the understatement of the century.

            If you had just been drunk in front of him, you would have been fine. But the fact he had to carry you back to your room? Not to mention him seeing your branding. Sure, you didn’t tell him what it meant, but it would take some special kinda idiot to not recognize the markings of the Hush Company.

            When you saw him the next morning, the blood in your veins turned to ice. You could hardly handle looking at him and the thought of having a conversation about what had transpired the previous night made your stomach roll worse than it already had been thanks to your hangover. It was honestly a miracle you didn’t throw up when he stood to talk to you. Instead of handling the situation like an adult probably would, you ran. And that is exactly how you have spent the last twelve days: doing exactly everything besides speaking to that annoying, brooding man who seems to possess the uncanny ability to be exactly where you need to be.

            It’s not like you’ve sat around and done nothing, of course. You’ve been busy. Busier than you think you have been in your whole life. Since that night you’ve been on two more raids, spent four nights on guard duty with Malia, had only two more panic attacks, and even helped out in the kitchen: which turned out to be a lot more fun than you expected. You’re doing just fine, thank you very much. You have no need to bare your soul or fight your demons. Not even Ekko pressures you again, although you don’t think it’s because Scar told him not too, he just knows better than to push you by now.

            Really, besides the complete lack of a problem that is Scar, things have been going well. You get along with the other Firelights, they respect your ability to get things done and you respect their ability to—for the most part—stay out of your business; it’s a pretty good deal. Both raids you went on proved to be incredibly successful, a large part thanks to your ability to get intel without getting caught. Chross would probably be impressed if you weren’t actively destroying a major pillar of the oligarchy he runs.

            The first job was nowhere near as easy as your first, but you completed it with far less hiccups. The documents you swiped out of the office of both the warehouse and the factory led to your third raid; a caravan with a shipment full of shimmer headed out of Zaun. Even Eve was willing to sing your praise after the shipment went up in flames; there was no denying your asset to the Firelights. And what do you do with all of this fame and glory? You… hang out with Jess and the kids in the nursery.

            You would probably never admit it to anyone, but you fucking love those kids. Even when they’re snotty or whiney or sticky or smelly; something about them brings you more joy than any dose of shimmer or shot of stupidly expensive booze ever could. It also helps that Jess, to her absolute unending credit, makes no snide remarks about your ability to fight and she never asks you about your past.

            And that is exactly how you find yourself, surrounded by a gaggle of toddlers who are completely enamored by the fairytale you are reading. It’s a story of a princess reuniting with her long-lost family. Pretty boring, and not nearly enough dragon slaying as far as you’re concerned. “Tell us about your mommy, Pip,” a voice interrupts. You look down at her with a pathetic lack of authority.

            “Sorry kiddo, I don’t think there’s much to talk about.” Actually, there is nothing to talk about; you were given to the company before you were old enough to remember your parents.

            “Pleaseeee?” You roll your eyes playfully so as not to hurt her feelings.

            “My mommy lives very far away, so I don’t get to see her that often.” Why do they have to ask you things? Can’t they just listen to the damn story?

            Mercifully, they seem to be satisfied with your lackluster answer. “So you’re like the princess?”

            You smile, processing the question. “Yeah… I guess I am,” you finally say. A wave of ooohs reverberates from the crowd. You continue the book.

It ends happily, the princess marries a handsome prince or something, you aren’t really paying attention. And from the drooping eyelids surrounding you, neither are they. It’s amazing how fast they get sleepy, just five minutes ago they were bouncing off the walls.

            Jess walks over, Aster in hand, to put them down for a nap. The two of you have developed a routine of sorts. You come in around lunch time, play with the toddlers for a bit, and then when Jess goes to get them down for their nap, you get to spend time with Aster—probably the real reason you are willing to suffer through all the sticky fingers and redundant questions.

            She coos up at you from your arms and it takes everything in you not to melt into a puddle on the floor. You wouldn’t exactly call yourself a baby expert, but you have certainly gotten more confident in holding her, although she helped a lot on that front. Ever vocal despite her lack of words, Aster is the first to tell you if she’s uncomfortable or hungry or tired, and you love her for it. Honestly, everyone should try to be a bit more like her. Just say what you want and get on with it, I should probably heed my own advice. Nope! The list. That’s the other thing keeping you sane, the two things you can’t let yourself think about: Scar and the Hush Company.

            “You are a goddamn angel, and I don’t know where you get it from,” you say to the small chirean in your arms. She smiles at you, big ears twitching. You put a finger down to touch her perfectly pink nose when she surprises you with a bite to the finger. “Motherfucker!” You yelp before you can remind yourself to be quiet. Jess shoots you a look from over by the kids and you mouth a silent apology. You turn your head back down to Aster, “What the hell was that for, girl?” She laughs like she’s mocking you. Maybe she is her dad’s kid after all. Damn, it’s hard to stay mad at a face that cute.

            “She’s started teething,” Jess says once she’s returned from toddler-land, “and her teeth are sharp. Aren’t they?” Her voice turns to a sing-songy coo and scoops Aster back out of your arms. It doesn’t get easier, letting her go. “He’ll be back soon,” she says, looking back to you.

            “Right.” You haven’t told Jess any specifics, but she picked up pretty quick that you have no interest in seeing Scar. “Thanks for letting me crash again, Jess, I really appreciate it.”

            She waves her hand as if dismissing the notion entirely, “Oh please, the kids love seeing you. You’re basically a routine now.”

            It’s nice, you think as you leave the nursery and make your way to the training room, to be in a good mood for once. Maybe a boring, routine life was what you needed this whole time. Not that burning down shimmer factories was the most banal thing you could be doing, but by undercity standards you may as well be a nun.

            You do find out, however, that a workout with the intent of training is a hell of a lot more boring than a workout to blow off steam. But at least you can focus on your form, which has improved drastically. Maybe I couldn’t take down Scar in a fi- “NO!” You verbally cut off that train of thought because it so incredibly doesn’t matter. Focus on your movements, you remind yourself and soon enough, the only thought crossing your mind is the ritualized, prescribed movements of boxing. That’s a good thought. It’s safe, it doesn’t change. Left-right-left, hook, kick. You could do this all day.

            And you probably would have too, if that fucking door hadn’t opened. Honestly, it’s like he wakes up every morning with the sole purpose of making you as miserable as possible. “If you’re going to critique my form again, you might as well fuck off now. I’m not in the mood.” You don’t even need to turn to know it’s Scar.

            He ignores you. “How long are you planning on avoiding me? Avoiding your problems?”

            You don’t turn from the punching bag, determined to not let him ruin your workout again. “I’m not avoiding you and I don’t have any problems.” The punches are beginning to hurt but you’ll be damned if you stop now. The sharp thuds echo through the small, concrete room and Scar is so silent you could almost pretend he isn’t here. Almost.

            “Bullshit,” he finally says, “I know what the branding means.”

            “Good for you.” I’m not engaging I’m not engaging I’m not engaging. Every thought is punctuated with another punch. You’re going to bruise tomorrow.

            “I should have told Ekko the second I saw it,” his tone is serious, but you doubt he would.

            “Sounds like that’s your fault. It’s none of your business anyways.”

            “Kirr-” he starts. You cut him off before he can finish.

            “That’s not my fucking name.” To his credit, he does shut up for a moment. You picture his face as you hit the bag in front of you.

            “You can’t live like this.” He almost sounds concerned, but it does nothing to douse the rage burning in your gut. Sweat sings as it drips down into your eyes, but you can’t be bothered to wipe it away. You think that if you stop moving for even a moment you’ll combust.

            “You don’t get to tell me how to live my life, Scar. Fuck you.” You send the bag careening on your final hit. The chain makes an awful screech and you leave before you do something you regret—not that you could realistically hurt him in your current state but hey, a girl can dream. So much for not engaging.

            You walk straight into Ekko as you storm out of the training room. He puts a hand on your shoulder to steady you. “Woah, you okay?” His eyes search yours.

            The metallic taste of blood fills your mouth as you physically bite down on your tongue to keep from cursing the man in front of you out. Ekko has done nothing wrong. I am the problem here. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”

            He looks unconvinced. “Right… Well, we just got word of a huge shipment leaving tonight and we gotta act fast. I need you there, okay?” Ever polite, he phrases it as a question which would probably be endearing if you weren’t seconds away from ripping out your hair.

            “’Course”

            You move to continue walking back towards your room when he calls your name, “Whatever is going on between you and Scar, the two of you need to fix it. It’s becoming a problem.”

You nod but refuse to turn around—unable to handle the shame of meeting his eyes again. He’s right, of course, but you hate having to be told it in the first place.

            Waiting for the shower to heat up, you stand in front of the mirror. How has one man reduced you into such a fucking child? You are a godsdamned adult, you have been through hell and back and survived, and yet one stupid crush has turned you into a wet blanket. Not a crush.

            “You are better than this. Pull. Yourself. Together.” You say into the mirror as you stare at your red, sweaty face. It doesn’t really work but it does snap you out of the spell of all consuming anger.

            After a shower you feel marginally better, and the rage has simmered down to a much more manageable bitterness. Yes, Scar is a dick for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but he clearly hasn’t told anyone anything and there is no real reason why he should. That also means that you have no reason to do anything besides your one job for today: stop that shipment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The sun is well set by the time you meet in the courtyard with the small group handpicked by Ekko to go with him on tonight’s job. You’re right in the middle of psyching yourself up for what’s to come when Ekko finally arrives with Scar. Of course he’s coming tonight.

            Actually, you’re quite impressed with yourself that you don’t even glance in his direction as Ekko lays out the plan for the night. You couldn’t even say if he looks at you, that’s how little you care.

            “Thing’s might go south tonight,” he explains as your group walks down the now familiar tunnels out of the hideout, “if that happens, don’t come back here immediately, we can’t risk anyone following us back. Malia is waiting in the safehouse near the market on the wharf, so if anything happens, go there, okay?”

            It concerns you slightly that Ekko seems so worried. From what you can tell, this job sounds pretty easy. Get in, burn the shimmer, get out. Maybe take down a few of Silco’s thugs while you’re at it. It all sounds very standard, but no one voices a concern, so you keep your mouth shut. Once you exit the tunnel, the five of you mount your hoverboards and take off towards the far end of the wharf.

            The waiting is always your least favorite part and being near the water only makes it worse. The stench of rotting fish and muddy silt assaults your nostrils as you sit crouched behind a stack of boxes—your mask does absolutely nothing to minimize the smell, unfortunately. You glance at the soldier keeping a look out from a nearby building and adjust yourself slightly to try and soothe a cramping leg. Maybe putting all of your strength into your workout this morning wasn’t the best idea, but it isn’t like you were expecting this job.

            Suddenly, a high whistle grabs your attention and you peek over the boxes and towards the dock. Sure enough, a small barge cresting with shimmer barrels creeps slowly over the water. Ekko nods and you step into your boards before zipping silently towards the ship.

            A man sitting near the bow calls as soon as he sees the green and soon several guards rush up from below deck. There’s a lot more that you were expecting. It must be at least twelve of them and you fight back the terror bubbling up in your veins.

            Scar is the first to land, throwing his board over his back and going straight towards the biggest man, spear in hand. Fucking show off. The man lasts about thirty seconds to the chirean before he collapses onto the deck. You suppose it isn’t really showing off if he gets the job done as quick as he does.

            You land next to Ekko and take out your knife as soon as your feet hit the wood. Sure, maybe your pistol would be a stronger choice, but in the fog of the night, you don’t trust your aim as much as usual.

            A tall, lanky man whips around as soon as he hears you and holds a shotgun wildly in front of himself, but you’ve run out of his field of vision before he can get a good look at you. Creeping onto a barrel, you wait until he’s fully turned the other way to jump onto his back. He doesn’t get the chance to buck you off before your blade slices across his neck. If your position had been a bit better, maybe you could have avoided getting blood on your shirt, but you suppose that it’s been through worse than some goon’s blood, so you wipe the blade on your opposite sleeve and look around you at the commotion on the ship.

            Ekko has already begun sloshing fuel around the ship and most of the guards are disposed of in one way or another. You decide to do one quick survey of the ship to see if there is anything worth taking when you notice the entrance leading below deck. It sounds silent under there and you can’t imagine someone would have stayed under after hearing all the fighting up top. Still, you creep down the wooden steps, keeping your back against the wall and your profile low.

            A lantern swings from the ceiling of the small room, illuminating it with a soft orange glow. There isn’t much to see, however, besides a couple of tables set up with cards and a chest off in the corner. You kneel down in front of the chest and start working at the lock, but it’s nearly rusted shut. Realistically, you should probably let it go and get the hell off the ship before they light the whole thing on fire, but you let your curiosity get the better of you.

            The lock finally snaps open and you push the heavy lid up. So invested in discovering what’s inside, you don’t hear the woman come up behind you until she has already fired her gun. Without thinking, you whip around and pull your own pistol out of the holster, not hesitating even for a moment before pulling the trigger. She stumbles back, a hand going to her stomach, before collapsing to the floor, her breath coming out in shallow heaves. You look down at yourself, amazed she didn’t hit you when you notice the blood seeping through your pants. You stare at your leg in disbelief, shouldn’t you feel that?

            Footsteps clatter down the stairs and you shoot your gaze up, holding your pistol ready. You look up to see Eve’s mask. “We need to go.” She holds a lighter in her hand and you nod, running after her. The first steps you take feel no different than usual, but by the time you’ve made it back to the deck of the ship, pain begins to radiate from the wound on your leg.

            You have no choice but to grit your teeth and bare it because as soon as you are out of the small hold, Eve is flicking her lighter open. You scramble for your discarded hoverboard and take off after the other green lights you see flitting through the haze of the fog. It is a lot harder to balance with a fucked-up leg, you quickly find, and you nearly careen into a building several times before you manage to right yourself. No one says anything about your lack of coordination, but they’re all a bit more focused on fleeing the scene themselves.

            A small huddle of soldiers forms in the air a few blocks from the wharf and you have to throw your arms out for balance to keep from tipping directly off of your board. Your leg screams at you, but you ignore it.

            “Everyone okay?” Ekko’s modulated voice asks. A round of nods from your group. “Good. I think we’re done here. Eve, go get Malia from the safe house and the rest of you, go back to the base. I don’t think there is anyone left to follow us back but take separate routes just in case.”

            You sure as shit don’t need to be told twice. By the time he finishes his words, you’re already zipping off, determined to get back to the hideout without fainting, thank you very much.

            And considering the circumstances, you do pretty well. After a circuitous route through the undercity, you make it all the way to the entrance of the tunnel before your leg finally gives out. Despite the extra time it took to go separately, you’re glad no one is there to see you slump against the wall beside the opening.

            You hiss as your back hits the cold stone and you slowly lower yourself to the ground as you press one hand against the bleeding section of your leg. In the green light of the sumps you take in the damage. It looks like a graze from a bullet. A bad one, sure, but you thank the gods the lead didn’t manage to imbed itself into the flesh of your thigh.

            You push stuck on hair away from your sweaty forehead and tear a sleeve from your jacket. Biting down on your lip, you tie the fabric around the wound, just tight enough to stop the bleeding until you can get back to your room. Yeah, maybe you should take a little more care into treating the weeping laceration on your thigh, but you sure as hell aren’t going to do it on the muddy, stinking ground of the sumps. So you hop back onto your board—careful to put as much weight as you reasonably can on your good leg without crashing—and continue down the tunnel.

            It takes longer than it should to get back, sure, but you get back alive and in mostly one piece. The hideout is quiet once you shove open the heavy stone door blocking the entrance and lay your hoverboard against the wall. Green lights zip around you from the firelights and nearly every lantern is lit: the courtyard looks like something out of the fantasy books in the nursery. Wish I could appreciate it for once, you grumble to yourself as you start the trek from the entrance to your quarters.

            You almost make it all the way to the door built into the wall when Scar calls your name, “What happened?”

            You stand up straight, careful to put an equal amount of weight on both legs despite the spasms of pain that blur the edges of your vision. “Nothing.”

