#olive green turtleneck

[loveshetlands]

[murrays-wardrobe]

Not A Christmas Story (05x09) Outfit 3

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐞.𝐦.

This piece contains 18+ content.

Pairing Eddie Munson x Female Reader [friends → lovers]

Summary Eddie holds good on his promise to take you out on a date, and as the night comes to a close, you realize you’re not ready to say goodbye [fluff, smut, 4.3k].

A/N This is the long-awaited continuation of come whatever may. You can read that first if you'd like, but enough context will be provided here. Spoiler alert: the sex is very soft, teasy, and desperate because they’re in l-o-v-e. Haven't written smut in nearly two years, but I evoked the muses of times past—and thus!...

PART 1

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Summer is long gone, but when you open the door to Eddie holding flowers, the warmth that rises to your cheeks makes it feel nearer than ever. It’s a vibrant bouquet composed of white roses, red lilies, baby’s breath, and leafy foliage. The wrapper crinkles as he extends them to you with an easy smile and soft hello. Your eyes flick back up to his after admiring the delicate blooms. 

There’s a healthy flush to his cheeks, his curls neat and defined. The black leather jacket he’s wearing clings to his slender frame with a polished edge. Under the weight of your gaze, he huffs out a chuckle that reminds you you’re still on earth. 

“Gonna let me in, sweetheart?” Charm drips from his voice and shimmers within his chocolate eyes. 

Nodding, you shuffle backwards, allowing him to enter and push the door shut behind himself. As he steps further inside, you can feel his gaze sweeping over your outfit. An olive-green corduroy dress layered over a beige turtleneck that’s soft against your skin. His smile grows, glinting bright enough for anyone to believe he just won the Lotto when, really, it’s just the pretty sight of you holding the flowers he bought. 

“These are beautiful.” You raise the bouquet, but Eddie’s eyes remain on you. Seeking refuge from his gaze, you tuck your nose down to inhale the sweet fragrance of the petals. “They smell amazing too.” 

“That’s all you, sweetheart.” 

You get shy when his eyes meet yours. “You like my outfit and everything?” 

Eddie swallows back a degree of his earnestness so he doesn’t sound too far gone. “Of course I do, are you kidding me?” 

Seemingly out of nowhere, Robin descends the staircase with a bag slung over her shoulder like she’s prepared to leave, hair tied up in a messy bun. Given your parents were away in Indianapolis for the weekend, you’d asked her to come over and help you get ready so you wouldn’t be alone. 

Eddie’s eyes flick to her, clearing his throat. “Did you help her pick this out, Buckley?” 

“Obviously,” she smirks. “Nice hair.” 

“It is really nice,” you agree with a soft smile. Eddie lifts a passive shoulder, chest fluttering. 

“Rob, do you think you could…” she takes the bouquet without you having to ask. The two of you had shuffled through the attic and dug out a vase earlier that afternoon. 

Eddie had promised this date, along with flowers, a week ago when you slipped away from Steve’s party to be alone. That night, he’d kissed you in the heat of the moment but wanted to backtrack and do things right. You deserved that much. 

The time you’ve been looking forward to has finally come. 

With your hands now free, the only thing you can think to do is wrap your arms around Eddie. The world goes still as he hugs you back, nerves quelling beneath your skin. For a moment, you merely enjoy the warmth of the same arms you’ve been wrapped in countless times before. With your head tucked into his chest, enveloped by the faint scent of his cologne, you release all the worries that ride on the sweeping coattails of change. For a moment, he’s just Eddie, your best friend. 

When you pull away, he leans in, tilting his head with that familiar, boyish curiosity. “You alright?” he asks quietly, searching your gaze.

You nod, a smile breaking through. He takes your hand in his and gives it a squeeze, “Just checkin’.” 

Robin soon walks back into the foyer. “I put the flowers in a vase for you,” she announces, taking her hair down and shaking it out. “Hate to admit it, but you two are actually cute. It’s disgusting.” 

“Hey,” Eddie lifts his hands, laughing. “Little victories.” 

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder with a content sigh. “Welp, I’m about to go pester Harrington at Family Video.” She turns to Eddie, playfully narrowing her eyes. “You better treat her right, ‘cause best believe I’ll be hearing all about this date.” 

When she slips out the door, Eddie smiles at you in silent assurance. 

●・○・●・○・●

The sun hasn’t quite begun to set, but orange and pink faintly blend on the horizon. A cool fall breeze flows in through the cracked windows as the radio plays softly. Eddie had asked his Uncle Wayne to borrow his pickup truck because it’d be more romantic than his bulky van. You can’t say whether he was right, only that you’re grateful to be riding shotgun with him—headed to an unknown destination, no less. 

You’d already guessed through a list of places that Eddie denied with amusement. Sighing, you look out the window to people bustling about, walking dogs and strolling out of shops. You’re coming out of the more commercial side of town, nearing Lover’s Lake and the state park.  

“I give up,” you sigh. 

Eddie chuckles, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze, ignorant to his warming effect on you. “Okay, fine, I’ll give you a hint.” That makes you peer over at him in interest. “If I had to guess, I’d say not a lot of people have had the chance to try it out yet.” 

That’s a dead giveaway. Your mouth falls open in surprise. “That new place along the lake—Stillwater Grill?” The twitch of Eddie’s lips is telling. “No way!” The excitement in your voice makes his chest tighten.

Stillwater was supposed to be good, from what you’d heard. A slightly elevated dining experience minus the formalities and steep pricing of a restaurant like Enzo’s. Where classic American favorites embrace small-town charm, according to the paper. 

Upon your arrival, the parking lot houses a pretty decent number of cars. Lover’s Lake provides a serene backdrop that catches the evening light. Couples stand outside admiring the view. Eddie opens your door and helps you out of the truck like a proper gentleman. You happily tuck yourself into him as you walk inside. 

When you were younger, you often wondered what love would be like. Books and the movies always presented countless possibilities, but you always believed it’d be special for you. So different that nothing else would be able to compare—perhaps, selfishly. One thing for sure, you never could’ve dreamed up someone like Eddie. 

As he sits across from you under the dim glow of the lights, laughter and chatter filling the air, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to put all this into words. Belly full, you realize what you’ve enjoyed even more than the food and cozy, rustic atmosphere was is company. 

Eddie has an inexplicably magnetic way. There was a magic in getting him all to yourself. In relishing the lovely sparkle in his eyes that suggested he was always on the verge of laughter. The passion he exuded made it seem like the way he loved a given thing was biblical. He could talk the ear off a cornfield if he wanted but knew instinctively when to listen. Even your passing remarks seemed to bear some semblance of importance to him.  