            He takes a couple steps closer. “You’re bleeding.” His voice is sharp, and he cuts you off before you can protest, “Don’t lie to me. You’re limping and you have your jacket tied around your leg,” he snarls

            “I’m fine,” you bite back. The door opens with a squeak, and you continue limping down the hallway to your room. The thump of his boots follows you. “I don’t need your help.”

            He, as usual, says nothing and keeps walking behind you.

            You make it to your door before you finally turn to look at him. “Okay, I’m bleeding. But I’m fine, just fucking drop it, Scar.” He meets your gaze down his nose with cold, green eyes and continues to say absolutely nothing. You scowl and open your door, throwing your mask on the bed. In a burst of rage, you go to slam the door shut but his toe blocks the doorway. “I don’t need you to save me,” you hiss, leaning your weight against the door.

            Claws wrap around the door, “I’m not going to save you, idiot. No one here wants to save you. Let me in, or I’m going to break down this fucking door.” His voice is dangerously low.

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re fucking bleeding. I could smell it the second you walked in the hideout.” What the fuck? “A wound like that’ll get infected in a second. Now, let. Me. In.”

            “Yeah, and I can handle it!” Your voice is rising, too loud for the cramped hallways. With a loud sigh you take your weight off of the door and let it fly open, revealing a very angry Scar. “Fine, just shut up.”

            He closes the door behind himself. Which is what anyone would do. This is fine. You do your absolute best to not let your nerves show. “Well? You can see I’m not dying, ready to leave yet?” You look down at your throbbing leg, the sleeve tied around it has turned from a light gray to a deep black. Scar doesn’t move, he only gazes down at you with crossed arms and a stern look on his face.

            “Let me see it.” With a roll of your eyes, you untie the shitty field bandage to reveal the rip in your pants that only barely covers the graze wound.

            Getting impatient at his lack of reaction, you stumble into the bathroom and yank your first-aid kit from the shelf above the toilet and begin ripping supplies out. You see Scar looming in the bathroom doorway from the small mirror and shoot him a scowl. “Look, I have everything I need, you can go now.”

            “I’m not leaving till you’re patched up.” Gods, he’s fucking impossible. You let out an exasperated noise and hop onto the counter, a bottle of alcohol in hand.

            You uncap the bottle and tip it slowly over the wound, a cry of pain escaping your lips at the sting despite your best efforts. You can’t clean a wound like this, but you are not about to ta-

            “Take them off.” You whip your head up, a ferocious snarl on your face. This bastard. He just looks at you. “Take them off or I’ll cut them off.”

            “You could at least buy me dinner first,” you quip, earning a glare from Scar. This is not fine, I can’t keep pretending this is normal and fine.

            You know he’s right, that’s the worst part about it. You slide off the counter and undo your belt, slowly rolling your blood-stained pants down your leg, trying desperately not to think about the man standing in front of you. The fabric pulls away from the wound and it is with an excruciating amount of self-control that you don’t scream at the feeling. You let the fabric drop to the floor—leaving you in nothing but your half-torn shirt and panties—and sit back on the counter, keeping your eyes trained on the wound and not on Scar.

            It’s actually a lot worse than you thought it was, the angry, red gash stretches at least three inches across your leg and is easily half that in width. Blood seeps from the wound in a steady trickle and you wipe at it with your remaining sleeve. You pick the bottle of alcohol back up and tip it enough for a drop to come out and fall onto the bloodied skin. FUCK. You bite down on your hand to keep from crying out and you nearly knock the bottle onto the floor, the other hand hovering uselessly over your leg.

            With a huff, Scar picks it up and pushes your hand out of the way. “Let me do it,” he mumbles before sloshing the evil, burning liquid onto your thigh. You can’t even think about his proximity to your half naked form because as soon as the alcohol hits your skin, your vision goes white and you dig your nails into the opposite leg. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry,” comes his voice, soft and gentle over your pathetic whimpering. If you were in any less pain, the uncanny gentleness in his voice would probably send heat straight to your cheeks. Unfortunately, you’re a bit more focused on the blinding pain.

            Your fingers begin to cramp, and you pull them away from your leg, leaving small, red welts in the flesh. Like the bullet wound wasn’t enough. Scar says nothing as he wets a clean cloth and begins wiping away the blood from the surrounding skin, his fingers surprisingly gentle. You can’t take this much longer, and in desperation you take the bottle and swallow the remaining alcohol, much preferring the burn in your throat to the lingering burn on your leg. He sighs, “You don’t need stitches,” thank the gods, “but you were stupid to let this happen and even stupider to wait this long to deal with it.”

            He starts to wrap a clean bandage around your leg, one hand cupped under your knee to hold it over above the counter. “Right, I’m so sorry. I should have stripped in the middle of the sumps and begged a shimmer addict for some booze. I’ll do better next time,” you spit back sarcastically, fixing your eyes on his dark hair.

            He glares up at you for a second. “You know that isn’t what I meant. You should have told someone that you were fucking shot. It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help, it makes you stupid to say nothing.”

            You rest your head against the mirror with a thud. “I didn’t need help.”

            “For gods sake, Kirranari, you can’t keep doing that. People don’t want to watch you suffer.” He finishes wrapping your leg and begins tying a knot, tightening the bandage to the point of pain. You wince despite yourself.

            “I didn’t ask to be the Firelight’s charity case.”

            A fist slams down on the counter, and you jump. “Is that what you think this is? You think Ekko took you in because we felt bad?” He meets your eyes finally and you can see the rage burning just below the surface. “Get over yourself, we wanted you because you would be an asset.” His words sting almost as badly as the alcohol. You blink and look away, desperate to not let the tears forming in the corner of your eyes fall. “You aren’t a basket case, and you aren’t property anymore,” his hand grips the branding on your wrist, “you’re a fucking firelight, start acting like it.”

            “Why are you here, then. Why not send Malia or Ekko or anyone else?” Your voice is scarcely above a whisper.

            His hand grips your chin and forces you to meet his eyes, you force yourself to glare because the alternative is crying like a godsdamn child. The rage is still there but muted by something else… something you haven’t seen since that night he carried you back to your bed. “Because I care,” his grip turns bruising and his tone is still just as harsh.

            “Why?” You bite back.

            He just… stares, dark green eyes searching yours and claws still curled around your chin, distorting your lips as they press into your cheek. He is silent for so long; you actually begin to worry you’ve offended him somehow. And then he crushes his lips into yours.

            You think your brain actually short-circuits, not expecting the kiss even in the slightest. As much as you hate to admit it, it feels right. The urgency of his lips pressing into your plush, unexpecting ones. The hand on your chin begins to creep up until it is cupping against your cheek. Your own hand raises up to tangle itself in his hair. He moans almost imperceptibly.

            Despite every fiber of your being telling you not to, you pull away, just enough to look at him. His eyes search yours again but this time they look almost… nervous? “Why?” You repeat.

            His brows furrow slightly, “Because your strong and stubborn and even though you drive me fucking crazy with how stupid you are, I can’t seem to keep myself away.”

            That’s enough for me, you think, and you press your lips into his once more. A second hand moves to wrap around your waist and you arch into him, spreading your legs on the counter enough so he can stand between them. Sharp teeth nip into your lower lip and you have to surpress the shiver running down your spine. With a sigh, you open your lips, letting him slip his tongue into the wet heat of your mouth.

            A wanton moan erupts from your chest at the taste of him; it is everything that is so intoxicating about his smell, multiplied by 1000. I could get used to this.

            Breaking the kiss, he begins to trail a line of nips and kisses down your neck, earning soft, horribly embarrassing noises from your mouth. You feel him smile against your neck, asshole. Carding the fingers of your other hand through his hair, you pull, hard. His breath stutters and he dips his head to look up at you. You smirk down at him and he responds with his own, devilish smile, the pupils in his eyes blown wide with lust.

            You realize, through the haze of desire, that he is slowly making his way to his knees in front of you. “Mmm no-” you call and he stops, immediately, looking up at you. “I need a shower or somethin’” You can’t imagine you smell even close to appetizing after all the bleeding and sweating from the day.

            His hands dig into your hips and shakes his head, “No. I need to taste you… to smell you. Just like this. Please?”

            If you weren’t already sitting, you probably would have fallen over at the sight of Scar, on his knees in front of you, begging for a chance to taste you on his tongue. You nod at him, jaw going slack already. He doesn’t wait another moment before ripping your panties down and pulling your ass closer to the edge of the counter.

            He doesn’t begin immediately, like you expected him to with how desperate he was. Instead, he buries his face directly at your slit, nose pressing against the short curls, and inhales. “Wha-” you look down at him in horror.

            “Fuck. You smell…” another inhale, “do you know how badly I wanted to fuck you on the floor of the gym that day? Your smell, I couldn’t hold myself back…” Your mouth goes dry, and it physically hurts to part your lips.

            You think back to the day in the gym, when he let you win… he had… wanted you? And I thought I had disgusted him. Just before you can say something witty—which you totally could have, for the record—his tongue flattens against your clit and every single thought leaves your mind.

            He consumes you like a dying man offered a last meal. It barely even feels like he’s doing it for your pleasure, even if it feels better than anything you have ever experienced. The nips and licks and sucks, it’s for him, you realize. You don’t even feel the need to mute yourself with how fucking loud Scar is being. With the reverence he holds for you and the skill in which he tastes you, it isn’t long until that coil deep in your core begins to tighten. “’m close,” you moan breathlessly.

            Your hands in his hair tighten as you feel yourself nearing your peak and he only doubles his efforts. Tongue diving into your cunt with reckless abandon. You don’t even realize that his hand left your waist until you feel his thumb pressed against your clit. You last about twenty more seconds before you come apart completely, vision going white and cunt squeezing desperately around his tongue. His own muffled groan of pleasure nearly drowning out your soft mewls.

            By the time your vision returns, he is cupping your face tenderly, brows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

            Your mouth opens and closes several times dumbly, but you honest to goodness have no words for what you just experienced. “I…” you finally choak out, voice hoarse, “I need more.” It’s not entirely true, you could probably die happy just from the feeling of him feasting on your cunt, but you’ll be damned if you can’t at least try and reduce him to a similar state of fuck-drunk.

            He grins like a shark and kisses you again. You groan at your taste on his tongue. Gently, his large hands come around to cup under the swell of your ass, lifting you gently and pressing you against his body. He is immensely careful of your leg, but you don’t think you could care even if the whole fucking thing fell off.

            He lays you down on your bed and you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, deciding immediately that he has far too much clothing on his body. He seems to notice the hunger in your eyes and begins unfastening the clips of his vest, tossing it to the side once it is off. The rest of his—and your own—clothing soon follows, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxers and you completely naked before him. He stands, drinking you in for much longer than you’d like. He chuckles darkly as you squirm under his gaze before eventually relenting and lowering himself on top of you.

            Immediately, you reach behind his back and pull his body flush to yours and you’re honestly surprised his skin isn’t fucking steaming with how hot it is. As his hips begin to settle down onto your uninjured thigh you freeze when you feel a heavy weight rest on your skin, separated only through a thin layer of fabric; all the blood that had been rushing to your head redirecting itself towards your core. Is that him?

            A hand snaked between your bodies and a gentle but firm squeeze confirms that it is him. It wasn’t visible in the low light of your room, but Scar is fucking massive. Your breath hitches in time with his and you worry for a second that he won’t even fit in you, but his hot breath against your ear zaps all ability to form coherent thought. “You gonna let me fuck you? Or do I have to beg again?”

            You bite at a lip to stifle your moan, “Mmm, I wouldn’t complain to hear you beg again.” He laughs and captures your lips once more in his own, tongue pressing into yours with the same feverish urgency. “Fuck me,” you moan into his mouth. He smiles against your lips.

            “Well, since you asked so nicely,” his boxers are off in an instant, leaving him completely bare over you. He begins to bite into your neck again.

            “’s not fair. I can barely see you,” you whine ungracefully; you barely got a chance to see him.

            “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs against your skin. A hand appears in front of your face, “Lick it,” he says. You comply immediately. The lewd sounds of him working your spit over his cock fill the room and you squirm again, clenching around nothing and desperate to be filled.

            “Hurry up,” you are almost completely breathless under him.

            “So impatient,” he muses, eyes shining green despite the lack of light in the room. He lines the tip of his cock against your wet, hungry slit, a breath escaping from his softly parted lips.

            Slowly, painfully slowly, he begins to enter you and… holy fuck. You feel like you’re being split open beneath him, and you bite down against the skin of his shoulder to keep from crying out and waking the whole floor of soldiers. His breathing is ragged once he sheaths himself completely in you, a hand landing next to your head to keep himself propped up. “Shit, you’re so fucking tight.” You clench unconsciously around him; he nearly chokes, “Uh… fuck…” a breathless, almost pained laugh erupts from his chest, “I won’t be able to hold myself back much longer if you keep doing that, Kir.”

            You dig your nails into his back in an effort to tell him to fuck me as hard and as fast as you want because words aren’t the easiest to form right now. He gets the message, thank the gods.

            He pulls nearly all of the way out of you before ramming back in, filling you farther than you thought possible. You hook your heels behind his back and hold on desperately as he begins to fuck into you so quickly you can scarcely breathe. Desperate cries begin to spill from your lips and he clamps a hand over your mouth, never once breaking the rhythm of his thrusts. “You want the whole hallway to hear me fucking you?” He bites into your ear and you moan his name against his hands.

            Everything begins to get overwhelming and you can do nothing but sit there and take it, the jackhammer of his dick into the back wall of your cunt, his smell filling the room, the weight of his hand on your mouth, his taste mixed with yours still on your tongue. Every inch of your being consists of Scar and you fucking love it. That same coil begins to tighten in your gut and you curl your toes, bearing down on him again as he continues to fuck into you. His breath is ragged and heavy in your ear. Fuck, what you wouldn’t give to be able to scream his name like he deserves.

            His own rhythm begins to stutter and you can tell from the way his breath becomes hotter in your ear that he’s just as close as you are. Suddenly, his hand is ripped away from your mouth. “K-kir, mmm not gonna- ah – last much longer. Where?” It’s clear how much it strains him just to ask the question, but the movement of his hips doesn’t stop; you understand that it can’t stop, if he feels anything close to how you feel.

            “Inside. Safe.” You blurt out before kissing him hard. His thrusts speed up and the sound of it is obscene. While he is being very respectful to your neighbors by keeping you quiet, the sound of wet skin slapping echos through the room at a volume that makes his attempt to keep quiet laughable.

            He bites into your neck as he comes, moaning your name—your real name—against your skin. At the first pulse of his dick, your own coil snaps, and you dig your nails into his back and shake uncontrollably against his body, unable to do anything but feel him.

            You sit like that for several minutes, his dick still buried deep inside you, and your cunt pulsing lazily around him, as if in an attempt to milk out whatever last drops of cum he has left. Finally, he pulls out of you with a hiss and flops onto his back next to you. Before you can even more to face him, his arms wrap around your waist and pull you into his chest to lay on top of him.

            “I still think you’re an ass, just so you know,” you say quietly into the silence of the room.

            His chest shakes softly as he chuckles. “And I still think you’re stubborn and stupid most of the time.”

            “But I guess it wouldn’t kill me to accept a bit of help. Every now and then. And only from you.” You twist your body so your head is tucked under his chin and he angles himself to kiss the top of your head.

            He sighs but you feel him smile against your hair. “I know you’ve been seeing Aster,” he says after a moment of silence.

            You sit up, straddling his chest, “What?”

            He looks up at your wild, fucked out hair and laughs, “You aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think you are.”

            You look at him incredulously, “But… Jess told me she wouldn’t tell…”

            He rolls his eyes, “She told me after the first day you went over. You think I’d be willing to put her with someone that wouldn’t tell me exactly what she did all day?” He cocks an eyebrow.

            You twist your lips, suddenly embarrassed. “I just…”

            He laughs softly, “I told her to let you see her every day because I wanted you to see her every day. It was cute.”

            You scoff at him, pressing your hands into his shoulders to push him into the bed, “It wasn’t cute! I was pissed at you, and you were basically stalking me,” you scowl in mock irritation.