Conversing with him had always been easy, but without other people vying for his attention, you were truly able to admire the boy before you. To embrace the deepening attraction. 

As you wait for the waiter to bring the tab, you don’t realize you’ve grown silent and begun blinking at him with the fondest eyes. 

●・○・●・○・●

The wooden stairs of your front porch creak under both your footsteps as you climb them, stopping in front of your front door as the night settles around you. Moths flutter around the lanterns framing the door, crickets chirp in the lawn. Eddie kicks at a dead leaf, combing through a sea of thoughts in search of the right words. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says. You wait for him to continue. His doe eyes search yours for the briefest moment, seeing right through you it seems. “Would you like to be my girlfriend? ‘Cause I think it’s gonna be hard for me to quit you.” 

Your mouth opens a couple times in a mix of giddiness and surprise. “Yeah,” you finally breathe. “Yeah, I’d love to be your girlfriend.” 

Smiling, he steps forward to capture your lips in a slow, sweet kiss that you feel everywhere. It manages to outshine the first, more desperate, kiss you’d shared a week prior. This one is steady and sure, like a promise sealed with a prim bow. When he pulls away to look into your eyes, you shyly duck your head. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” he asks, lifting your chin. 

He doesn’t want to go, instead wishing he could stall and stay right here with you. He’s parted ways with you hundreds of times before, but now he can’t seem to figure out how he ever did. That’s how he knows he’s in trouble. The best kind. 

“I’ll pick up,” you promise. 

He stands at your door until you see yourself inside. It’s quiet without him. Your eyes land on the flowers he got you, now in a vase in the living room thanks to Robin. Too quiet. The sound of your front door reopening stops Eddie in his tracks. He turns around with a slight furrow between his brows. 

“Everything okay?” he calls, mindful of his volume. 

You make a small motion for him to come back to you. He listens in a heartbeat. 

There’s a weighted look in his eyes beneath the playfulness, “Miss me already?” 

“No,” you lie. 

●・○・●・○・●

It’s a wonder how you manage to make it feel like there’s a pleasant fire kindling within him. What started out as yet another easy conversation, has turned into you straddling his lap on the couch, the fabric of your dress riding up your thighs as the TV drones in the background.

Everything feels heightened now. The brush of your lips against his, your fingers gently scratching at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie’s lips part in a soft, shuddering breath when you roll your hips over him. 

“Hold on a second, sweetheart.” His eyebrows are pinched as he pulls back from the kiss, hands stilling you. 

You blink down at him all owl-like. “Did I do something?” you murmur, purposely shifting over him again.

He restrains from canting his hips upwards. There’s a softness to his gaze even though his cheeks are flushed hot. 

“If getting me worked up counts. You’re real good at that.” His shamelessness is dizzying. “Just don’t wanna get ahead of myself.” It’s a subtle invitation, a chance for you to call things off in case you aren’t on the same page. 

But you can feel warmth pooling low in your belly. “What else am I good at?” 

He knows you’re game then. For whatever this is, whatever it’s bound to become. 

“Trying to pretend I’m not driving you crazy too.” He chuckles when you duck to hide your face in the crook of his neck, kissing the sensitive skin there. 

There’s a gentleness to the way Eddie’s hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, meeting the delicate skin of your inner thigh. 

“Eddie,” you murmur, lifting from his neck as his fingers continue their trail upwards.

“Hmm?” He pauses, thumb stroking your skin in soft circles. 

“Can we go to my room?” A slight shiver runs through you as his fingers move to trace along the crease of your thigh.

“Your call, sweetheart.” 

Before he withdraws his hand, he snaps the waistband of your panties and grins when you straighten.  

●・○・●・○・●

The lamp on your nightstand casts everything in a dim, warm glow. Eddie shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your desk chair, eyes roving over the notebooks and pens strewn about. The sight of his tattooed arms makes you move to kiss him again, letting your lips wander to the corner of his mouth and his chin in a trail of warmth. He throbs in his jeans when you slip your fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and curl them into his stomach. 

Reluctantly, he pulls away from your lips and steps back enough to pull the fabric over his head in one swift movement, muscles rippling as the dark ink on his torso is revealed. With newly disheveled hair, he kisses you backward onto the bed, crawling over top of you as you settle into the mattress with a pleased hum. 

Having the upper hand allows him to press hot kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck as you huff out sighs and caress his milky skin with buzzing fingertips. Nothing about his movements is rushed, each press of his lips intentional enough to believe he'd had them planned for years.

Eddie didn’t know your body yet, not in the way he’d like to. But he was reading it in real-time. Cataloging every writhe and hitch of your breath so he knew where to return. The obsessive part of his brain often gets on his nerves, but he’s grateful for it now. Grateful he wants to see every move and sound you can make. There’s an artistry to it, a musicality. 

An inkling of panic arises when he begins to suckle on the side of your neck as you offer it. Not because he’s being rough, but because it’s overwhelming enough to want to crawl out of your skin. A soft whimper rises up your throat as your hands find his flexed biceps, digging in. You’re unsure of whether to pull him closer or push him away. 

Eddie rises from your neck on his own accord, running a finger over the spot. “You like it when I kiss you here, huh?” There’s a slow, honeyed quality to his voice. 

When you offer a helpless nod, he leans back down again, and you shudder as his mouth laves over the same sensitive area a little ways beneath your ear. Exasperated, you blindly paw for the waistband of his jeans, fingers shaky as you fiddle with his belt buckle.

Feeling your struggle, Eddie moves to press a final kiss to your throat before pulling away from your neck. 

“Stupid thing,” you pant, pouting up at him for help. 

Chuckling, Eddie reaches down with one hand to undo it with ease. Then, watches with blown pupils as you hurry to undo the button and zipper. He slips off the bed as smoothly as he can to remove his pants, black boxers tented and straining. A spark of heat surges through you as you press your thighs together at the sight. 

No sooner is he crawling back to help you out of your clothes. The lacy underwear set you’re wearing beneath is a pretty shade of baby blue, and Eddie can’t help but palm himself. 

“Jesus,” he sounds awed and devastated at the same time. “You’re so gorgeous...” 

Before he’s even had time to process, you take off your bra, baring your chest for him to see. Your nipples pebble with the new exposure and all of two seconds pass before he’s surging forward, sending you tumbling back to the mattress in a breath of startled laughter he swallows down like a lifeline. 

You gasp into his mouth, back arching, as he cups one of your breasts, circling and rolling your nipple between his fingers. You’re barely kissing him back anymore, but he continues licking into your mouth as your lips part around shallow exhales. 

That’s when the phone begins to ring. Eddie sits back on his haunches despite your attempt to stop him. 

“Might be important.” His voice is rough. 

“They can leave a message.” 

He smirks, dragging a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

Lifting your leg, you run a careful foot over the swell of his boxers. He twitches at the contact. 

“You’re all I care about,” you murmur. “Need you, E.” There’s a desperate edge to your voice that draws him right back in.

“You’ve got me.” He runs a lone finger down the front of your panties. “Can I take these off?” You’re only half listening to his words, nodding to whatever. “Lift up for me.” The muscles of your thighs tremble as you do. 

Tossing your panties aside, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your belly button. Then another one just beneath it. A surprised sound rises up your throat when he gently spreads you open to kiss that swollen, sensitive part of you that’s pulsing with need.  

“Oh, gosh—” you stutter out, hands threading into his hair.

“Need me right here?” His voice is laced with a smile, and you can’t help a breathy laugh. Prideful warmth ignites in his chest. “Or do you need me somewhere else?” He trails playful, ticklish nips along your inner thighs, making you squirm. 

“Eddie, please…” 

He’s gracious enough to begin rubbing your clit in precise, measured circles, intently studying the pretty scrunch of your face.

“Firmer,” you instruct breathily, “—just like that, just like that.” Your legs spread wider instinctively, arching when he collects your slick with a slow, heavy finger. 

You’re already so on edge from his previous attention that it only takes a few moments before you ascend into bliss, muscles growing taut as your mouth falls agape. The strong, rhythmic pulses serve as your only touchpoint to reality along with Eddie’s tender caress at your slick, fluttering entrance. One he didn’t even have the chance to breach. 

“Look at you…” he says, voice thick. “Made it easy for me.” He laughs a little, more turned on than anything. 

“It’s not funny,” you halfheartedly assert, cheeks prickling. 

“No,” Eddie agrees. “Just super-duper hot.” 

As he raises up, you realize his other hand is tucked into his boxers, lazily stroking himself. A second wave of desire builds within you, overlapping the remnants of the first and any sense of embarrassment that had begun to kindle. It’s spurred by the deep flush of his cheeks, the way his eyes are soaking you in like he’s just witnessed the most beautiful unraveling. 

Under your hazy, watchful gaze, he scrambles off the bed. Without warning, he shoves his boxers down, kicking them from around his ankles. His arousal impressively springs up towards his stomach. You bite your lip at the rosy, leaking tip, the gorgeous vein snaking prominently along the underside. 

Eddie peeks over at you with a dazed quirk of his lips before retrieving his wallet from his jacket. He pulls out a square foil packet and promptly rips it open with his teeth. 

Upon crawling back into the bed, he isn’t expecting you to take his cock in a loose hold, stroking upwards from the curly hair at the base to circle your thumb around the tip. There’s a pleasant tug low in his gut as he kicks up in your palm. 

“Sweetheart…” His voice is soft, nearly a plea. You let your hand glide back down, this time venturing lower to cradle the soft weight hanging beneath. He nearly buckles forward. “What're you doing to me?” he rasps. 

“Nothing,” you murmur innocently, wetting your hand and giving him a few more easy strokes, enjoying the warm, veiny feel of him before withdrawing your touch. 

He curses under his breath as he rolls the condom down, his gaze never leaving you as you reposition yourself to take him. 

“Eager beaver,” you lilt as he crowds over you. 

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I am.” 

He lines up at your entrance, tip catching as he collects your slick with a wavering breath.  

You open your legs even wider. “Want you,” you murmur, breathy and sweet. 

The expression on his face is like something from a painting, raw and rapturous as he eases into your encompassing warmth. He takes it slow, giving you time to relax around him as you breathe through the dull ache of welcoming him in. A low, guttural sound escapes him once he’s buried all the way. 

Your chests brush. Tears prick in your eyes at the closeness, the feeling of being filled so completely. 

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, lips clumsy against your chin. “Like I made you up in my head.” 

He begins moving, slowly drawing back only to push back in. A steady rhythm finds him as your mouth falls open, legs hooking around his thighs. The muscles of his back ripple with his effort, and you chart every tense line with your fingertips. 

With a low groan, he makes a minor adjustment to better reach that spongy spot within you. You arch into him with a whimper, breath catching in your throat. 

“There she is,” he whispers, reaching between your bodies to rub firm, steady circles against your clit. 

“Oh, god…” It sounds like you’re in pain even though you’re the furthest thing from it. When you close your eyes, tears stream down your face in twin streaks, surprising both of you. Eddie tenderly wipes them away, gaze soft. 

“You’re okay,” he promises. “It’s just me, angel.”

Except, Eddie isn't just anything. You’ve never felt so close to someone, so in tune, and somehow, it’s Eddie—sweet, goofy, wild-haired Eddie—who knew exactly what you needed. He picks up the pace as you arch and writhe beneath him, body yielding without question.

“You feel so good,” you whimper, clenching around him. 

His groan reverberates against your neck as his hips jerk sloppily, “Can’t say stuff like that…” Those words only make you tighten around him again.

The dazed way he mouths at your shoulder lets you know he’s clinging onto composure. You’re too warm, too everything—snug, and soft, and beautiful. He’s not ready for this feeling to end. This heady, binding haze of pleasure.  

“Eddie,” you breathe softly. “Wanna ride you…” 

Your plea nearly finishes him off. “Yeah?” he croaks.

You nod, whimpering. He barely withstands the feeling of slipping from within you. Shifting onto his back allows him a moment of reprieve, but he nearly loses himself when you straddle him, sinking back down with a circle of your hips. 

You brace your hands on his ribcage, steadily rocking on top of him as your head tips back. Sweat glistens in the divot of his sternum as he attempts to move in time with you. When you speed up, he closes his eyes to calm himself down. 

“Hey…where’d you go?” You croon, grazing your nails from his chest to his quivering stomach, relishing the feeling of his warm, dewy skin beneath your fingertips.

The wrecked way he forces his eyes back open almost makes you fall apart. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as a greater sense of urgency awakens between you. It’s in the way you speed up, both eager, desperate, chasing. He memorizes the way your body moves over top of his, the bouncy sway of your chest. 

“You look so pretty taking me like this,” he shudders. “My pretty girl.” 

“Eddie…” you coo, high and breathy. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he chokes out. “Wanna feel you come around me so bad.” He’s babbling now, “Shit, I’m not gonna last. I can’t take it anymore, angel...I can’t—” 

The earnest crack of his voice sends you tumbling over the edge, vision spotting. Pleasure radiates throughout every fiber of your being as your walls contract around him. He stills your hips with a firm hold, bucking upwards and coming undone in surging waves. You slide your hands over his abdomen to feel him flex with each strong jolt that wracks him. 

As your body begins to relax, you blink down at him, lips parted as you catch your breath. Eddie throws an arm over his face as he sucks in air, neck and chest flushed pink. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. 