            He sits up, gripping your ass to adjust you more comfortably against his lap, “You talk a big game for someone who’s leaking my cum all over her bedsheets.”

            You glare at him and stomp off to the bathroom to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror nearly scares you into a scream. He found you hot while you looked like this? You run a quick brush through your hair and then turn the shower on. Scar’s voice carries into the bathroom, “Don’t you dare shower.”

            You peek your head out of the bathroom to look at him sprawled on your bed, still damp with sweat. “I stink and I’m covered in blood, Scar.”

            “I know. Come back to bed.”

            You roll your eyes. As much as you want to shower, the undeniable call of exhaustion pulls you back to bed and into his arms. He seems much too satisfied with himself as he wraps his body around your smaller frame, tucking your head under his chin.

            Sleep captures you much faster than you were anticipating, and you are awake just long enough to hear him say, “We still need to talk tomorrow,” before passing out, safely cocooned in his presence.

They boned!!! Oh Em GEE This chapter took me wayyyy too long to write and I would like to thank Massive Attack's entire discography for getting me though it. LMK what yall think! Also, on a real note, it makes my heart so full to see all of your comments, I have never had this much support for a fic and it makes me so unbelievably happy. Thank you guys for always making my day <333 TAG LIST: @honeym0chi @radflapkidsludge @bearinthesnow @mcaats @ariwolfsstuff @bakugokatsuki18-blog @calciferthelivingfire @kiannaf @veggiesoupdumpling @awenthealchemist

[trashmouth-richie]

nothing kills you slower than, letting someone go

Eddie x Fem!Reader ; Steve x Fem!Reader

W.C 6k [whoops]

A/N: I’ve had this floating around my brain for weeks, based loosely on the song “Letting Someone Go” by Zach Bryan

TW: underage drinking/ drug use, drug addiction, driving while drinking, mean!Eddie.

💋💋

Searching your bag for the soft pack of cigarettes, you push your way through the heavy metal door leading to the back of Hawkins High.

You needed a cigarette and right the fuck now. This stupid fucking town, stupid fucking people at this asshole school—you had had enough. The heat of the day was at its peak as you made it over to the corner behind the wood shop. Heavily graffitied and coated in butts and ashes, this had been your secret smoke spot for the past few weeks. It wasn’t a picnic bench in the woods where he had brought you years ago, no this spot was yours, since you had broken up last month you had to find more than a few different things to make your own.

You didn’t frequent the Hideout on Tuesday’s anymore; he made sure of that. You dropped out of Hellfire, giving away your dice to Dustin and Mike as a parting gift; the trailer park you had spent so much time in was now filled with the ghosts of memories, and any time you had bumped into Wayne at the grocery store or pumping gas, you smiled shyly and waved. Wondering if Eddie ever told him why you weren’t around anymore. Why you didn’t surprise them anymore on Saturday mornings with almost stale, day old donuts.

This wasn’t a typical breakup, he didn’t have a new girlfriend and you didn’t have a new boyfriend. Eddie had been pushing you away for weeks, unthreaded the strings of your hearts from one another and drifted apart. It wasn’t easy seeing him around school, interacting with your mutual friends who were now only his friends, waving in the hallways to you as a sort of pity, eyes casted downward when they were with him, loyal to their DM.

The sting of the breakup and the events that unfolded that night were still fresh in your mind. The way the rain fell as you fought with him in front of his trailer, both drenched to the core, his curls lengthening from the heaviness of the rain, chin quivering, shoulders sagged. The pitter sound of the drops of rain hitting his leather clad arms. Seeping through the crooks of his rings, threatening to let them slip off his fingers, wetting the tape used to make them a bit smaller.

Exhaling a line of smoke through your mouth you shudder at the memory. You didn’t want to think about that night or even him. Long legs and baggy jeans stroll beside you, you know it’s her before she even says anything, passing her the cigarette you chuckle when her blue fingernails swing down to take it out of your hands.

“I swear Ms. O’Donnell has a stick up her ass.” Robin explains, “I hope her car breaks down on her way home tonight.” She huffs and throws her back against the brick, one foot folded upwards pressed against the wall.

“She does,” you blow a cloud of smoke from your nose, “it’s sideways.”

Robin snorts, smoke escaping her lips as she exhales, “So are we going to Steve’s party tonight or are you going to bail, again?”

Your response comes slower than you had hoped, you really didn’t want to see him there. Usually avoiding any opportunity you could have of running into him.

“It’s been a month,” Robin says softly, treading lightly on the sore subject hoping not to break the ice of your fragile sanity, “besides, he probably won’t even be there.” She was right, he didn’t hangout with that crowd. The hellfire boys wouldn’t be there so why would he?

“I know… I just— if I see him with someone else it would actually kill me.” Robin knows you better than anyone, she knows how hard it has been for you. Moving through the motions of these last few weeks as if they were on film and you were just a bystander. “Three years is a long time to have it just end over an argument.” The first few days of your breakup it was rumored that he was fooling around with Chrissy Cunningham. The thought of that alone was enough to get you to miss school for a week straight. Refusing to leave your bed, holed up around your sheets like a baby being swaddled. The pain was too much. Robin had stopped by multiple times and assured you it wasn’t true. But the idea of him moving on so quickly, hurt.

“It is—you’re right.” Robin says, turning to you resting her head on the wall, “And you have every right to be upset. What he did—I’m still mad at him for the way he treated you in the end.”

“Join the club,” you mutter, wiping a stray hair behind your ear flicking ashes into the wind.

“So why not just get out and have a good time, maybe you’ll meet someone?” Her lips twist into a shit eating grin. You give her a look as if to say, ‘spit it out’, lowering your eyes to her, eyebrows raised. That’s what you loved about Robin, her emotions were worn on her sleeve and she couldn’t hide anything from you, “Okay fine! I’m like 96% sure that Steve has a crush on you, and if you were to tell him that I would deny everything so don’t even try it.”

A year ago, you wouldn’t have hung out with Steve Harrington, but since you and Robin started working with him at Scoops a few months ago, you had all gotten close. The past month you had become a recluse, only agreeing to go to places that you 100% knew Eddie wouldn’t be. Robin was the one who plucked you from your decaying shell, forcing you out into the sun, watering you like a flower watching you blossom.

Maybe getting out there and even putting on a fake smile would work. Maybe bring some happiness back into your life. “Fine, but I’m not drinking that witch's brew shit Vicky makes.”

The party was like any other one at Steve’s. Music flooded the streets, the thumping of REO Speedwagon could be heard from blocks away. Cars lined every square inch of the driveway, and the surrounding side streets. Beer cans were littered in the front yard, a very drunk Jonathan Byers was laying in the cool grass, taking pictures of the sky, red cups surrounding him and puke starting to dry on his denim jacket.

Having taken a few shots at Robin’s house while getting ready, you were already feeling yourself relax a bit as you entered the Harrington house. Steve was wearing sunglasses inside, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as his hair moved with the music. Surrounded by people taking long pulls from their cheap beers dancing along to the latest hits.

“Robin, Y/N!” Steve yelled above the crowd. He raises his arms above his head and begins making his way towards you through the maze of drunk underage teens. He sweeps you into a hug, pulling you in close and grinning into your hair, “you made it!”

“There were terms to her coming here ya know,” Robin stated, lifting a beer from a freshman’s hand and claiming it as her own, “no dancing, no drinks made by Vicky and no Eddie Munson lurking around.” A quick glance around calms your nerves seeing that Eddie wasn’t here, the tension in your shoulders subsiding.

“No dancing?” Steve presses, a look of fake shock on his face, “I was just going to put ‘Thriller’ on!” The three of you laugh as you look around the living room. People are packed into every corner, some making out, others swaying like bowling pins after an almost strike— trying like hell to not fall over. “Hey dickwad, put that down!” Steve rushes over to a guy in your grade and as attempting to put a lampshade on his head.

“Just give him a chance,” Robin whispers in your ear, “I’m telling you he’s got it bad, just nervous about if you still have feelings for Eddie.”

You did. You wouldn’t deny that. But those feelings weren’t reciprocated. Not anymore. He had made that clear the night he broke it off. Saying he was going to be too busy for a relationship, that you needed to move on from him, find someone else. He was leaving Hawkins and not returning.

Steve returned with the lampshade, setting it down in the corner as he grabs your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles softly with the pads of his thumbs. “And as for Munson? He won’t be here, I promise.” A smile breaks on his face as he pushes his sunglasses into his hair. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

The kitchen is oozing with the smell of spilt beer and strong liquor. The countertops are sticky like candy—a half assed attempt of cleaning has napkins stuck to them like cement. People are crowded around the kitchen island concocting mixed drinks of pop and various liquors, a game of tippy cup is being played in the dining room. “Pick your poison,” Steve says above the crowd, gesturing to the array of drinks on the counter.

“Personally, I wouldn’t touch the punch, Vicky emptied more than half of the liquor cabinet into it. Byers had about three cups and hasn’t been seen since.”

You laugh and a grin spreads across Steve’s face, “we saw him on the way in actually, he’s laying in the front yard, taking pictures of the sky.” You grab a beer off the counter, cracking it open, suds surrounding the aluminum top of the can you slurp them up and tilt it back into your mouth the iced pale ale flowing down your throat like a wheat river. Steve’s eyes haven’t left you since you got here.

“That looks good on you,” he says, taking a sip of his own beer, brown honeyed eyes pouring into yours.

You give him a confused glance, “the beer?”

He laughs and gestures to your lips, “a smile.” Your cheeks heat with a blush, you weren’t good with flirting. You and Eddie had only gotten together because you spun the bottle in his direction that summer night between 8th grade and Freshman year in Namcy Wheeler basements. Steve holds your elbow and looks at you through his lashes. Of course he was good looking, he was tall, hair always perfectly positioned, strong facial features and those dreamy honey eyes could make anyone fall for him. You smile shyly at him and take another sip of your beer. “Wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to see it again,” he whispers into your ear, pulling back closer than he was before.

Steve had known the ins and outs of your breakup just like Robin had. You had spent countless nights sitting on the floor of Scoops sampling the flavors while you delved out the inner workings of why Eddie did what he did. You were heart broken, no other way to say it. And it had hurt Steve to see you so low. You had done your best to avoid Eddie entirely, and Steve would do anything to try to help.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, looking down at your shoes and back up to Steve, “I wasn’t sure either.” Maybe it would be easier to get over Eddie if you just moved on from him, finding comfort in someone else, even if just for a night.

“I, uh— can’t believe he’d be that stupid.” Steve says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. Your brows knit slightly together as Steve continues moving a strand of hair from your face, “Eddie I mean. Cause if you were mine, I would never let you go.”

A shy smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you look up at Steve. Those nights at Scoops had made you all closer, the three of you spilling your guts about relationships gone bad, secret hookups, etc. Not in any of those nights did you put together that Steve liked you more than a friend. Usually you were too busy daydreaming about a time where Eddie was still yours, still the sweet Eddie you had known and fallen in love with. Now he would hold his head high above yours in the hallways, never even glancing your way. You search your mind trying to remember if Steve talked about any girls during that time but you can’t think of any.

“Oh come on Steve, you don’t mean that,” you shake your head, Steve gently placed a finger under your chin positioning your face towards his.

“I mean it,” he says sternly with a hint of softness, “I care about you, a lot.” His eyes show sadness, your stomach flutters at his words. Maybe it’s the alcohol making this easy for you, or maybe it’s the way he’s staring so deep into your soul your whole body is tingling, but you feel safe with Steve. You can’t help yourself when you lean into him, licking your lips slightly and closing your eyes.

“Jesus H. Christ Henderson, why the hell are you making me do this?” Eddie huffs as he jumps out of the van and stomps up the sidewalk to Steve Harrington’s house.

“You’re the one who kept saying you were bored,” Dustin says, “listen I know you’ve never hung out with Steve before, but once you do you’ll see he’s a pretty cool guy.” A mouthful of braces smiles up at him.

Hellfire had ended early since none of the boys could defeat Eddie’s sadistic campaign. They were out of Doritos and Family Video didn’t have any new releases this week. “Yeah I doubt that,” Eddie scowled. He was finding it more and more difficult to be happy this last month. He thought breaking up would push him in the right direction of where he wanted to go, leaving Hawkins for good after graduation, getting a record deal, maybe. But so far all he had was one more failing grade before he was held back, again. He was annoyed beyond belief, hating himself for being so naive.

Agreeing to go with Dustin so he wouldn’t get himself into trouble, Eddie walks faster to the party, his Reeboks squeaking beneath him. Dustin makes it to the door first, “should I take my shoes off or should I leave them on? There aren’t any shoes here, are they somewhere else?”

Eddie chuckles at his younger friend, “keep ‘em on, easier to run if the cops come,” he says, eyes wide to scare Dustin.

“Come on man, don’t say that.” Dustin says, following Eddie as he made his way up the steps to the split level home. Maybe a few beers would help his mood. Not fair to Dustin that he has such a shitty attitude lately, the kid worships Steve so he could hangout for a bit, drink a few beers and then go home. Landing on the top step peering into the kitchen, Eddie stops dead.

Watching your lips move with Steve’s has Eddie feeling sick to his stomach. He’s convinced his heart stops beating. Blood rushing to his cheeks, this shouldn’t hurt the way it does. He had been the one to end it, the one who shoved you away. But you looked so happy with Steve. “Oh shit,” Dustin says behind Eddie’s shoulder, “uhh.. drinks? We need drinks!” Dustin pushes Eddie forward through the kitchen and out to the patio, finding the kegs, he pours two of the worlds foamiest beers and thrusts them into Eddie’s hands. “Here,” he says, raising Eddie’s hand to his mouth to get him to drink, “swear to God that’s not at all what I— ”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, slamming the beer and refilling it, foamy suds running down his chin, “I’m fine Dustin, really.” His eyes were dark with anger, rubbing his jaw with the heel of his hand he walks back inside the kitchen and grabs the closest bottles of whiskey he can find— noticing you and Steve are now gone— and waltzes back out. Throwing himself into a lawn chair and pressing his lips to the open bottle, stewing in his own misfortunes.

This was his fault, he broke up with you for no particular reason other than his own stupid ideas. You were each other's first kiss, first time, first everything. Of course he wanted to know what it felt like to kiss someone else, feel a body that wasn’t yours. But he had always considered you to be his. Seeing you lip locked with Steve was worse than a punch to the gut. Pull after pull on the bottle of whiskey, Eddie’s eyes got darker, he slumped further into the seat. He had no idea what Dustin had even been saying. The only thing he could focus on was you.

The way your hair smelled like coconuts when you were cuddled up against his chest, wearing his shirt when you slept over. You were his everything back then, he didn’t just love you he admired you, worshipped the ground you walked on. He had been regretting the breakup since it happened, but couldn’t find the heart to tell you that. He saw the way you cowered away from him at school, changing your schedule to avoid any contact at all with him, your locker used to be next to his now it was empty. He fucked up bad, but all he was trying to do was save you.

He stands up, his tall figure swaying slightly with the help of inebriation. He stumbled into the sliding door, face pressed flush with the glass, scanning the kitchen. You still weren’t in sight, but Robin was.

Throwing the door open a little harder than it should have been, it bounces slightly at the force. Eddie climbs in all legs first, “Robin! Robin!” Eddie yells above the crowd, maneuvering around drunk teens.

“Eddie,” Robin spins on her heel, a glare to her blue eyes, “you look— like shit.”

“Aww,” Eddie scoffs, “thought I was your favorite.” He takes a big swig from the whiskey, too drunk to even taste the amber liquid sliding down his throat, the burn barely there.

“You were, until you hurt my best friend, and became a giant dick.”

“Well now that just hurt my feelings Robby.”

“What’s the game here Munson, Vicky’s waiting.”

Swaying more than he would have liked and holding onto the kitchen island Eddie lets his guard down, “where is she?”