Both of you shudder as you ease off him. The pleasant ache of loss pulses between your legs as you partially lay down on top of him, hooking a leg over his waist. He traces along your thigh in light, soothing passes. You can feel his chest rising and falling. 

“You okay?” he eventually murmurs.

You nod, kissing his shoulder. “You?”

“I think so,” he chuckles weakly. 

●・○・●・○・●

The afterglow brings a quiet stillness to the air. Clean and beneath the sheets, you study Eddie’s long lashes, his nose, his plush lips. He eventually cracks a self-conscious smile.  

“What?” he questions. You shake your head because you don’t know what to say. He doesn’t look like he believes you. “C’mon...” 

So, you think of something, a small truth you’re willing to give him, “I just really enjoyed spending time with you tonight.”

He hums, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. “What was your favorite part?” 

“Probably the food at Stillwater,” you say, though your fingertips are tracing along his jaw, then down his neck, trailing to his waistline to lightly brush between his hip bones as he squirms. “Best I’ve ever had,” you lilt. 

Eddie breaks into a flustered laugh, leaning over to sleepily kiss the coy smile from your lips. 

“But really, though,” you say afterward. “Thanks for tonight. Never met a guy quite like you.” 

Eddie realizes then that he’d better get a head start on counting his lucky stars. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think.

NEXT PART | PART ONE

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[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy

previous chapter → chapter 6

word count: 6.4k

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.

The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.

It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.

Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.

When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.

You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.

He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.

Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.

You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.

So, you start over.

By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.

Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.

You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.

Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.

The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.

The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.

“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.  

“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.

The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.

You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.

Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.

Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."

You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.

"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.

A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.

Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."

"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.

Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.

"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.

"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.

You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.

"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.

You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.

"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”

“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.

“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”

Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.

"Name’s Johnny."

You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.

“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.

“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”

Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.

“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.

“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.

“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.

Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.

“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.

When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.

“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.

“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.

“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.

“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.

Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.

“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.

The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.

“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.

Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.

Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.

“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.

Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?��� His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.

“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.

Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.

“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.

“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.

“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.

Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.

Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.

“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.

You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.

And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.

“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.

“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.

The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.

Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.

Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.

The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.

Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”

You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.

“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”

“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.

“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.

Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.

Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.

You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.

After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.

You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.

A knock at the door startles you.

“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”

You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.

Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.

“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.

“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”

“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”

“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.

“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.

“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.

“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.

You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.

“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.

In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.

“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”

The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.

His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.

Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.

With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.

The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.

He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.

But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this

[joonliebe]

These are my two Tf2 AUs Modern AU, and Dark Fortress

The Modern AU is a bit old and I haven’t done anything to the story in a while but I suppose I will share it anyways. (I am NOT sharing the first drawing I did of them in the beginning of 2023. Unless it’s highly requested but it’s pretty bad and it’s crazy how much I improved in about a year)

Dell(engineer): he’s a mechanic and tool maker. Dell is a Texan man who is a kind hearted man. He spends his spare time hanging out with a few of his buds and having a cool beer or two, not enough to get drunk however just a little tipsy. He likes sitting in his truck and listening to country music on the radio. He lives with Jude and helps him through his breakdowns. He has deeper feelings for Jude however keeps silent as to not possibly ruining things between them despite Jude having the same hidden feelings.

Dell wears a plain red collar necked shirt, blue jeans, brown belt and brown boots. He often wears his cowboy hat that he loves despite its rougher edges and wear. He wears his reddish colored safety goggles a lot considering he forgets to take them off most of the time. He has tan skin. He has dirty blonde body and facial hair that he keeps decently groomed. He has short blonde hair that is usually slightly greasy due to sweat however it’s soft anyway. He has gray blue eyes

Jude(pyro): he is amab but identifies himself as genderfluid. Jude is Italian who has some physical disabilities due to his past trauma involving a house fire however he uses fire to keep himself calm so he usually carries a lighter at all times unless it’s not aloud then he tries to find other things to keep himself calm. He is very sweet and caring but can be a little over protective. Jude lives with Dell and is very close with him. His emotions towards Dell can sometimes make him overwhelmed so he tries to separate himself from Dell so as to not cause anything awkward.

Jude wears a vanilla white colored turtleneck sweater, baggy light blue jeans, and pink converse. He wears a gray face mask to cover most of his facial scars. He wears glasses that help his sight. He has pale skin with pinkish scars in numerous spots all over his body. He wears a dark gray bucket hat to hide most of his patchy auburn hair. He has olive green eyes

Jeremy(scout): he is kinda rude but overall he’s pretty chill. He lives next to his dad(spy) in a one bedroom apartment. He has a dog named Rico that is a dachshund. He has slight anger issues and will curse at anything or anyone out but will apologize after realizing he was being mean. He’s not really a cat person nor a fan of cats. He doesn’t really have a specific job and most of them involve fast food. He has harsh mixed emotions about his dad but he doesn’t like to think of it often. He wants to make his dad proud however he feels like his dad doesn’t care about him.

Jeremy wears a black tank top, gray skinny jeans that are ripped at the knees, and plain black shoes with white laces. He wears a backwards gray hat, a silver necklace his mom gave him before she passed away and black earrings. He usually listens to music on his phone with orange and black wired earbuds. He has mixed tan skin with a few freckles across his face and shoulders. He has dark golden brown hair. His eyes are brown.

Jane(soldier): he works as a ROTC teacher in a college. He was formerly in the military. He may look like a complete asshole but he actually has a good sense of humor though he is brutally honest. He is supportive however he doesn’t let people disrespect him and still receive his respect. Jane has a tough love demeanor. Jane is married to his wife Zhanna (heavy’s sister). He is good friends with Tavish who he helped out of a tough time in his life.

Jane wears a white tank top under his camouflage jacket. He wears dark green cargo pants and black boots. He wears a dog tag necklace and his wedding ring. He has a light 5 o’clock shadow. His skin is tan with a slight sunburn. He has graying short brown hair.

Theo(spy): he is a French man. He lives next to his son(scout). He works illegally as a hit man (aka assassin). He seems to be cold hearted however he does care about the people he loves. He has a cat named Cherie who is a Siamese . He feels bad about how Jeremy views him however he doesn’t want to intrude on his life as he knows Scout is dealing with the death of his mother just like him. Theo feels terrible about Colleen’s (Jeremy’s mom) death as well considering how he loved her.

Theo wears a tan turtleneck sweater under his maroon coat with matching pants and dress shoes. He carries a picture of Colleen holding Jeremy as a baby with him at all times. Theo has mixed tan skin that is slightly darker than Jeremy’s. He has black slick backed hair with gray streaks. He has a light 5 o’clock shadow on his face and his eyebrows are plucked to look nice and clean. He puts on black eyeliner. His eyes are black.

Ludwig(medic): he is a German surgeon. He cracks jokes that are kinda dark (like death or gore jokes) but sometimes he just makes straight up dad jokes. He of course has his dove archimedes as a pet. Doesn’t get unsettled by grotesque wounds often at all. He can get a little irritated at his coworkers at times but he manages to keep himself to calm down before something bad happens

Ludwig wears a black vest and tie over a white button up shirt, he wears black pants and shoes. He wears oval shaped glasses. He has tan skin and sky blue eyes. He has short dark gray hair with some noticeable light gray streaks. He tries to keep his hair slicked back however it often gets into his face.

Tavish(demoman): he is a Scottish bartender. He is good friends with Jane who helped him get out his habit of drinking at work when he was upset. He lives with his white cat named Bonnie and his beagle named Dougie.

Tavish wears a white button up shirt with a black bow tie, black pants and nice black shoes. He has a missing eye which he covers using a patch. He has dark brown skin and Hazel eyes. He has short hair and dreads at the top of his head. He has well groomed facial hair.

Mick(sniper): Mick works with Theo sometimes to assassinate people despite them not quite liking each other too much. He lives in a camper with a taped up busted window. He drinks coffee way too often. He has bad social anxiety that makes him dread interacting with people however he can sometimes push himself to do it. Mick sympathizes with Theo’s loss however he isn’t very good at supporting or comforting others.

Mick usually wears a white tank top and plain black boxers around his Camper however he sometimes will put on a robe when someone is around or he’ll wear a black tee shirt, blue jeans, brown leather jacket, and boots when he’s away from his camper. He always wears his pair of black and brown ombré sunglasses. He has dark tan skin and blue eyes. He has a messy dark brown mullet and sideburns with a slightly outgrown 5 o’clock shadow.

Mikhail(heavy): Mikhail is a retired weaponsmith. He is a tall Russian man. He works out sometimes but not as much as he used to since he’s pretty big already. He is very kind and sometimes too friendly, however he is stern when it comes to his loved ones and will protect them with his life. He owns a pet Guinea pig named Goliath.

Mikhail wears a dark brown coat over a white tee shirt, brown belt, black jeans, boots and he wears a ushanka. He has light tan skin and has a light 5 o’clock shadow. He has dark blue eyes.

The au is in a modern day society. The nine men live in a town called fortwell. Dell and Jude met in high school. Dell met Theo in college where Jane doe now works. Jeremy was supposed to go to college there but decided not to because “it was a waste of time” though it probably would have put him in a better situation than now. Jeremy didn’t have a good state of mind when he should have been starting college due to his mom passing away. Theo tried not to let her death get to him resulting in going to the bar often. Theo became pretty good friends with Tavish who comforted him when Theo would vent to him. Theo learned of Tavish’s bad habit of drinking however he didn’t judge since Tavish listened to him vent. Once Theo got back in a good head space he reunited with his college friend Dell. Dell told him about the college and how it was way better than when Theo and Dell met there. Dell met Jeremy soon after Theo and him reunited and talked him into going to college to try to get a better job if not better life. Jeremy decided to join ROTC to try to be a better son and make his mama proud if she was still watching. Jane pushed Jeremy to work hard which pissed him off but he continued anyway. After a while Jeremy started to give up. He ended up cursing out Jane. It wasn’t anything new from what he’d heard from other students so he kept a stern voice and talked Jeremy through his outburst soon finding out about his mothers death and the reason why he decided to come to college. Jane realized Jeremy wasn’t mad he was just in pain. Jane shared his experience of pain from his years of being in the military. Jeremy was surprised by the way Jane showed sympathy for him. Jeremy thought he was just an asshole but he found out Jane just showed tough love to help his students become tougher. Jeremy didn’t give up after talking with Jane instead he became more confident about continuing college. Jane was glad to have changed Jeremy’s point of view and happy to see him work hard.

Theo visited the bar and brought Dell with him though Dell wasn’t really the type to drink besides a beer every here and there. Dell met Tavish and had a few drinks with Theo and talked with Tavish as well. Theo accidentally bumped into the wrong guy at the bar. The guy caught an attitude with Theo when he tried to apologize resulting in a heated argument. Dell didn’t like this. He usually wasn’t the type to fight but he was a bit buzzed from the alcohol and he stepped in. He was not only shorter than Theo but definitely shorter than the guy. He threw the first punch which the guy didn’t like at all causing him to slam Dell on the ground and break his arm. Tavish noticed the ruckus and called the police as soon as he saw Dell get slammed and his arm broken. Theo slipped out his switchblade and slit the guy’s throat when he wasn’t looking. Nobody noticed how the guy disappeared due to all eyes focused on Dell being taken to hospital once the police and ambulance came. Tavish noticed however he said nothing. Tavish didn’t like that guy anyway since this wasn’t the first time he had caused problems in the bar. Theo somehow discarded the body without anyone but Tavish noticing but Tavish wasn’t one to run his mouth unlike his coworkers who luckily weren’t working that night. The bar got closed for the night and Tavish went to the hospital to sit with Dell. Theo went to sit with Tavish and Dell soon after telling Jeremy he wasn’t going to get back to the house that night. Dell had to have surgery to put his bones back in place. His doctor happened to be one of Tavish’s high school classmates and sort of friend. His name was Ludwig and he happened to notice Tavish even without one of his eyes. He was surprised that Tavish wasn’t the one who needed surgery due to all the trouble Tavish used to get into when they went to high school but then again he figured Tavish had matured more as an adult. After the surgery was successful Ludwig had reintroduced himself to Tavish. It took a minute but Tavish recognized Ludwig. He was slightly embarrassed when Theo heard how Tavish used to misbehave in high school but luckily Theo didn’t mind. Ludwig was happy to see him again and glad that he wasn’t upset at the way Ludwig described younger Tavish. Then again the way Tavish described how he knew him wasn’t exactly the best either. Ludwig had been quite shy and nerdy when he was younger but he wasn’t really that known either. Ludwig found out Tavish worked at a bar where Ludwig’s best friend Mikhail went to every now and then. Jude came to the hospital asking about Dell. He was very confused to see other people there and he was also nervous due to not really being social since he was bullied as a kid due to his burn scars all over his face and body. The others didn’t know about Jude until Dell came out of the room with a cast on his arm to let his arm heal properly. Dell explained how he met Jude to Tavish and Theo then he explained to Jude how he met them. Jude was still a little nervous from being socially awkward but Theo and Tavish told him that they didn’t mind him being there. Tavish told Dell how he knew Ludwig since he was still standing there reminding Ludwig that he still had a job to do and he excused himself after trading numbers with Tavish so they could stay in contact. Dell went back to the house with Jude so he could help Dell until he recovered. Later Ludwig went to the bar with Mikhail to see Tavish and talk and hang out with his friend and let them get to know each other.