“Listen, you weren’t there. You didn’t see the way she trapped herself in her room for a week after you broke her heart. She’s trying to get over you— you can’t just pretend like you’re still her boyfriend.” Robin lights a cigarette and blows smoke directly in Eddie’s face.

“I just wanna talk to her. Tell her congrats, I’m sure she’s happy with the upgrade from Prince of the Trailer Park to King of Hawkins thassall.” He says with a shrug of his broad shoulders, leather creaking with his movements.

“I mean it— leave her alone, you already did it once, shouldn’t be too hard the second time.” Robin ashes her cigarette into a discarded cup and saunters off to find Vicky.

Eddie takes another swig, rolling the liquor around his teeth, before swallowing when he hears it. Your laugh coming from the living room. Long legs moving like he’s on ice skates with the help of the walls bearing the brunt of his body weight, he enters the living room with a frown. You're sitting on Steve’s lap, his face is nuzzled into your hair the same way Eddie’s used to when he surprised you by your lockers. You haven’t noticed him yet. Your eyes are pinched shut and you’re laughing at the way Steve’s fingers dip into your sides tickling you.

Always one for theatrics, Eddie starts to clap.

Steve’s lips are like silk, smooth and warm against yours, the taste of beer mixed with carmex on the tip of your tongue as you drag it across his bottom lip. His hands move into your hair, holding you closer to him as he slots his mouth against yours. Kissing Steve comes naturally, as if you have done this before. For the first time in weeks you feel at peace with the breakup. You hear the sliding door open and close as Steve deepens the kiss, moving his head in a slant to paint your mouth with his tongue. He tastes like cheap beer and a smidge of cigarettes and mint gum. You pull back from him, “whoa.”

“Shit, I’m sorry— just you were leaning in and I thought you wanted me to kiss you—fuck I just messed this up didn’t I?” Steve pushes his fingers into the inner corners of his eyes, you pull his hand away looking confused.

“No,” you giggle, holding Steve’s hand in yours, the other pressed against his chest. “It was good, great even— I haven’t felt like that in weeks,” you admit to him, “don’t apologize.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he brings you into a hug, kissing the top of your head and wrapping his large hands around your back, moving them across your shoulders as he ushers you to the living room where Robin and Vicky are dancing. Steve pulls you into the couch with him, whispering into your ear about how pretty you are, how long he has been waiting until you were ready to say anything. The sweet gestures make you blush again and again. When he asks to take you out for a date tomorrow night you tease him.

“I think I’m busy, yeah definitely busy.” A sheepish grin lands on your face and Steve’s face goes from concerned to mocking mad as he tickles your sides you squeal and use his full name as if that were to somehow deter him away from you. A noise is growing louder in the living room and it’s not the music— is someone clapping? You slowly open your eyes and take note of the very drunk barely standing Eddie Munson making his way towards you, eyes black as tar a look of maniacal madness plastered on his face.

“Well well, what do we have here?” Eddie slurs as he steps cautiously towards you. Steve stops tickling you and moves his face away from your hair, you can hear his heart beating against his chest as he moves you off of his lap and onto the couch, protective hands on your legs as puffs out his chest.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, panic rising from your chest.

“Well I just thought I would wish the happy new couple many years of blissful togetherness, looks like I missed the knighting ceremony— sorry about that.”

“Eddie, you’re drunk,” Steve interjects, “let me take you home”

“Not really my type Harrington,” Eddie says, looking only at you, “ ‘m not leaving until she talks to me, alone.”

“Come on, man. You’re making a scene and she’s uncomfortable.” Steve places a hand on your jittering leg squeezing it tight to let you know it’ll be okay, a gesture that Eddie doesn’t miss.

“Oh is she?” A false expression of concern clouds Eddie’s face, “how dare I? Turns out,” he says, inching closer and dropping down to stare into your eyes, your eyes burning from the aroma of whiskey on his breath. “I know how to make her very comfortable when it comes to that, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you!” You yell, slapping his face.

“Now now sweetheart, poor Steve doesn’t need to hear how vulgar that mouth can get, you usually leave that for a second date at least right?.”

Steve stands from the couch and is toe to toe with Eddie, both fuming. You try to shove your way in between them before they start swinging. Luckily Eddie stumbles backward creating space between them, you turn to Steve just as Dustin runs into the living room, holding Eddie back as he grins wildly, shoving devil horns onto his head and throwing his tongue out.

“I’m gonna go talk to him Steve, he’s clearly just upset, I’ll be okay. I promise.” Steve gives you a look of concern, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Be careful.” He says, eyes glaring into Eddie’s from across the room. You press a kiss into his cheek and squeeze his hand.

“Let’s go,” you scowl, grabbing Eddie by the elbow and dragging him out to the front yard.

“Ow!” Eddie whines, “Christ, cut it out, babe!”

“Okay first and foremost, enough with the pet names, they were cute when we were together but they’re not now, so knock it off.”

Eddie salutes you like a soldier saluting his lieutenant.

“Secondly, what the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” Eddie preens, “what’s that supposed to mean? I don’t have a problem, I’m just a, a concerned friend is all.”

You scoff, “we are not friends, this is the only conversation we have had since you dumped me that night, and look at us—we’re fighting again! Last I knew you hated my guts, so don’t come at me with this ‘concerned friend’ bullshit because it’s nothing but a fucking lie.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Really? Could have fooled the fuck out of me when you made me quit Hellfire and told me to stop showing up to your shows. You forget they were my friends too! Did you even tell Wayne that we broke up? Cause every time I see him he looks more and more confused as to why I’m not around!”

That hit deep. “It’s not his business who I’m fucking.”

“So that’s all I was to you, huh?” Tongue in your cheek ready to slap his stupid perfect face, “You’re un-fucking-believable!”

“You look good tonight.”

“Shut up Eddie— don’t fucking start with me. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show up here and try to make an ass out of me, in front of my friends!” You poke a finger into his chest and glare up at him.

“Oh, now look who’s all high and mighty, well I’m sorry, your excellency, to interrupt the clever mind of King Steve—but I didn’t come here to fucking win you over. Dustin wanted to be here so I drove him. I didn’t even know you would be here! First person I saw was Steve Harrington and he was all over you. So yeah, it hurt to see you move on with someone else.”

“I’m only doing exactly what you told me to do!” You can’t help the tears from falling, “or did you forget that part?” You close your eyes remembering the way his mouth moved the way the rain fell against his leather jacket, how it felt sticking to your shirt soaking you to the bone. “You were the one who told me to find someone else, so I did, just so happens that you were around to see it happening. We aren’t even dating— that was our first kiss.” You wipe your tears as they fall, pulling away from Eddie as he tries to mimick your motions, his hand falling down to his jeans.

“You fucking think it’s easy for me to see you with him?” Eddie asks, looking at you through his lashes, “I felt like someone shot me in the chest when I watched him kiss you.”

“What did you expect? Me to wait around for you after you basically told me to go fuck myself?” You yank at the hair closest to your scalp, pulling in frustration, “you dumped me Eddie! Not the other way around.” You’re yelling at this point, so beyond pissed off that he’s making this seem like it’s your fault for the way he acted.

“Did you act like it was me? Wish it was my lips on yours instead of him?”

“Grow up, Eddie.”

“Oh come on baby,” his voice dripping seductively, “don’t you remember what it felt like to have my lips on your neck,” he sweeps your hair off your shoulder, “or when I was between your legs, making you come with my t—“

“Don’t— do not finish that sentence! You think insulting me while you’re hammered and a half ass apology is going to fix what you did? Think the fuck again.” You turn on your heel in a huff and try to head back into the house.

“I know your body better than any tweedle dick in Hawkins ever could, sweetheart.”

“God you are so fucking infuriating! Here you are again, acting like I ended this, like I was the one who ripped your heart out that night and stomped all over it. Leaving you to walk home in the rain. I fucking hate you Eddie Munson! I hate everything about you— now leave me the hell alone!” You turn on your heel, huffing as you walk the sloped grassy hill past a blacked out Jonathan Byers.

“Baby please,” Eddie has you by the waist pulling you closer to him. “Please just hear me out, I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. That’s the only thing I’m good at is fucking everything up. I’m sorry I said those things when we broke up—I’m sorry for being an asshole tonight. I just—seeing you with him, letting you go— is a pain I’ve never felt before. And I’m sure the bottle of whiskey I drank isn’t helping that.”

You fish in your pockets for your keys, realizing Robin drove, “Give me your keys, I’ll drive you home.”

Climbing into the driver's seat of the clunky hunk of metal, you are met with the all too familiar scent of him. The cheap cologne you gifted him for his birthday last year, Marlboro reds, the spice of his deodorant that he kept in the glove box, all hitting you at once. Turning the key you press your foot to the accelerator to give it a little oomf to turn over.

“You gotta give it a little—”

“I know. Not my first time driving it.”

“Sorry, forgot I guess.” The van roars to life and you flick the lights on, Eddie is leaning with his head on the headrest, one long leg thrown across the dash the other stuffed under the glove compartment. You speed down the road, heading towards Forest Hills Trailer Park. Silence is golden but not if you’re Eddie Munson, “remember when you almost fought that guy at The Hideout?”

A chuckle breaks from your lips sighing at the memory, “he was talking shit about Corroded Coffin, specifically you.”

“He was at least 6ft 8, 400 lbs, a fucking caveman,” a smile forms on his mouth, showing his pearly whites, “he could have easily beaten up the entire bar, and you just stood there poking him in the chest giving him an earful.”

“And I’d do it again, too.” you smile widely back at Eddie.

“I fell in love with you that night,” he admits, “I already knew I was but that just put the nail in the coffin for me.”

Your smile fades at the memories of Eddie once being in love with you, being yours.

“Can I ask you something?” He blurts.

“You already did, but go on.”

“Why Harrington?” He’s facing you eyes droopy with drunkenness as he fiddles with a lighter. “Out of all the ass clowns of Hawkins, why him?”

“I told you, we aren’t dating, we just kissed. We got close after the— a month ago, and— why does it matter?”

“Easy..”

“No, I'm being serious. Why does it matter to you that much?”

“There’s road construction up ahead, take it easy!”

“Don’t change the subj— “

“Fuck! Fuck! The bridge is ou—”

Eddie wakes up a week later in the hospital. He suffered a concussion and broke his right femur, 4 broken ribs and a broken nose. His spleen had ruptured as well. Doctors thought he wouldn’t wake up due to the severity of the accident. The first thing he asked about was you. Dustin couldn’t tell him. He tried but when the machines hooked up to Eddie started beeping and he started ripping IV’s out of his arm— the nurses ran in to push more pain meds, making him drowsy again.

It was Wayne who ended up telling him what had happened. The van nose dived into the creek bed, the van’s exterior was nothing compared to the jagged rocks and old slabs of concrete at the bottom. The force of the fall crushed the front of it like a pop can. Ambulance crews from 3 counties came to assist with the crash, nobody on either crew had seen anything like it before. He was lucky to be alive, Wayne had said.

“Wayne— don’t bullshit me, where is she?”

The warble of Wayne’s lower lip was enough answers for Eddie. He shook his head until a headache blurred his vision. He threw anything around him he could get his hands on, ripping every single IV out of his arms, punching the cast on his leg, screaming until his lungs gave out and his ribs ached even more. He was sedated. Sent to the psych ward where he was kept on an involuntary 72 hour hold. Refusing to eat, refusing to talk to anyone. He was released into Wayne’s care. Roane County Hospital was thankful to get rid of him.

The Hellfire boys visited, each giving their condolences. Heads hung low like the dwarfs from Snow White after she bites the poisoned apple and is in a death/sleep limbo. Robin and Steve came next, offering to take Eddie to see your headstone. The ride home was quiet as Eddie’s tears fell silently. A red eyed Robin rubbed Steve’s back as he put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Eddie finally said, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I— ” his voice breaks as he clutches for sanity.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve muffled through his hands, “it was an accident Eddie, could have happened to any of us.”

Eddie’s grief wore him down, he barely left his room, his senior year came and went, returning to school was too much for him, the anxiety creeping through his veins surging panic anytime he was somewhere you would have been, should have been. If only he had drove that night, maybe he would have been dead instead of you. He would gladly take your place, nothing here for him, you had friends, family.

He found the only solace he could.

“I don’t usually make house calls but I guess I’ll do it for you Munson,” Rick croaked into the phone.

The high was fast, his breathing evened and he fell asleep quickly. The addiction was even faster, hitting him like a freight train against the rails, he was a shell of his former self.

One night it went too far.

The taste of grease coated fingers in his mouth jars his eyes awake, vomit fills his mouth as he hurls all over the shower. The beads of water beating down on his chest as Wayne places his fingers into his mouth again, making him puke again and again, the long coiled cord of the telephone dragging and bouncing across the bathroom linoleum as Wayne holds the receiver with his shoulder wedged against his ear.

That was eight years ago. A night that scared the absolute shit out of Wayne Munson and aged him at least 15 years. Eddie had been sober since that day, making a vow to himself and to you to live for the both of you. He did escape Hawkins, taking Corroded Coffin to the top of the billboard charts, and making Wayne quit that God awful factory job and go on tour with him, never to lift a finger for anyone but himself again. Tonight was the anniversary of your death. Corroded Coffin was performing a memorial show in your honor at the Hideout.

Eddie addresses the crowd, “this is for the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, she’s gone but never forgotten, living on through the people who knew her and loved her…” a teary eyed Steve wipes his eyes beneath his glasses, holding Nancy tight against him, resting his head atop of hers. “…sweetheart, this is for you.”

[hephaestn]

It’s been a long time since Steve left Hawkins behind, since he left the summer of 1985 tightly locked in a corner of his mind.

He was happy in New York City, loved his apartment with Robin, loved the friends he had made here, breathed and exhaled warmth for this city which had so caringly taken him in. But, he felt hollow some days, especially the days where that lock would loosen and the memories would come back.

They were happy memories, for the most part. He cherished those ones, the ones which still made him smile to himself in the middle of the street. Though, when the bad ones hit, it was still unbearable.

He couldn’t think of Billy, of the way he could still remember the taste of his lips, the shape of his waist underneath his hand. He couldn’t think of how Billy left him one night with only a note to remember him by.

I had to. I’m sorry.

Those five words were still imprinted in Steve’s mind, forever echoing even after being torn apart and thrown into the trash that very morning.

Steve doesn’t really know why today his thoughts have traveled back in time to sunny days and endless love making nights. He needs a distraction, whichever it might be.

That’s why he accepts to join Robin and her coworkers for dinner. They’ve chosen a tiny place which had just recently opened in Greenwich Village. It’s cozy; wooden furniture and fairy lights, black leather chairs and artsy painted walls. Steve likes it, feels calm in it.

All of Robin’s coworkers are nice, they keep up the conversation, always making sure Steve feels included, which he greatly appreciates. Dinner is incredible, probably one of the most tasteful meals he’s had in… years.

As a starter the waiter brings out an assortment of bruchette, each one topped by ingredients from all the parts of the world; Italy, Greece, Mexico, Thailand, Morocco. Steve can’t help but lick his fingers after each bite.

Main course is hearty; a fresh sea urchin pasta. It tastes like the sea, like the infinite summers he’d spend as a child in Positano with his parents.

They get asked if they’d like a second course which everyone at the table is quick to deny since they’re all full and ready to leave some room for dessert. The waiter tells them the last course and liquors will be presented to them by the chef which lifts whispers of curiosity amongst them all.

Steve is enjoying himself, laughing with Robin as she goes into extreme detail about her last failed date night. The thoughts have gone away, he’s free of them again, for a while at least. Until he sees him—white chef jacket, tight around his arms, his hair is tightly pulled back, leaving his face to shine under the warm light of the restaurant.

Steve’s vision goes blurry for a second, disconcerted by the shock, by the confusion of if this is really happening or not.

“Robin,” Billy says, and there’s a long pause. “Steve.”

He can feel Robin’s eyes on him, Billy’s eyes on him, but he can’t look at either of them, instead he buries his face in the glass of wine in front of him. The world seems to be crumbling around him, every person becoming faceless, every light in the room becoming distorted. His heart is pounding incessantly, looking for a way out of his chest.