Mick met Theo again after he found a property next to Theo and Jeremy’s houses. For a good while he didn’t like Theo due to thinking he was one of those guys who was full of himself. Theo didn’t know how to feel about his somewhat coworker living next to them. Jeremy made up dumb ideas that he was some weirdo who was a homeless guy that stole someone’s camper or something dumb like that. Obviously Theo didn’t believe his son. He decided to go talk to Mick. When he walked up to the camper and knocked on the door Mick opened the door before Theo could even say anything Mick closed the door in his face. He said something like “if you’re gonna say something about my camper or something like that just leave” Theo didn’t like that but he knew he wasn’t gonna say anything like that anyway he just told him he was just gonna talk to him again and clear up some possible misunderstanding. Mick already knew who he was or so he thought so. Mick walked out with his arms crossed. He looked at the perfectly dressed man waiting for him to say something. Theo told him his real name and asked about his name. Mick with a slight attitude told his name. Theo offered him a drink at the bar. Mick wasn’t exactly against the idea so he accepted though he was still cautious of the man. He didn’t really like him until they chatted more at the bar. Mick soon grew to realize that Theo wasn’t exactly what he thought. They soon started getting along better. Theo and Mick started talking more often. Not too long after Theo introduced Mick to the other guys. They started bonding more and Mick became less introverted.

I don’t have much Information on the Dark Fortress AU since it was mostly made for fun but basically this takes place in a different universe where Dr. Ludwig (aka medic) is a mad scientist who’s done all these crazy experiments for the soul purpose of being interesting.

Here’s the list of characters and what monster they are

Scout: werewolf

Soldier: Gargoyle

Pyro: fire spirit/phoenix

Demoman: cyclops

Heavy: mothman

Engineer: Cyborg

Medic: mad scientist

Sniper: Sasquatch

Spy: vampire

(Pyro is haunting Dr. Ludwig for his actions. Dell used to be Dr. Ludwig’s assistant however after Dell refused to be apart of another one of his experiments Dr. Ludwig turned him into a experiment by using his own machinery again him)

[maluarty-blog]

You had it all.

Your mother's love.

Your "perfect" and safe world.

But it was all fake.

It all went down the day a stranger knocked on your door and opened your eyes.

Now, you'll try to discover yourself with the people who rescued you.

Build a new life, or die trying to.

Discover your powers and weaknesses​.

Choose Mc's animal companion.

Uncover your past.

Befriend your new companions or at least some of them.

Romance 1 of the 6 Ro's.

Leon (M)

Leon is a kind heart, receiving you with open arms from the very first second. He has a calm temper and a strong brain. His amicable and strategic qualities make him the leader of the mercenary group. But it's visible that something dark lurks in his gentle eyes.

He's very tall (1,93 cm (6′ 4″)) and athletic, with tan skin and a scar on his lip. His black hair is cut short, and his violet eyes reflect perfectly his calm and serene character.

He wears a light brown shirt, black pants, and dark brown boots.

He fights with a simple silver shield.

Iara (F) 

Iara is the second in charge. Her strategic and cold demeanor is enough to compensate for Leon's calm procedure, giving the group an excellent balance. She's quiet and observant but has a soft spot and cares for her companions.

She's tall (1,80 cm (5′ 11″)) and has a lean but athletic build. She keeps her curly red hair in a high ponytail. Her golden accessories shine in contrast with her pale skin. She has several scars, but one is more perceptible, crossing her eye, a wound that caused one of her turquoise eyes to be completely pale white.

She wears lightweight golden armor with soft beige fur on her shoulders.

Her golden and bluish-green accessories adorn her neck, ears, and wrist.

She fights with a black and gold whip.

Matheus (M)

Matheus is a charismatic individual. He's clever and very fond of puns and jokes. The young man has quite the ability to read people and has been trying to help you understand your past. As friendly as he is, he seems to have trouble letting people get closer to him.

He's average (1,78 m (5′ 10″)) and lean, with umber skin. His soft brown curls are cut short, and his olive eyes are full of compassion and comprehension.

He wears glasses and a simple sleeveless white shirt combined with baggy pants.

He fights with a silver crossbow with a crow symbol engraved on it.

Dante (M)

Dante is in charge of the magic rituals and enchants. He's a grumpy and hotheaded kind of person. Being a fire Elementalist, he can summon fire, but he's not immune to it, having an arm covered in a burn scar. 

He tends to be reserved and doesn't like being touched by strangers.

He's average (1,75 m (5′ 9″)) and chubby, with fair skin. His chin-length hair is golden blonde, and his eyes are as red as the flames he summons.

He wears a sleeveless shirt with a turtleneck and black pants. He wears in his right ear two black earrings.

He fights with a saw-toothed silver sword.

Siena (F)

Siena is a cunning woman, always having the right words to escape the most challenging situations. She's very fond of Matheus, and just like her friend, she loves making jokes and a good fight.

She's short (1,57 m (5′ 2″)) and robust, with olive skin. She has raven long hair that matches her dark eyes. 

She wears a long black shirt and greenish baggy pants.

She fights with greenish and silver gauntlets.

Levi (NB)

Levi is cold and seems to hate you for what you are. They are sarcastic and straightforward. They tend to avoid you, but even with their cold distance they seem interested at you. Maybe something in you draws them.

They're average (1,70m (5′ 7″)) and athletic, with light brown skin. Their shoulder-length black hair is partially tied in a short ponytail. Their gray eyes seem cold when they look at you. Will they grow warmer with time?

They wear a sleeveless gray shirt and leather pants. And a brown leather arm bracelet.

They fight with silver daggers.

                    ⚠️Trigger Warning: This game is rated 17+⚠️

Currently it has : Self-harm (not intentional), emotional dependence, emotion manipulation and violence.

LINK: https://maluarty.itch.io/into-your-eyes

[innocentlymacabre]

DUE NORTH: VIGNETTES / 8

A cozy urban fantasy about two best friends who move to the pocket of eccentricity and magic that is Due North

cw: drug mention

The quiet early morning moon washed Alecia Ossario in its silvery tinge. She was dressed in black from head to toe, turtleneck covered with a leather jacket with far too many pockets to even be possible on top and jeans and lace-up boots on the bottom, save for her hair which had decided green was the way to go tonight. She made a mental note to tell Jasper to bring the delivery time a couple hours ahead, so she doesn’t have to be up when the only other people awake are the aquatics, gnomes, and faeries. Still, primetime for client scouting.