Steve doesn’t really know how or why he does it but he looks up and meets Billy’s gaze. And, there’s something in his eyes, a mix of sorrow and longing Steve wasn’t prepared to face.

“So, uh.” Billy clears his throat. “Here we have, the Sailing Lovers. Eclair filled with a rose and elderberry crème pat with a glaze of Madagascar vanilla bean, accompanied by an Amaretto liqueur.”

Steve is entranced as Billy explains dessert, too in his own mind to notice the glisten in Billy’s eyes as he makes his way back into the kitchen.

[tryskomys]

Wet Sand

Stone Gossard x OC

Chapter 14 - Doing All Right

Summary: that’s a part of the nda you wanted.

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫

notes: tadaaa, we got to the aftermath™. this one rly depends on your pov - schrödinger’s tryskomys chapter, if you will. it might be fluffy, might be angsty, might be bittersweet - or maybe a plethora of all of these. you’ll only find out once you come inside - unlike stone, because he values safe sex. okay, that one was a bit uncalled for, i’ll stop now.

tws: i mean, i don’t think there are any today. maybe fresh injuries. and talking about sex, but we’re all human beings here - when are we *not* talking about it?

oh, and some easter eggs pointing to the fact that stone is a convicted freak. to those who have seen the infamous shoe incident and the lollapalooza spanking: yeah, i can’t believe that footage exists, either. and to those who haven’t: do not look it up, please. or do, i don’t know, i’m not your mom. but if i was, i’d tell you not to look it up. you might learn something earth-shattering about yourself.

song:

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫

When Keeva woke up, she immediately felt like she’d just stuck her head into a running washing machine. The sunlight that peeked through the window was way too bright for April - but maybe her brain was just making it appear like a summer blaze to spite her.

Or it could’ve been the stitches in her forehead.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

When Keeva shuffled with an uncomfortable groan, the bed loudly creaked under her - much more than her own back home. Then she realized that she was, in fact, not in her bed.

She blinked a few times and looked around the lousy room to make sure that she didn’t dream this place up. But it was real.

The same ragged armchair, the same ugly carpet, the same mattress that was about as comfortable as sleeping on a slab of concrete.

Although, it was a bit lighter than when Keeva fell asleep. She knew why within a split second, but she still turned her head next to her as slowly and cautiously as she could, fearing that she would be right.

Empty.

Just one or two fallen-out brown hair on the pillow to reassure her that she did not dream him up, either. Keeva shivered when the bed sheets tickled her naked body - they weren’t even nearly as soft as his skin. She had to fight tears when the implication hit her.

He’s not here. He didn’t stay. He woke up and saw me and left.

She was trying very hard to stay determined. She wanted this. This was what she planned, wrecked her brain over it a million times and then willingly decided to do - and when the moment came, she initiated it.

So why does it hurt so bad?

Keeva’s whole body was on fire. She assumed that it would be even if she didn’t get beat up and didn’t spend six hours sitting on the dirty emergency room floor.

Somehow, though, the pain felt good. It made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt before.

When she looked around the room again to check if Stone wasn’t hiding somewhere to jump out at her, her eyes fell on a little folded note propped up on the chipped bedside table.

It was just a simple piece of paper with the hotel logo in the corner, but it nearly made her heart jump out of her ribcage. She snatched it with wide eyes, immediately recognizing the handwriting.

Went downstairs for a blunt & coffee. That’s an invite, by the way.

- beanpole

The B and E in the signature had a strange shape, thicker than the other letters. It almost looked like it used to be an L and an O.

But then again, Keeva’s state of mind was so compromised that she had no idea what was real and what was wishful thinking.

A wave of yesterday’s memories washed over her as she rested her head on the pillow again and clutched the note to her chest.

She didn’t even try to fight the burning blush that flooded her cheeks when she rolled over and buried her face in the fabric.

She took a deep breath of the warm scent it still carried.

Let’s pretend like he’s still here. Just a few more minutes.

For some reason, the bathroom didn’t have a mirror, so she couldn’t even check how colourful the wounds on her face were. It hurt like hell, though, now that the brain fog was slowly dissolving.

Keeva’s first instinct was to hop into the tiny shower, but then she remembered that she already did.

They did.

“Wait, no! No tickling, stop it!”

“You’re naked, what else am I supposed to do? You’re waving a red blanket in front of my face and that blanket is your ass. Which is really nice, by the way. Really nice. What a shame that you - hold still or you’ll fall! - that you hide it under those fucking dungarees all the time.”

“Stop tickling me, Romeo, and keep your hands off my ass! Eeeek, back off!”

“It’s just staring right at me, I gotta put my energy somewhere. It’s tickling or spanking, choose your poison!”

“Don’t you dare, y- OW! Nooooo-OW! Stop it, Stoney! Fuck, stop - ow! Don’t sp- OW! Stop or I’ll spank your ass like it’s never been spanked before!”

“Tough shit, I might like it. Maybe I’m into some weird shit and you have no idea. I would lick the soles of your boots if you begged hard enough -”

“Fucking hell, eugh, you disgus-OW! No - more - spanking!”

“Alright, tickling it is then!”

They laughed. They laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe. They laughed so hard they had to sit down so they wouldn’t slip.

So why does this hurt so bad?

Stone’s duffle bag was gone - he must’ve already packed up and taken it with him. They only had a few hours to get to DC, so she tried to pack as quickly as she could.

She didn’t even have time to unpack in the first place, so she was ready in a few minutes.

Keeva would’ve loved to just sit in the holey armchair and stay locked in the room forever, but she had to go down at some point. So she picked out some clean laundry, threw it on and decided to brave through the inevitable.

Her clothes from yesterday were scattered all around the room.

Stone was as gentle, sweet and attentive of a lover as one could ever be. But she’d noticed that a couple of times throughout the night, he had a sudden burst of raw brashness that was a lot more in tune with his usual sly personality.

As if he was trying to hold himself back, cracked for a moment and then went back to being cool and reserved.

Undressing her like a starved animal and mindlessly throwing the clothes away in all directions was one of those façade cracks.

Even though she had no other comparison, she knew that Stone had already shown her the best time she could ever have, thanks to his head-spinning finesse - that no one would ever come close to him.

But she’d be lying to herself if she wasn’t interested in finding out what else he can do when he really lets himself go. In fact, just the simple thought of it made her legs turn into jello.

Too bad this is never gonna happen again. He couldn’t even look at you in the morning, that’s why he left.

He changed his mind and it took him just one night with you.

Keeva grabbed her t-shirt from yesterday and just stared at it for a few minutes, a sad frown twisting her face. It was the one Stone made for her, stained with blood all over - she doubted that it would ever be possible to wash off.

With a frustrated sigh, she threw it in a spare plastic bag and stuffed it into her big backpack, next to the panties and socks.

Lastly, she grabbed Stone’s note, put it in the chest pocket of her fleece argyle shirt and left the room without turning back.

There was a lone dirty mirror in the hallway - and she looked terrible.

Shit. This looks even more painful than it is.

The sliced forehead had a bruise along the stitches, as did Keeva’s cheek and her slightly torn lip. However, her dark circles somehow looked less deep today.

With a big sigh, she tried to put on a few varying types of smiles - none of them looked even mildly genuine, so she shook her head and gave her reflection a middle finger.

The crisp breeze felt like a punch to the face in contrast with the stale air of the hotel room. It tickled her wounds and that wasn’t very comfortable. There was a little coffee shop right next to the hotel, so Keeva guessed that he would be there.

She lightly slapped her cheeks a few times before walking in.

And there he was - wearing the bright yellow sweatshirt that she loved to borrow from him, his worn-out leather jacket on top and the jeans that were getting progressively more ripped every time he wore them.

The half ponytail was slowly becoming Stone’s signature hairstyle, now that his hair grew out into long brown waves. Lately, he started wearing it more and more often and she found it irresistibly smug and charming.

On top of it looking remarkably hot, he always made her day better with his bizarre choices of colours and textures of the ties. Today, he neatly secured it with the thin turquoise hair tie he stole from her.

He must’ve grabbed it from the bedside table on his way out of the room - just where he put it after he gently untied her curls loose to play with them in agonizingly slow caresses.

Keeva wondered if this was supposed to be some kind of a gesture - maybe a hint at her stupid joke from a year ago. She highly doubted that that was his train of thought because he had the memory of a goldfish. But she definitely remembered.

‘Thou shalt belongest to the wench whose scrunchie thou wearest on thy wrist.’

Stone was casually sipping on a cup of coffee as if he had no care in the world. Even the intimidatingly big purple bruise on his cheekbone looked less poignant thanks to the careless aura around him, as did the large scab on the bridge of his nose.

He looked up from his cup right when he heard the bell ring as she walked in. As soon as their eyes met, he broke into a small reserved smile.

Before Keeva could take another step towards him, though, she felt an arm around her shoulder that appeared out of nowhere. She’d never been so disappointed to see Greg. He had a coffee in his hand, face twisted in a worried frown.

“Morning, Keeks,” he said, affectionately tickling her cheek with his thumb. “How are you feeling?”

“Hey, princess,” she chuckled and softly pushed the back of his neck down while stepping on her tiptoes to see the big bump on the top of his head. “Been worse, how about you?”

Keeva deliberately ignored Stone’s cough.

“Been worse,” Greg shrugged and nodded towards Stone. “Turns out I should’ve been a boxer, unlike this scrawny sack of bones.”

She subconsciously followed Greg’s movement - Stone darted away before she could see his eyes, choosing to stare into the table instead.

For a second, he seemed a bit sheepish, but then he tucked a stray strand of hair back into his ponytail and got back to his cool attitude.

“What can I say. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

On any other day, that would’ve made Keeva giggle. Not at that moment, though. Greg, on the other hand, found it so amusing that he loudly laughed.

“Yeah, we can both clearly see that, baby boy.”

“What’s cracking, friends?” Andy cheeped when he walked in, rubbing his palms together as he turned to the girl behind the counter. “Morning, miss. Can I have a coffee on the road, please? Milkless.”

The waitress looked a bit worried - he was the third beaten-up person to walk into her coffee shop in a span of about thirty minutes. She was clearly an experienced Bronx resident, though, so she wordlessly nodded and poured him a small to-go cup without further questions.

Greg headed to sit next to Stone, which erased any hope of Keeva’s to talk to him alone.

Meanwhile, Andy slapped some coins on the counter and thanked the waitress before making his way to his short friend with a growing frown.

“Pooky?” he said as they both walked to the table side by side. He put the coffee down and took her head in his palms, turning her from left to right. “Pooks, let me take a look at you.”

“Why?” Keeva chuckled. Her eyes once again failed her and darted in Stone’s direction, who was staring at her too, clearly ignoring Greg’s rambling about the driving schedule.

He snapped away as soon as he’d noticed her, though.

“Hmm, you seem…different,” Andy mumbled, squinting when he inched a bit closer as if she had small letters written on her forehead and he was struggling to read them.

She raised an eyebrow and pushed down a dry swallow.

“Uh, I got punched in the face, Andy. That might be it,” she said, trying to sound resolute, but Andy frowned even deeper.

“No, no, no,” he vehemently shook his head. “Not look different. Seem different.”

This time she managed to keep her eyes on Andy, but she could see in her peripheral that Stone was the one to take a peek at them this time.

And with the way he shuffled in his seat and ran his hand through his hair, he was clearly uncomfortable at the notion of Andy suspecting anything.

“I - uh…again, I got punched in the face, sorry if I’m a bit cranky,” she forced herself to roll her eyes and put on a bothered face. Andy’s eyebrows knitted again and he put his hands on her shoulders to turn her around.

“Hm. What are ya up to, greenie?” he questioned when Keeva did a 360. She cleared her throat to get rid of the strain in her voice and then tried to be nonchalant by leaning against the table.

She didn’t calculate her move very well, though, and put her hand too close to Stone - the tips of their pinkies touched and a small static shock snapped upon the impact.

She suspected it was because of her woollen sweater. It always caused her hair to stand up and crackle. But it might as well have been just the tempest that was surging through her thanks to feeling his skin again.

He was wearing his trusty fingerless gloves - he’d had them ever since they’d met. Probably long before her, too, considering all the clumps of wool and threads sticking out of them.

But his calloused skin was still cold as ice.

Stone’s arm twitched - she couldn’t tell if it was because of the sudden contact or the static, but he didn’t move away. Neither did she - she didn’t want to be any more obvious.

“Pft,” she tried to focus on Andy again. “Let’s see…I wanted to get coffee instead of tea for breakfast, could be that. You’ve arrived just in time for a historical event, sleepyhead.”

Andy hummed - he was clearly having none of it.

“You slept good?” he squinted at her and folded his arms.

Ever since Keeva woke up, she felt like she had no control over her body - her eyes quickly snapped to Stone once again. Thankfully, he was fixated on his coffee.

“I did,” she simply said and hoped that her blush wasn’t too bright.

“You did?!” Andy gasped and made Greg and Stone turn their heads.

“First time?” Greg cheerfully asked and put his arm around her waist, dragging her down to sit with them.

Keeva’s eyes popped open. Stone was just taking a sip from his cup when he snorted into the coffee, making it splash on his chin and far up his nose.

“Wh- no?!” she yelped as Stone wiped his mouth with a snicker. He clearly tried to play it off as laughing at her outraged tone, so she tried to follow his suit and quickly compose herself. “I mean, I guess. Probably, yeah. I think I haven’t slept this long since second grade.”

Stone’s smile grew even wider and he tilted his head down to hide it, the tips of his ponytail falling in front of his eyes like a curtain. His hair looked so wavy today - it drove her mad.

“Well, eureka!” Andy clapped and sat down, too. “New York is good for you. I’m very honoured to be a part of this monumental affair.”

“What monumental affair?” Jeff’s voice appeared at the door.

Keeva could properly see his black eye for the first time - it wasn’t too bad, though. He was built like a brick wall and clearly experienced in dodging punches. She figured that he probably had a couple of notches on his street fight belt, considering he grew up in the middle of nowhere.

“Pooky’s had a good night’s sleep,” Andy explained and rested his head on the windowsill behind him.

“No way!” Jeff gasped, breaking into a toothy grin as he rushed to their table. Keeva theatrically flipped her hair - a move that, for a reason unknown to her, made Stone raise his head again and shift in his seat.

“Yep! I swept in and asked if she slept well and she said: ‘I did.’” Andy said, deepening his voice while doing a bad parody of her accent.

Now she could finally examine everyone up close. All the guys looked like they got into a fight, except for Stone. He looked like there was no fight at all - more like someone just simply beat the absolute shit out of him.

When she was only half-conscious, he seemed to be doing pretty well. Thinking back, that was probably just her wishful thinking. He was surely brave enough that it tricked her, though.

Blood was literally streaming out of Stone’s nose and mouth, but he still found the energy to scream insults - some of which she barely knew existed - left and right.

Also, she could swear she saw him straight up headbutt someone in the face with full strength. That was probably the moment he broke his nose.

The fact that she found the scene so incredibly hot was a concept so shameful to her that she prayed it was just her mild concussion speaking - for both her sake and his.

“Bruce started the van, we should dip,” Jeff tore her out of her thoughts when he slapped the table. “If you’re all packed up, I’ll go and do the checkout - could you grab me a coffee to go, Keeks?”

Keeva managed to quickly shake off her lapse of attention and rested her chin on her palm with a dreamy sigh.

“Anything for the angel walking among us. We’re not worthy,” she pouted.

“Yeah, yeah, you can thank me on the way, smart-ass,” Jeff scoffed and ruffled her hair before jogging to the exit. “We gotta stop for fuel, too, so move your butts. Chop-chop.”

● ● ● ● ● ●

“Ugh, I would kill for a Coke right now,” Keeva groaned when they parked next to the gas tank. She stuck her head out of the window and pointed at the gas station building a few feet away. “And I don’t wanna kill any of you, so I’ll be right back.”

Multiple orders of chips, candy and cans of whatever echoed through the van as she hopped out, along with Jeff’s ever-so-responsible: “You’ve got exactly five minutes, greenie, then we’re leaving without you!”

“At least you’d finally learn how to tune your own bass, babes!” she called after him and headed for the building.

She could hear Jeff’s mocking laugh over the crunching gravel under her feet, along with Stone’s still extra nasally voice when he got out of the van as well.

“I would kill for sour gummies. I’ll be right back.”

Keeva rolled her eyes as a jolt of nervous nausea stabbed her stomach.

Jesus, talk about subtle.

She heard Jeff’s muttered ‘now it’s only four minutes’ before his voice got lost in Stone’s slapping footsteps as he jogged up to her.

When he caught up, he immediately took her around the shoulders, nonchalant as always. This time, the crackling she felt discernably wasn’t from static clothing.

Keeva thought that maybe - after yesterday - all the time she wasted fantasizing about him would be erased and this intense heartburn she felt every time he touched her would finally stop.

But she had to curse her own naivité - it got much worse.

What was an even bigger gut punch, though - Stone didn’t seem to flinch at all. Careless as ever, he just affectionately squeezed her shoulder like he always did as they walked side by side.

She couldn’t decide if she was glad that he didn’t change his attitude towards her or if it hurt her ego so bad she wanted to cry.

“Morning,” he simply said - she heard a smile in his voice, but didn’t dare to look up at him. The tips of Stone’s long waves tickled her forehead, still carrying the irresistible scent he left behind on the pillow.

“Morning,” Keeva mumbled and took the opportunity to lean closer to him when she stumbled on one bigger piece of rubble - her legs felt wobbly in his presence, now more than ever.

“Slept well?” he asked and shook his hair out of his face, making the locks tickle her again. Stone’s tone was sly enough to sound like flirting.

Combined with his soapy cologne and the strawberry scent he always emanated, it made a small surge of confidence rush through her.

“Never better, actually,” Keeva smirked and raised her head - he was already looking down at her, breaking into an even bigger smile than he had before.

“Good girl,” Stone chuckled and scratched the crown of her head a few times.

He spoke the words in such a strikingly lighter tone than just a couple of hours ago, when he addressed her that way many times. They sounded so aloof now, so friendly - almost as if they were pronounced in a completely separate language.

Not to her, though. And she’d never believe that Stone had no idea that it would immediately send a buzzing shiver down her spine.

He had many faults, but stupidity wasn’t one of them.

“I’m glad,” he added.

“Glad?” Keeva scoffed, folding her arms. “You should, uh - you should be flattered instead.”

Stone might’ve been casual about it, but she could still feel some sense of excitement from him. Pride, even. She couldn’t discern if he was being cocky or genuinely thrilled, though.

“So you enjoyed yourself?” he asked, squeezing Keeva closer again.

“I did,” she shrugged, trying to emulate his coolness, but Stone’s joyful tone made her crack a wide smile.

“You did?!”

“Yeah!” Keeva nodded and the tense knot in her stomach slowly began to unwind. She nudged him with her elbow. “Did you?”

To her dismay, Stone paused. Just for a few seconds, though, as if he was trying to find the right words. He followed the silence with an even brighter smile that made up for it.

“It was amazing.”

Keeva couldn’t hold in a sigh. Stone seemed so bright and weightless that it hurt her senses, like staring into the sun for too long.

For one, she deduced that it wasn’t tormenting him as much as her and that had its own disappointing implications. And for two, she truly couldn’t fathom the possibility that he was telling the truth.

She had to hide her face before she reacted, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry that I was so -” she started, but Stone immediately shook his head and interrupted her.

“No, believe me, you did so good. So good. Really.”

Stone sounded so genuine he almost had her convinced. And when she turned to him again, he looked genuine, too.

Fuck. His eyes are like a fancy sparkling kaleidoscope. All-green glitter. All shades twinkling at once.

Oh no, my head is spinning. Dammit.

Jesus, is this what being on acid feels like?

The overwhelming beauty made Keeva lose her ability to think before speaking, so she couldn’t stop herself from babbling. She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

“You know, uh, now I - I technically owe you for taking pity on me and therefore should repay you sometimes, so…”

To her surprise, Stone nodded without taking a second to think. That slightly fueled her ego - it seemed like there wasn’t much thinking involved in either of their heads.

“Sounds fair, count me in,” he said and she noticed a little giddy tremble in his voice.

Might be just the trashed nose - his voice is even more annoying now and everything he says sounds giddy and shaky. Or…

“Sounds fair, right?” she quickly retorted and squeezed her folded arms closer to her chest to stop them from shaking.

By now, she knew Stone was unmistakably happy. It was those cursed eyes of his. He reached out and poked her side with his finger.

“So we could, you know, repeat it?” Stone asked confidently, still keeping his aloof attitude. “If you’d be interested? Sometime?”

Once again, Keeva couldn’t stop herself from responding right away as the swarm of resting butterflies in her abdomen awakened and began to flutter around in circles.

“Very interested,” she said with a big smile, nodding. Stone mirrored her movement and hugged her closer.

“Great. Deal,” he chuckled and playfully ruffled her hair again as if he really wanted to drive the point home - she was still just his munchkin little shit of a roommate.

Thankfully, the conversation had to be cut there, because they reached the gas station. Meaning Keeva was naturally freed from the awkwardness that would definitely follow.

He opened the door for her, a never-fading smile still plastered on his face.

When they bought what they came for and paid for the gas, they headed back to the van and silence fell between them. And just as Keeva had expected, it was a long and incredibly awkward one.

Both of their arms were full of snacks and drinks, so Stone’s casual hug couldn’t save them this time. She side-eyed him discreetly enough so he wouldn’t notice - he was staring at his feet, studying the peeling suede leather on the tips of his Docs.

Shit. Why can’t I just read his fucking mind? Or maybe not.

Yeah, I think it’s better not to know.

Even after such a long pause, they both managed to take a breath at the same time to try and say something. They awkwardly chuckled in sync.

“Oh, you go on,” Keeva said, an uncomfortable burn settling in her cheeks. Stone shook his head, trying to whip away the few strands of his ponytail that got stuck in his mouth.

“No, you, come on,” he mumbled, waving his huge hand around.

She had to take a pause to formulate her thoughts, but there was no way to make her words sound any less dumb.

Keeva would stay silent if she didn’t know him as well as she did. But sometimes, like at this very moment, she could read his mind.

And she liked - loved Stone too much to throw the burden of having to say it out loud on him. The weight of that responsibility made her stutter even harder.

“Um, I mean - maybe let’s not, uh - let’s keep it as our little inside joke. Right? And not tell anyone. ‘Cause, you know, it’s not like we’re together or anything.”

Even though she knew how terribly hypocritical it was of her, she still couldn’t do anything but cry inside - the butterflies in her stomach stopped moving and aimlessly floated down, dead and slowly dissolving into bitter dust.

Because Stone didn’t even skip a beat with his answer.

“I love inside jokes,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Going back to the usual pattern, she couldn’t get a read on his real feelings at all. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Great.

“Great!”

“Jesus, can you imagine the outburst if they found out?” he continued with a scoff, popping his huge eyes open when he looked at her. “No way. That’s a part of the NDA you wanted.”

Now he was the one to spin into rambling.

“Plus it’s different than if we were, like, dating or something, right? Like, then I’d have no problem telling them, but we’re just having fun, aren’t we? And we can do that whenever, wherever and however we want because we’re fucking grown-ups and we’re authorized to make any decision without their dumb stupid comments, right? If we decide to fuck against a dusty vodka shelf in the corner of a room at a house party, we will fucking do it and we will take no shit from anyone. I mean, we trust each other enough to have a friendship that’s so strong that it can occasionally be sprinkled with amazing sex and it works fine because we’re both smart enough to fucking leave out stupid encumbering shit like ‘being in love’ or whatever. Basically, roundabout way of saying that our sex lives are none of their business.”

If Keeva didn’t know better, she’d think that he sounded like he was vehemently trying to convince himself, not her.

She didn’t need any convincing, though. She’d take anything that even slightly resembled his attention.

She could barely remember how her brain got to that point, but it was an insatiable feeling.

Pathetic.

As she watched Stone stumble his way through the incoherent explanation, he flapped his hands around to help himself formulate his thoughts. They were so comically big that he managed to hold four packs of chips in one of them and still wave left and right.

Even though Keeva was pretty sure that she would regret her decision sooner than later, it was once again his eyes that startled any common sense out of her.

They were still glowing - just like holding two peridot marbles to the flaming sun - and completely focused on her face.

As the butterflies slowly rose from the ashes in sync with his suspiciously oversaturated monologue, she felt a minuscule nagging feeling tingle at the back of her neck.

Something told her that he wasn’t being entirely honest - and in this single second in time, she couldn’t have wished for more if she tried.

“Right on.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫

[eribin-delusionality-writer]

You've Been Workin' Hard, Ei.

A/N: hi! I was writing this while listening to workin' hard by Fuji Kaze. I'm dedicating this short story to my friend, Ei @moonfeiz . I'm not good at advising and comforting but I hope the message in this story resonates with you.

Word count: 600+ words

Genre: slice-of-life

-------

Hazel sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. The dim glow was the only light in her apartment, and the clock on the corner of the screen showed it was way past midnight. The stack of work she still had to do felt endless, no matter how much she finished. It always adds up.

She had been grinding for weeks, chasing deadlines, and trying to prove herself, but it never seemed enough. She kept telling herself this was the time she’d finally catch up, finally get ahead. Yet, here she was, feeling like she was lost.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Kimie: "Let’s hang out this weekend! You've been working non-stop."

Hazel sighed. Kimie was right. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw anyone outside of work. She was always working, always pushing herself to be better, faster, smarter. But for what? Her chest tightened at the thought, the weight of the question pressing on her. She didn’t have an answer.

Her thoughts drifted back to earlier that day when Mr. Sato, her boss, had called her into his office. His stern face was still fresh in her memory.

“Hazel,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, “your last report wasn’t up to your usual standard. It was late, and you missed important details.” He paused, leaning forward. “You’re better than this. I need you to give your best—always.”

She nodded, the familiar sting of guilt settling in her chest. “I’ll do better, Mr. Sato.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “This is a competitive field, Hazel. If you want to move forward, there’s no room for mistakes. Keep working hard.”

Those words stayed with her now, replaying in her head as she leaned back in her chair. She felt exhausted, worn thin by the pressure to be perfect. She had always been proud of being a hard worker, but lately, it felt like she was losing sight of why she started this journey in the first place.

Suddenly, her phone started playing an old song she hadn’t listened to in years. The melody was soulful, gentle rhythm, comforting, and the lyrics felt like they were speaking directly to her:

“You've been workin' hard, workin' hard

Maybe you don't understand

But I know that you're workin' hard, workin' hard

Wish I could give you a hand

Baby, you've been workin' hard, workin' hard

Trust the process and be brave, you've been workin' hard

God, you've been workin' hard”

Hazel closed her eyes, letting the song play. Her mind began to wander—back to the girl she used to be. She thought about the time when her dreams weren’t about promotions or meeting deadlines but about creating something meaningful. Drawing her thoughts, dreaming of traveling to far-off places, or laughing with friends until her stomach hurt. Somewhere along the way, she’d traded that for sleepless nights and constant stress.

But maybe... maybe she could change that. Maybe life didn’t have to be all or nothing.

She stood up, stretching her stiff limbs as she walked to the window. The city outside sparkled like a sea of stars, buzzing with life and movement. It reminded her of something Mr. Sato said.. something he probably didn’t mean to sound encouraging but did.

“If you want to move forward, there’s no room for mistakes.”

Maybe mistakes weren’t failures. Maybe they were signs she was trying, pushing, and learning. What if moving forward wasn’t about being perfect but about finding her own rhythm, her own way?

She thought of Kimie's text. Maybe she could start small. Meet up with friends. Pick up her Sketch book again. Let herself dream beyond work. Life wouldn’t wait forever, and she didn’t want to look back one day and wonder where it all went.

Hazel took a deep breath, a weight lifting off her chest. She didn’t have all the answers, and that was okay. She’d take it one day at a time.

Tomorrow, she’d return to work. But she’d do it differently—on her terms. Tonight, though, she’d do something she hadn’t done in weeks, rest.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @somethingclevermahogony!

OC Questionaire

My questions:

What is one embarassing memory from your childhood that you can't shake?

What would you take with you if you were trapped on a desert island for one week?

What is your favorite animal?

Hm, let's do the Outcasts quartet for this one

.

1. What is one embarassing memory from your childhood that you can't shake?

Izjik: "Oh spirits, there was this one time back when I was a kid, I'd just started my apprenticeship as a hunter for my enclave, and one of our patrols found a drakeling carcass. Now, that's a pretty big deal - a drakeling will feed the enclave for weeks - and this one was really fresh, as it'd just been killed in the spring rut. So, Dzako - my old mentor - decided it'd be a good thing for me to learn to butcher it. ...Let's just say I didn't listen super well to where he told me the acid glands were. I'm lucky I didn't lose my hands, but damn if everyone wasn't mad at me. A whole week of fresh meat, gone in one mislaid swipe of a cocky teen's knife..."

Sepo: "Ugh, just one? I wasn't the most attentive child, so be it romantic or malevolent attention, I usually didn't notice. There was this one boy - I was maybe eleven at the time - who kept leaving notes in my bag. I'd usually toss them out, but the one I happened to read held a place and time to meet. I asked Saius about it, and he said the other boy probably wanted to hang out because he wished to be friends. I thought that was stupid, but Saius pressured me into going. A day later, I went to this random park, and turned out, it was not a friendly invite. Apparently, according to the other boy, I had 'marred his honor' by implying his sister was a prostitute and then repeatedly ignoring his confrontational notes. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember saying that about his sister, but then again, I might’ve not meant anything by it. Growing up in a high-end brothel tends to warp a child's view of things. Anyways, long story short, the other boy beat my ass. I never let Saius live that one down, even when he shaved the other boy's head in the dead of the night for me."

Twenari: "I mean, I'm twelve, so I have some more childhood to go, but I do remember one incident from when I was very little. I was probably around seven, so before I'd started working for my mother. She and I were on the deck of The Promise and I was showing her the magic I'd been learning. I'd just figured out the ice sigil and I was terribly excited. Excited enough that I ended up freezing her shoes to the deck. Imagine it - the most terrifying smuggler to ever stalk the Janazi Sea, swearing up a storm as her seven-year-old giggles because her mom's shoes are stuck. Yeah, I'm really not surprised my training doubled after that."

Djek: "Gods, this must've been... my first year on the street? No, my second, cause I'd had some teeth knocked out by then. I was out hunting rats with my little shiv. Fayuki rats are good eating, I'll have you know. Nice and fat, but as mean as dogs when you have them cornered. I was chasing this really chunky one through the alleyways, and I was super intent. Not only were rats food, but there was this guy I knew who'd buy the pelts off of you for two whole tuec. I chased this thing for almost a quarter mile before it squeezed its fat behind into a building. Of course, I followed it, not realizing that the building it had ran into was a fancy boutique. Yeah, you can imagine. A whole flock of uppity ladies started screaming as I ran out of a storage closet after this massive godsdamned rat. Someone got a hose from somewhere. Don't even know why they had one in the first place, to be honest. They tried to force me out with the cold water, but frankly, that was the first bath I'd had in months, so I didn't mind. It was the dye they threw that was kinda fucked up. I caught the rat in the end, but when I turned in that pelt, it and I were both splashed in a lovely permanent spring green hair dye. The kids on the street called my Greenie for months."

2. What would you take with you if you were trapped on a desert island for one week?

Izjik: "My washava. It's a weapon and a tool, great for hunting and trapping. It's been a trusty companion of mine for many shitty situations."

Sepo: "Only a week? Some books. I can drink seawater and fish for food in my siren form, so if survival is no issue, I'd love a quiet week to catch up on my reading."

Twenari: "A boat. Then I wouldn't be there for a week. Duh."

Djek: "Cucumbers. I think those count as food and water, so I bet I could survive off those for a week."