The silence of the night was broken only by the faint sound of an approaching car, thrumbling slowly down the end of the road. It purred along almost noiselessly, but on this particular night, nothing else, not a frog or an angry moth (those things could work up a real racket when they wanted) stirred even in the slightest, and no music from a water sprite afterparty rung through the night (If there’s one thing those guys know, it’s how to party, Alecia thought to herself), making it the loudest sound for miles.

Its busted headlights illuminated only a few feet of the winding road in front of it, something that Alecia thought was a touch risqué, especially considering she quite valued the cargo, and the side lines were more amphibian than she would have liked. She spun her fingers by her side, weaving a little light in between her slender fingers and let it fall in front of the car. Grateful for the light, it steered a bit more steadily before coming calmly to a stop a few feet in front of Alecia.

The driver turned the engine off and stepped out. A black boot hit the ground first, a tiny spark flying off, before a jaunty, dapper man stepped out. He had a dark trench coat draped over a brown suit and a half-buttoned olive-green shirt. He rounded out the sombreness with a yellow scarf and topped it all off with a top hat balanced on his head, tilted precariously to one side. His face belonged to a much younger man, all save for the eyes, which betrayed his true age.

“Alecia!” he exclaimed. “How you doing, darling?”

“Just fine, J, just fine. You should really get that headlight fixed, ya know.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. Always something in the way.”

“Uh huh. Well, shall we get down to business?”

“Always so quick on the draw, Alecia. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t like me very much,” he jested, leading the way to the back of the car nonetheless.

“Who said I liked ya? I do like what you’re carrying though, if that helps,” she said, winking.

Jasper mimed being shot in the heart with a laugh, then opened the trunk; Alecia twiddled her fingers and redirected the light from the road to the trunk to get a better view. Two plastic-wrapped packages, roughly the size of sacks of flour, gleamed in her light, boasting colourful pills packed to the brim, threatening to spill and scatter across the pavement.

“Jasper, plastic? I thought we’d already had this conversation, come on.”

“I know, I know, sorry. Last-minute complication leaving me with no choice. Won’t happen again, don’t worry.”

Alecia huffed. “Fine. Leave it with me. If a satyr drops by, I’ll throw it in as a “gesture of good faith”.”

Support the author: free stories | ko-fi 💜 | paid fiction

taglist in the replies. ask to be added/removed!

[n1angi]

Shrouded in Darkness

CHAPTER 4 : PARMIGIANA

previous chapter | next chapter

Will Graham x AFAB character x Hannibal Lecter (Polyamory)

Summary:

In the heart of Baltimore, forensic analyst Sidonie Renard navigates the shadows of crime scenes, concealing her loneliness behind a composed facade. Drawn into a web of intrigue, she captures the attention of profiler Will Graham and the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter.

Word count: 3,2k

Chapter Warning: Murder, Blood, Gore.

Sidonie observed the man in front of her. He was tall and slender, with a lean, angular face. His blue shirt, brown tie, and colorful ornaments on his tie complemented his suit. His hair was styled neatly, giving him a sophisticated look. He was charismatic, well-mannered, and attractive.

“I’m honored to offer any insight I can,” he said to Jack, then turned his attention to the brunette. His eyes took on her appearance.

She was neatly dressed in classic trousers, leather-heeled boots, and a black turtleneck. Her outfit made her large olive-green eyes stand out.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Jack speaks highly of you. I’m glad to work with someone of your caliber.” He maintained eye contact.

“The feeling is mutual. You’re also well-known around here. Agent Crawford seems to trust you a lot.” She nodded and smiled slightly, holding her hands in front of her as she glanced at Jack, who gestured for them to sit.

Jack cleared his throat, mentioning that Alana would join them soon.

“Abigail Hobbs woke up this morning. I thought we could consult two professionals before taking action since Miss Renard seemed hesitant about the idea.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly.

“What is the idea you speak of?”

“I have seven families waiting for an answer. I want Miss Renard to consult Abigail and find evidence of what is left of these girls. Speaking to Abigail will be necessary for trust.”

“I’m sure we need to give Abigail some time to process what happened,” Sidonie said.

“Sudden intrusion will only make her more cautious. It’s best if she speaks with her therapist for the first couple of days.”

Jack looked at Hannibal.

“As you can see, she is hesitant.”

“Hesitance isn’t the issue here, Agent Crawford. What you’re asking of me isn’t in my expertise. It’s a huge responsibility to consult a victim while trying to find evidence on them.”

“She might not be a victim at all,” Jack pressed.

“Her father slit her throat, and she nearly died,” Sidonie said, frowning. “She deserves some time to recover.”

Hannibal’s lips curl into a faint smile as if he’s trying not to show his amusement.

“I agree with Miss Renard,” Hannibal said calmly, looking at Jack. “It’s best to stay patient. We don’t want to rush.” He turns to Sidonie. “Combining her expertise while carefully observing Abigail could benefit the case. It might help move things along.” He notices Jack’s pleased expression. “However, given Miss Renard’s limited experience in this area, it’s better if those who have interacted with Abigail stay by her side.”

“Are you suggesting to accompany Miss Renard?” Jack asks.

“I believe it will be the best approach.”

“And what about Will Graham?”

“It’s best if he is there too.”

Sidonie holds her breath, dreading the possible reaction from the men.

“There’s a chance he might not be happy with this idea,” Jack reminds him.

“I expected such a response,” Hannibal replies.

The room falls silent. Jack sighed, realizing he could rely on Hannibal to manage the situation.

“Now, let’s move on to the painter’s case,” Jack stands up and looking at the wall covered with crime scene photos.

Hannibal and Sidonie also rise, with Hannibal holding back to let Sidonie go first. They approach the wall as Jack begins to speak.

“Seven deadly sins. That’s the theme behind the crimes. The number seven indicates the next possible cases, including this one. We have very little evidence of who the killer is, but…” Jack looks at Sidonie. “Miss Renard found a bristle and suggesting he might be a painter.”

“Quentin Metsys, the moneylender, and his wife,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. “A representation of greed.”

“At first, we thought it might be a copycat,” Jack continues, “but that theory was dismissed.”

“Understandable,” Sidonie adds. “A copycat sees himself as superior to his victims. This killer, however, seems to feel undervalued. A copycat is meticulous and proud of his work.”

“Are you familiar with profiling, Miss Renard?” Hannibal asks, intrigued. Sidonie shakes her head.

“No, not really. I just took into account what Mr. Graham said about the case. But over time, you start noticing patterns between evidence and the traits of the criminals.”

“Are you suggesting that evidence itself has character?”

“Not exactly,” Sidonie replies. “But there might be a connection between the evidence and the killer’s traits.”