3. What is your favorite animal?

Izjik: "I like a lot of animals, but probably leopard seals are my favorite. Twenari told me about them and I'd love to see one in real life!"

Sepo: "Landhorse, but just her though. All other horses can get fucked."

Twenari: "This is going to sound stupid, but seagulls. They're so fun to watch fly and play, and if you see one over open ocean, that means land is close by, which is always welcome indeed."

Djek: "Pine martins. You ever seen one of those little bastards? They're just so damn cute!"

.

I'll tag @mk-writes-stuff @tryingtowritestuff24 @sergeantnarwhalwrites @bunnymermaidwrites and anyone else who wants in :)

Your questions are:

1. What is (or would be) your favorite subject in school?

2. Have you ever played a prank on someone?

3. If you could swap bodies with anyone you know for a day, who would it be?

[elmundodeflor]

If there's anything Levi Ackerman's learnt, is that things never go as expected.

He was born in a place where every day he was put up to challenge. He had lost his mom and friends.

He found it ironic— some kind of tragedy one almost wants to laugh at. Each time he thought he could finally sit back, get comfortable, relax, life showed him how wrong he was for it.

"Farlan and Isabel, right?", Hanji's voice makes him startle. Their words turn to drawings in the air— figments of ice that spiral through the night. "Were they your siblings?"

Levi shrugs it off. It's been a year since that day, but the memories still make his chest hurt. Like a wound that has yet to get closed.

"None of your business.", he says. Hanji looks at him through the corner of their eye, then lets out a soft giggle. He never understood them; — how they could still be light-hearted in a world so heavy. He was harsh and closed-off. They could have gotten offended at him for his distance— shouted at him for being this cold. But they hadn't. They hadn't and, instead, they could only graze him bright smiles in turn.

"You know...", they speak. They're in the headquarters' rooftop, watching the snow. It's New Years Eve; the first one where they can see the yard turn this pristine shade of white. "My father used to tell me that, upon celebrations, our big, big family table didn't start where he sat, nor ended where I was sitting."

Levi raises a brow. He can see their hair, poking out of their hat, dusted off with snowflakes. The slightest tinge of pink that burns on the bridge of their nose.

Hanji continues.

"He said that the table kept going, and going, and going, until it wrapped around the world and appeared right behind him.", they say. "That everyone we knew was sitting there besides us. Grandpa, my mom... even Farlan and Isabel could be there, too!"

Levi scoffs. He can frame the picture in his mind, actually; vivid, and wild, and colorful. He didn't know Hanji's family, but he imagines them, as well; all with their same brown eyes and glasses. The table's filled with food; warm rice, roast-beef, potatoe soup. He can taste the sweet and spice on his tongue, smell the veil of smoke that comes from the kitchen. His mom sits next to him, graceful as she's always been. She wears a white shirt, a silver necklace ducked underneath.

He turns to her and smiles; a small tug at his lips that resembles hers. He's dying to tell her something, to ask her questions, to introduce her to Hanji.

"It's nice, I guess...", they say, once more. They're leaning on the railings, staring over at the skies. "Dad used to say that, in order to meet everyone again, we had to pretend that we were little kids. That it was important for us to believe in magic..."

Levi stays silent; his eyes closed when the wirlwind blows. He had always expected for miracles, back when Kuchel would return home late. He had always hoped for some force to make her warm again. To fill the tiny holes that'd crack his heart.

Now, little there's left of that child he once was. But he can play pretend, as Hanji's father would say. He can see, instead of just look.

Farlan and Isabel bicker over who'll take the spot next to him. There's a bouquet of flowers, front and center, surrounded by dry leafs and candles. He can hear Erwin's voice, as he pours up some wine for him. He can watch over at his squad, who he's proud of, all passing down the plates and drinks.

It's a sight he grows fond of. An image that's warm and makes him bubble up with joy. He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe. That he's let kid-Levi have this one wish turn true.

"Hey", Hanji elbows him, almost as if to wake him from his daydream.

He blinks at them, still dizzy, and his breaths swirl into white clouds. Now, they'll go downstairs to have dinner with everyone else, and there won't be roast beef or potatoe soup. The table won't have fresh flowers. There probably won't even be wine. Still, he thinks, Erwin will be there. And Mike. And Nanaba. And his squad, too.

They'll light candles, and there will be a trail of smoke coming from the kitchen. And so, when the clock hits twelve and everyone cheers, he swears, he'll believe in magic. He'll be a child all over. He'll see, and not just look.

He'll sit next to his mother, and ask her the questions he'd been dying to. He'll let Farlan and Isabel take turns on the chair besides him. He'll have champagne with Hanji's dad.

It's okay with him, really— that he'll only get to have this, a small portion of them, for the rest of his life. He's finally come to terms with one's own, human fatality. Erwin's the big brother he's never had, Hanji has that same grace of his mother's.

"Beep-boop", they wave a hand in front of him. "Earth calling Levi?"

He rolls his eyes at them.

"What is it now?"

They pout, then drag him by the sleeves of his parka.

"Have you even been listening? We have to get going!"

Levi stares at them, — at how their glasses have almost frosted. Petra tells Oluo that his cravat's ridiculous. Moblit's rushing over with the food. There's the clink of porcelain and the smell of bread. It all floats up to the roof, where they both have been, then fades off with the snow.

He's aware, this year there won't be dessert, or champagne, or his mother, either. But he has this, instead— these people he considers family. A big, big group of misfits that somehow fit together.

He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe, that love can take shape in such cruel world. This is what kid-Levi would have wanted, he tells himself. The warmth. The company.

"Let's go, then.", he says, and Hanji laughs at him, dragging him further down the stairs.

Truth is, spending New Years like this— being a Scout— comes as a complete surprise to him. That this isn't at all how he expected things to be.

Then again, he figures, however, he's alright with it. This, — Hanji, the family he's found, being a Scout, even—, is the one choice he won't ever regret.

[wyattjohnston]

need a little company - nick blankenburg

summary: morgan hasn't seen nick in years and her strongest memories of him are the crush he had on her in college. when he gets signed to columbus after years apart, morgan realises that maybe she should have given him a chance.

chapter word count: 700

n/a < table of contents > next

Living and working in Downtown Columbus hadn’t been Morgan’s goal as a kid growing up in Commercial Point, Ohio. She didn’t think she ever had much of a goal besides ‘Get Out of Commercial Point’, so at least she could tick that off her list.

Deciding to go out for dinner was an unwise decision for her bank account but not for her mental well-being, so she detoured on the way home from work—so much later than she should have been finishing—to her favourite Italian restaurant.

It had been a long time since Morgan felt embarrassed about dining alone, and the restaurant had come to expect it of her. She sat at a private little table at the back of the restaurant, ordered crab linguini, put in her earphones and opened up TikTok. It was the same as any other time before.

Except for what happened when she was walking out of the restaurant, and a hand wrapped around her wrist as she passed a table. She flinched, pulling her arm back to herself as she spun around, taking out an earphone as did.

“Morgan. Hey,” the guy who grabbed her wrist said, looking at least a little apologetic for having caught her attention in the way he had.

Morgan nodded and greeted him as she had done for the two years they’d run in similar circles: “Freshman.”

The guy he was with snorted out a laugh and earned himself a glare.

“I graduate in a couple weeks, you know,” ‘Freshman’ retorted, amused but happy. “You can probably call me something else by now. Blanks. Nick.”

The other guy at the table, who Morgan knew as Kent Johnson only because she was into hockey, excused himself, telling Morgan she could have the seat for a minute if she wanted—she stayed standing even if it meant having to step closer to the table every so often so that somebody could pass.

“So,” she said slowly to Nick, “did you follow me or the sick looking kid to Columbus?”

He looked back towards where Kent had disappeared to and laughed, before saying, “Neither. I got scouted.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her head and her voice so she could say, “Sorry it was to the shithole that is Ohio.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said, an all too familiar quirk at the corner of his mouth.

Morgan straightened up, uncrossed her arms and shrugged, “I suppose it might be okay if you live in the rich parts.”

Nick’s brow pulled together in confusion, and he played with his hands on top of the table before gesturing vaguely out the door to say, “I’m staying in a hotel near the arena.”

She wasn’t all that surprised. He’d be in Columbus for about two minutes before the season ended.

Kent re-joined them, his eyes flickering between the two of them as if he hadn’t expected Morgan to still be standing at the table.

“It was good to see you again, Freshman,” Morgan said to Nick before speaking to Kent, “and actual freshman. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

She was halfway to putting her earphone back in her ear when she saw Nick’s mouth open, so she kept it out to wait for him to speak.

“Do you want—” he cleared his throat. “We can hang out?”

It was easy to wish he hadn’t said anything at all. The hopeful look on his face made it difficult to even think about what she would say next. She just knew she had to say it.

“I don’t think so.” When his hopeful expression immediately disappeared, she tacked on, “Sorry. It’s not personal. I just—I can’t—It’s not a good time to let new people into my life.”

“I’m not new,” he argued, his laugh much sadder than she’d been expecting.

“Fresh—Nick—not right now.”

He nodded silently. Morgan nearly changed her mind right then and there but she held strong, putting her earphone back in her ear and finally getting out of the restaurant. On her way out, she tried not to kick out the stiffness in her knee until she was well out the door.

[bluemidnightmelody]

lover/fighter - my favorite moments

[Little snippets from my Finnick/OC longfic that are stuck in my head]

From Chapter 43 - My crying hero

Finnick licks his lips and sighs softly before facing the icy sea of her eyes. "It's not quite over, but for us it is," he explains. It is both doom and salvation. He constantly longs for it to finally be over, but the end always means defeat in a way, a failure for him.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry." Rhea suddenly seems to forget her own worries and all that remains is sympathy. Even if his wording was more than vague, it can only be interpreted in one way. Hector has died. If she was feeling better, she should have realized it sooner, because if he was still a mentor, he wouldn't be here, he would be fulfilling his duties.

"Yes, me too," he replies weakly. It came as such a surprise after he'd spent the last three days preoccupied with nothing but Hector. Of course, he always takes his task seriously, but this time the fact that he needed to somehow distract himself from Rhea was also a factor. To stop his thoughts from running amok in his head, he poured all his energy into Hector and convinced himself more than ever that he would get the boy out of the arena alive. It all looked good until the wind suddenly changed.

"It only happened just now, and I couldn't bear to go back. Then somehow I ended up here." He has to turn his head away as his self-control threatens to go. Saying it out loud makes it so much worse, plus the overwhelming exhaustion and still very fresh emotional stress from the service he's done for Ambrose.

The only person who has seen him cry in years is Mags, but that could be about to change as his eyes are already getting moist. Even in front of Annie he pulls himself together, because there's no way she needs to see him like this, but at home in District 4 it's usually easier than here.

Otherwise, he manages to escape into some dark corner, at least for such weak moments. Now he has neither the opportunity nor the strength to run away while Rhea pulls him close this time. The result is that they are now sitting intertwined on the sofa, with her half-sitting on his lap, hugging him to her chest and gently running her fingers through the soft hair above his neck as he is wrapped around her, both to keep her from falling off and to keep himself grounded.

"It's not your fault," she whispers somewhere near his ear. She doesn't need to know what's really going on in his head, because the guilt he's radiating is almost palpable. Somewhere in the back of her mind is the question of where exactly he came from when he says he didn't want to go back. What could have prompted him to leave the Victory Building despite the mentoring, especially while Hector's situation is uncertain? The answer is pretty obvious and only makes it worse.

Finnick can just about hold back the emotional outburst but balances on the very edge of a ledge. He feels his fluttering breath, which he can't calm, and stammers with difficulty, "But it kind of is." His tribute needed him, and he wasn't there.

Rhea bites her lip, and she feels the trembling in his back as she strokes it gently in an attempt to calm him. The worst state she has seen him in so far was when she had to rescue him from that nightclub, but tonight probably supersedes that memory. When she reviews it all again, it's actually amazing how often she's seen him in such weak and vulnerable moments, but he's never been as close to her as he is now. It's not that she felt any less sorry for him back then, it's just different now.

Now and here, she has to admit to herself once and for all that there is nothing professional about this relationship anymore. There is not a shred of distance left, which is proven by the fact that Finnick is now emotionally closer to her than any of her friends. That doesn't mean they're any less important to her, it's just not the same.

"No. It isn't. You tried to save them and if you couldn't, no one else could have," she replies with honest conviction. Anyone would be lucky to have him as a mentor, as distorted as that may be, because she knows by now that there's probably nothing he wouldn't do to fulfill this task. She may not like it, but it is a fact that he will never be able to blame himself for not living up to his responsibilities.

"You are amazing. You have no idea how much."

They have already strayed so far from the path of a healthy relationship between doctor and patient that it makes no sense to hold on to it any longer. She'll happily leave the field entirely to Linus because, if she's honest, he's probably already doing most of her job as far as Finnick is concerned. It's certainly better this way, because otherwise it could all go in an unpleasant direction very quickly. On paper, everything can remain as it is, but the simple truth is that this has become something thoroughly personal and there's no point in trying to put any useless labels on it. There is no definition and therefore no standard procedure or behavioral protocol to follow or hold them back.

Finnick slowly understands what has actually brought him here. Getting the comfort he craves feels good and there seems nothing wrong with burying his face in her soft sweater. It's nice to be treated so tenderly, the way she plays with his hair, just the way he likes it, the way she smells so sweetly of vanilla, just like her whole home. "At the risk of coming across as conceited, can you please say that again?"

It doesn't sound the slightest bit conceited. It just sounds like someone who desperately needs some words of encouragement to avoid succumbing to the feeling of worthlessness that haunts them. She used to sound like that herself, and probably still does from time to time. "You're amazing, and trustworthy, and selfless, and anyone who thinks you wouldn't have done everything for this is an idiot," she says openly, and with enough emphasis to make it clear that these are not just empty words. "That also includes you, by the way. So, if you don't trust yourself, then believe me. I promised not to lie, and I know you've really done absolutely everything." And she comforts herself with the fact that it's really not a lie, even if she doesn't dare to speak the whole truth.

He has done truly everything, even if it means throwing away his own self-esteem for it. It's admirable in the most horrible way, what he willingly sacrifices for a game he knows no one can ever win. He deserves so much better than what this life is forcing on him.

She can feel it on her shoulder even before she hears it in his voice. Finnick has lost the battle with himself and can't stop the tears dampening the fabric of her sweater. "You're not so bad at this anymore," he replies, even if he has trouble getting the words out because of the lump in his throat.

Rhea remembers the conversation in District 4 when she told him how bad she was at comforting people. The truth is that it depends on the reason why someone feels bad. She's actually very empathetic, it's just that when it comes to topics where her eloquence fails, she sometimes looks a bit lost. But it is much more significant that he still remembers this. She doesn't realize it for the first time, but he seems to remember everything she's ever said to him, and she likes it when people can listen, really listen. "Yeah, and I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not even at my best right now," she remarks in an attempt to lighten the mood. He's usually so good at it, but today she has to take it from him.

It actually elicits a small laugh from Finnick, even if it almost sounds like a sob. "You've been practicing in secret, haven't you?" he asks, and you can detect the tiniest bit of amusement in his voice beneath the heavy layers of sadness, but that's enough for now.

"Just for you. You can feel honored," she counters the assertion with a light laugh. She can laugh again, she feels so much better, even though tears are now welling up in her eyes as well. It's so easy to make her cry at the moment, but this time she's not even sure if she's crying because she's sad or if something else has triggered it. What does it really matter?

Links to all the chapters: lover/fighter - Chapter Index

fanfiction on ao3 and wattpad

[cobbssecondbelt]

Dincember 2023 - Day 1: Snow

There has been a time, in an era long past, where Din loved snow. It was a rare sight on Aq Vetina, an event exceptional enough to ignite wonder within the child and the elderly alike. 

Din remembered the spectacle they were given on one particular Life Day morning, when the entire valley had been draped in a thick white blanket. He had seen frost coating the grass fields before, nearly every morning during the cold season, but this was a completely different picture Mother Nature had had yet to paint. The lands of the familial farm and the mountains above were sparkling under the shy sun like a sea of diamonds so fine they could be worn by fairies. If his mother was still here, the story of how he was so obnubilated by the scenery that he refused breakfast and forgot about his unopened presents would be one she’d retell often. She would probably have the same smile upturning only the right corner of her mouth and the same gleam in her eyes that she had that morning, watching her only son be so amazed that he might finally begin to believe a little bit in magic.

It wouldn’t be long before the fresh snow would turn sloshy under the hooves of their cattle, and Din almost wanted to pull his father back inside by his pant legs so he wouldn’t startle awake the perfectly peaceful life outside with his footsteps.

When his grumbling stomach eventually pulled him away from the window, he hugged his mother and declared this was the best Life Day ever, unaware it would be their last. 

Over time, snow would rather rhyme with hostile planets, busted ships and hellish monsters. The cold started to make an old back injury ache. Grogu didn’t like snow and would get upset whenever his feet got wet, so Din stopped bringing him along on his travels that involved frosty climates. Sometimes, the memory of that Life Day morning would resurface from an obscure corner of his mind, the scene clear as day but his mother’s face now a blurry mirage, and he would replay it in his head over and over again, trying to remember her features. Every time, the snow got shinier.

For those who prefer to read on Ao3:

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Chapter 9

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

If you like this fic, please remember to reblog so that others may also see it!

Pairing: Melot x OFC (Tamsyn)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Angst, some more angst. Shenanigans. Historical inaccuracies, probably.

A ray of sunlight fell on your face, waking you up from your slumber. It irked you, at first, as you had been in the middle of quite the pleasant dream. Slowly, you became aware of the hands on your thigh. By now, you knew they were hers without having to even open your eyes to look at her – although you could always tell by the fact she was singing. Today, however, she was silent, which struck you as odd. Carefully, you opened your eyes, groaning as the sunlight hurt them.

“Tamsyn?” you muttered, your voice steadier and stronger than it had been a few days before. “Why aren’t you singing? I like it when you sing.” As your eyes got used to the sun, you saw her face clearly, her eyes full of sorrow, and the trail of a single tear running down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. It was always strange to hear her speak to you like that, but you knew she had no other choice when in the company of others.

As you pondered the possible reasons for her apparent grief, she examined the wound on your chest. Over the past days it had become something you looked forward to; her touch soft as she carefully bandaged the cut, fingers always in contact with your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they trailed over your exposed torso. The sensations could scarcely hold a candle to what you felt when she wrapped the wound on your thigh with clean bindings, but at least there was no need to concentrate so hard on whatever either gruesomely bloody or excruciatingly dull memory you could find. Sometimes, you wondered if she had ever dared to lift the covers… It was only in your sweetest dreams, much like the one you had just woken up from, that her hands wandered beneath the covers to take care of another one of your body’s aching needs.

“My love?” you tried again. “Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

“My lord… I couldn’t,” she replied to your dismay, “it would be too bold.”

“Oh, child, speak freely,” your mother said from the corner of the room with a kind smile on her lips, “you will miss him.” Her words shocked you. Miss you? Why on earth would she have to?

“What does she mean? Will you not be here tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” she muttered, “you are healing well. Your mother will resume your care.”

“Why can’t you do it, my love?” you asked, your voice a plea that fell on deaf ears as both Tamsyn and your mother shook their heads.

“It wouldn’t be proper,” she resumed, “you won’t see me again until you get out of this room, I’m afraid.” There was something devious about her voice that you almost missed, but it lingered in her eyes after she had finished speaking, which is where you caught it.

“Am I well enough to get out of bed?” you asked defiantly.

“I see no reason why not,” she answered carefully, “so long as you don’t overwork yourself. Your leg might bother you for a while, still.” You scoffed at the suggestion. Surely whatever pain it would cause, could be no worse than what you had felt before.

Tristan stepped into the room, interrupting your conversation. Unfortunately, there was something you needed to discuss with him, which required you to ask both Tamsyn and your mother to leave. In the doorway, Tamsyn turned around to you once more, and waved goodbye, before being ushered out by your mother.

“Brother,” you said earnestly to him, “thank you.” If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have made it out of the ambush.

“There’s no need to thank me,” he replied, “besides, it was as much Lowen’s doing as it was mine. You know that.” Indeed, you knew, and he touched on precisely the subject you wished to discuss with him. The events of the night you were injured were fresh in your mind – along with the horrible memories of the days that followed, when you had wondered in earnest whether you would make it home alive at all.

“One night, when we were away, he said he had asked Morwenna’s father for her hand in marriage,” you said.

Tristan seemed surprised by this news. “I wasn’t aware they were engaged to be wed,” he said, eyebrows drawing together in a frown, which deepened as you shook your head.

“They aren’t. He was told he can’t marry her. Apparently, her father wants a better match for her.” Tristan wasn’t daft – although Beryan would readily disagree with you on that, calling you at least as much of a fool in the process – and he caught on to what you were trying to say.

“I don’t believe your uncle has inquired as to what happened,” he said pensively.

“We should tell him it was…”

Just as you were finishing your sentence, your uncle stepped into your bedchamber.

“We should tell who what was whom?” he asked, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. To be quite fair: it must have looked suspicious. Ever since you were boys, you had both easily been able to keep the looks of guilt off your faces when you got caught doing something you ought not to have been doing, and the same applied today. Of course, that only meant that now, everything you did looked suspicious.

“Tell you about the part Lowen played in keeping me from dying, uncle,” you said, looking at Tristan. Your uncle had always valued the opinion of your brother more than he had yours. At first, this had angered you, but now that it absolved you from a host of responsibilities, you didn’t mind as much. You groaned as you attempted to sit up straighter, your shoulder and chest stinging as you put weight on your arm. Meanwhile, Tristan recounted the events of the evening, perhaps exaggerating Lowen’s role in the situation a little, but not enough to give rise to any further suspicion from the king.

“I assume you have a reason for telling me this,” king Marke said as he shifted his gaze from Tristan, to you, and back again.

“We do, uncle,” you said through gritted teeth, as the pain in your shoulder hadn’t faded completely. “You see, our friend seems to be quite taken with the lady Morwenna.”

“Her father doesn’t seem to be too fond of the match because he holds the same station as her own brother, Pyran,” Tristan continued.

“A man seeking a favourable marriage for his daughter seems no cause of concern,” your uncle spoke, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips as he realized where you were going with your little scheme.

“And, naturally, it isn’t,” you said, “were it not for the fact that her father turned Lowen away when he asked for her hand in marriage.”

“Right…” your uncle chuckled.

“It’s sad,” Tristan said.

“Very much so,” you added, looking at your uncle questioningly and examining his face carefully. “Is there anything you can do for him, your majesty?” As careful as you were to not put too much emphasis on the end of your sentence, your uncle gave you a look that was meant as a warning so clearly it scared you a bit.

“I will take your request under advisement,” he finally answered. Both you and Tristan considered it the win it truly was: grants of nobility were quite rare, and for king Marke to even consider extending the honour to Lowen was more than you could have reasonably expected when you made your query.

Four days went by without a sign of your beloved, and you had almost begun to fall into your old rhythm of chores and errands when one day, Morwenna appeared by your house.

“Morwenna?” You were unable to conceal your surprise at seeing her there in the middle of the day. Surely, she must have had some chores of her own? “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Quite the contrary,” she said, brimming with joy. “The king has granted Lowen a title! And a plot of land to call his. I heard he has plans to ask my father for my hand! Tonight!” She took your hands in hers, and as she did, you noticed she was trembling. Now, you weren’t usually one to believe court rumours, but as the source of these tales was Elowen, you dared to assume it was the truth.

“That’s fantastic!” you exclaimed, and the two of you stood there for a while, until your mother came outside to ask if there was a way for you to communicate with less enthusiastic shrieking – only to join in your celebration when Morwenna told her the news as well.

“Well, shouldn’t the both of you be on your way to lady Beryan and lady Elowen?” your mother said.

“My chores, mother,” you started, but she waved at you dismissively.

“You won’t be living with us much longer, my dearest,” she sighed, “I might as well get used to doing these things myself.”

“Mother, are you certain?” you asked.

“Leave, now,” she said, chuckling and waving her hands at you, signalling you to leave, “before I put the both of you to work!”

Beryan was as excited for Morwenna as you were, though you found a hint of jealous longing in her eyes as you looked at her. It got a little worse, even, when Morwenna excitedly blurted out something about how you’d soon all be married.

“Aedan seems to have his eye on you,” you mentioned casually to Beryan when Morwenna was busy fussing over a stain in her gown. It was one of her best ones, and it was unlike girls of your and her means to change throughout the day as you fancied. A few times already, Beryan’s mother had looked at you from a chair in the corner of the room, silently cursing you and the infernal noise you were making as you speculated what Lowen’s proposal would be like. When you mentioned Aedan, her eyes were more piercing than ever before, and Beryan looked as though she wanted to dissolve into mist and float away.

“Absolutely not,” her mother snapped, “Beryan has been promised to Tristan.”

“Beryan!” you shouted as you chased your friend through the courtyard. “When did this happen?”

She just stood there and shrugged, as if she hoped to avoid having to answer you – which she probably did. You let your eyes beg her for her answer, as your lips couldn’t. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that the boys had also entered into the courtyard.

“Before Melot got his permission to court you,” she admitted reluctantly just as Tristan, Aedan and Pyran arrived to where you were standing. She didn’t need to say more; you immediately understood the implication.

“They know?” Tristan asked timidly. Beryan nodded.

“Why did you keep it a secret?” you demanded in a tone that shocked you. “Well? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, beneath her words clearly audible a plea to stop questioning her. In her eyes, you saw tears well up.

“I can,” Tristan interjected suddenly and resolutely. “We weren’t going to tell you. I wasn’t, Beryan wasn’t, and Melot wasn’t, either.”

“He knew of this?” you stammered, taken aback by the turn this conversation had taken. You didn’t like it one bit.

“There he is, now, ask him yourself,” Tristan gestured to a spot behind you, and when you turned around, you found your beloved there – supported by Lowen and Gerant.

[motownfiction]

mint green

In the summertime, about two weeks after returning home from New York, Sadie decides to paint the bathroom mint green.

She’s not sure why she picked that sickly shade of yellow in the first place. Originally, she thought she’d do a theme with the sun, the moon, and the stars, but after two paint stamps of the sun in two random corners of the room, she was too tired. That’s what happens when you buy a house in the middle of being pregnant, she thinks. You leave the bathroom in stages of disarray.

But it’s been a long time now, and Sadie is tired of looking at a color that reminds her just a little bit of bile. She knows she’s going to choose mint green. Any green is Sadie’s favorite, but mint green might take the top spot. She needs it. She needs something different. Since Sam died, everything’s been too much of the same. Everything’s reminded her of him – his opinions, his laugh, his memories. She’s always felt like she lives in two minds, but it’s harder now. Sadie is trying to live Sam’s life through her own.

And she is so tired.

Painting the bathroom probably won’t fix anything. Hell, Sadie knows it won’t. But it gives her something to do. Something to think about other than Sam and grief; grief and Sam. She dips the rollers in the mint green paint and gets to it, transistor radio crackling out old tunes near her ankles.

Goo-goo, goo-goo Barabajagal / what’s his name now?

She paints and paints. She can’t stop. If she stops, she’ll think about how Sam’s not here to help roll the paint on the wall with her. He was there when Sadie and Daniel initially painted the bathroom yellow. He made jokes about it then, but Sadie laughed him off. She really thought her sun, moon, and stars were going to fix everything. If only Sam could see her now. Taking charge. Making things different. He liked to quote one of those newer U2 songs: “You won’t live any longer / but it’ll feel like it.” Sadie’s lived that way for too long since the accident. She’s made her life too small until she makes it too big.

No more of that. No more late-night drives down Telegraph and no more spontaneous trips to New York when she can just call Lucy and Will on the phone. No more any of that. Sadie has to keep moving, and she has to sweep Daniel and the kids up in her wingspan as she flies.

Sadie thinks about high school, when she took a painting elective that Steph Armstrong also happened to be in. Even then, Sadie reached for all the mint green paint. She was like a really fresh Picasso, only not like Picasso at all. But where some of the other kids gave her shit for all the mint green, Steph was always sweet. She said things like, “Mint green is supposed to be good luck.”

So Sadie never forgot that.

She wonders if that’s what she’s hoping for as she rolls more onto the bathroom walls. Maybe she’s hoping for good luck. But that’s what you’re always after. Good luck. Lately, Sadie’s felt a real lack of it.

She dips the paint in the roller again and presses through.

(part of @nosebleedclub june challenge -- day iv! hate that i’m already behind, but i’m getting there)

[badgerwrites]

Chapter 8

Previous chapter Faint fingers of light weaved through the stars as Rowan shut the house's door behind her.

The pale yellow halo of twilight slowly creeped forward, heralded by a cacophony of trills and whistles of birds perched high above. Rowan hiked her hood over her ears and slinked away like a thief in the night.

She'd been unable to sleep properly. The wee hours of the morning and the fresh air provided a much needed respite, away from the memory of her aunt's concerned eyes and the gentleness of her uncle's rough hand on her cheek. Rowan squeezed her eyelids shut and shook her head, shoving the shame and panic of those moments in some forgotten corner of her subconscious and trotted towards the beach.

The ghostly threads spread further in the sky, snuffing the delicate stars out to make way for the coming dawn.  Rowan couldn't say how long she'd been walking, only that she'd left the village behind. To her right only the infinite, textureless black of the sea, and sand that in the dim light was an eerie ashen colour.

So lost was she in her contemplation she almost missed the familiar silhouette standing on the bank. Charlie. She was slight, almost incorporeal if not for a proud mane of blond hair billowing behind her. Her hands clasped behind her back, her posture pristine as a ballerina's; yet the delicate curve of her neck drooped like a wilting flower as she looked out into the churning obsidian waters.

Despite her uncharacteristically subdued demeanor Charlie's whole being radiated sadness. It was wrapped around to her like a cloak, or a black glass slowly choking out a candle as the oxygen runs out. Something in Rowan's heart resonated, and ached keenly in sympathy.

The young artist tentatively approached, hovering a few steps behind and tactfully clearing her throat before speaking.

"Hello."

Dark cerulean eyes looked back at her from behind a curtain of gold hair. Rowan waved at the other girl, awkwardly kicking a bit of sand into the sea as she thought of what to say. 

"Hello," she begun tentatively, "are you... alright?" 

"Look I know it's probably none of my business. But if you're sad, well, I don't want you to be. Not that there's anything wrong with being sad," Rowan added, mentally cursing her clumsiness.

"It's just that I'd like to help, if I can. If you want me to."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up, surprise and confusion briefly overtaking the melancholy. The corners of her lips twitched up in a hint of her signature grin; and Rowan thought she saw her discreetly muffle a shocked chuckle in the palm of her hand.

"My, my! You're one earnest soul, aren't you!" teased the long-haired girl.

The young artist muttered something indecipherable, blushing under her hood. Charlie tensed and rushed to explain herself.

"Please don't be cross with me now, dear. Your kind words were most appreciated." 

For a moment her features softened with gratitude, a warm smile lighting up her face before waning away as she gazed to the horizon again.

She closed her eyes a moment, her chest rising in a deep sigh before gazing back at Rowan.

"I've always loved the morning," she said, "when people are deep in slumber and the woods begin to stir. Alone in the dim light and the soft sounds, I used to feel like I could just... be."

She smiled to herself through half-lidded eyes.

"It was my own personal witching hour, if you will."

Rowan shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Do you mind me being here with you, then?" 

Charlie shook her head.

"No. A kindred spirit's company is always welcome, even during my musings."

The short-haired girl felt a pleasant tension in her cheeks as her mouth curved upwards. "Fair enough."

She thought a moment, then added: "If this is to be our witching hour, does that make us a coven?"

Charlie laughed, her intense blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Indeed. A most vile one."

A companionable silence fell as they waited together for the come of dawn. For the first time in a while, Rowan felt at peace.

Next chapter