Hannibal considers her words thoughtfully.

“Do you have any ideas about the killer, Dr. Lecter?” Jack asks. Hannibal turns back to him.

“There’s a chance he may not be a painter after all.”

“Why’s that?” Jack inquires.

“Being a painter is a well-known profession. If he was working as a painter, it would be easier for him to be identified, especially if he was dealing with recent frustrations.”

“And what makes you think that?” Jack asks.

“The statement he’s making.” Sidonie looks frustrated, trying to think of other possibilities. Hannibal’s point about the painter’s potential exposure makes sense. “The choice of the seven deadly sins isn’t random. It shows his inner conflict, his struggle with his own failures, and the wrongs he feels he has faced. He might be revealing something about his own life. There’s more to his story that he wants to share.”

“Well, we need to catch him before he can tell us more,” Jack insists.

The door opened automatically as she stepped outside, her boots clicking as she walked to a bench and sat down. She sighed, rubbing her slightly sweaty hands together. The contrast between the hot office and the cool air outside was noticeable.

She looked at her thumb, watching the sweat mix with her palm.

“Miss Renard, are you okay?”

She looked up, startled by Hannibal’s sudden presence. “Yes, I just needed some fresh air. It’s much cooler out here than in the office.” She wiped her hands on her trousers and moved slightly to make room for him.

Hannibal sat beside her, crossing his legs.

“Do you tend to run hot?” he asked.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she replied. Hannibal nodded, recalling how cold the room had been earlier. He looked around.

“You mentioned earlier that evidence might link a killer to their traits. What about a painter? What traits might fit him?”

“Will Graham has already covered that. I have nothing new to add,”

“And what about Abigail Hobbs? Is there any evidence that could suggest she’s guilty?”

Her gaze lingered on his face, curious about the sudden change in topic.

“There’s a chance she could be, considering the nature of the crimes. But right now, the only clues would be in her current behavior, which I’m not sure I can help with.”

Hannibal nodded, clearly unsatisfied with her response. It didn’t provide him any new insight, personal or professional.

As his eyes drifted to her hands, he observed how her fingers were intertwined. He saw a scar running from her middle finger down her hand. Recalling the article Freddie Lounds had written about her, it seemed obvious to him why she seemed so anxious earlier.

“Your approach to her seems sympathetic. Some might even call it kind.”

“I’d describe it as flexible, rather than kind.” She looked away, her gaze falling on two familiar figures approaching from a car. “Approaching her right now might be overwhelming, especially after what she’s been through. Whether she’s guilty or not, it’s tough for anyone.”

Hannibal followed her gaze, seeing Alana and Will approaching.

“Balancing empathy with objectivity is no easy task, and you handle it with a rare skill,” Hannibal said. Sidonie blinked at his compliment. He smiled subtly at her reaction.

Will and Alana reached them, and Sidonie and Hannibal stood up.

“I’m glad we’re not too late, Has Jack arrived?”

“We’ve already spoken with Jack,” Hannibal replied.

“So we’re late,” she mumbled.

Noticing Will’s gaze, Hannibal turned to him.

“I assume you know Abigail has woken up?”

“Heard of it,” Will said sarcastically.

“And I assume he wanted to interview her right away,” Alana predicted, raising her eyebrows.

“I won’t argue with that,” Hannibal smirked. Alana shook her head at his response. “Miss Renard suggested we wait before talking to her, which seemed like a wise course of action.”

Hannibal looked at Sidonie, drawing her into the conversation. Alana smiled.

“I’m glad someone agrees with me,” Sidonie nods, smiling slightly.

“Shall we go in?” Hannibal asked Alana, who nodded in response. They headed inside while Will stayed behind.

Sidonie noticed that Will didn’t move, adding to her unease from their earlier shared eye contact.

As the door closed, Will looked around, finding the area empty.

“Jack has involved you in this case, after all,” he mumbled, catching himself. He realized his words might sound unpleasant despite his intention to start a conversation.

“I understand you’re not thrilled about this. But whatever Jack has assigned to me doesn’t reflect on your professionalism,” Sidonie replied.

Will chuckled, almost painfully.

“He doubts my judgment, that’s what it is.”

Sidonie remained silent as she shared the same concern.

“He doubts anyone who disagrees with him,” she pointed. “He strongly believes Abigail was involved.”

“What do you believe in?”

Sidonie blinked in surprise at his question. After a second, she turned to him.

“I trust the evidence, which suggests she wasn’t involved. I won’t rush to judge Abigail Hobbs just because of her father.”

Will looked at her face and saw no signs of deceit or falsehood. She appeared confident and sincere.

Noticing his steady gaze, Sidonie stepped away.

“I need to get back to work.”

Will stared at the road ahead as he and Hannibal drove to the psychiatric hospital to visit Abigail Hobbs, who had woken up a few days ago.

Surprisingly, Jack had taken Sidonie’s advice, and Alana had been persistent about giving the young girl her space.

Will felt a mix of nerves and guilt. He wasn’t just troubled about talking to Abigail; he felt bad for leaving her orphaned, even though he didn’t regret what he did to her father.

He remembered how Garet Jacob Hobbs had looked as life left his eyes, and he was relieved that Abigail hadn’t met the same fate.

Hannibal, who was driving, broke the silence.

“Something on your mind, Will?” Will rubbed his face. “You’re not sure what to say to her.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Hannibal replied, “but our best approach is to stay by her side and help her open up over time.”

“I’m not sure she’ll feel safe around me.”

“You saved her life,” Hannibal reminded him.

“You did,” Will countered.

Hannibal thought for a moment and then said calmly.

“We both played a part. What matters is that she knows she’s not alone. Building trust takes time, and your presence will help her feel safer.”

“What if my presence does the opposite?”

“Your empathy, though it might be a burden to you, can help bridge the gap to her healing. She needs to see that someone understands her pain, even if she doesn’t recognize it yet.”

Will sighed, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s words.

As the car stopped, Will and Hannibal entered the hospital and asked to see Abigail. To their surprise, the nurse told them she already had a visitor. They exchanged a puzzled glance, as the only people who knew Abigail’s location were the FBI and Alana, who they were sure weren’t there.

“Can you describe the person visiting her?” Will asked.

“A short woman with long curly red hair and blue eyes. She’s neatly dressed.” The nurse replied.“

Will frowned in confusion and asked the nurse to lead them to Abigail’s room. When they opened the door, they saw the red-haired woman sitting on Abigail’s bed, talking to her.

“...Works for the FBI but isn’t really an FBI agent. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane,” Freddie Lounse said, looking at them.

Will immediately recognized her by her manner of speech.

“Would you excuse us, please?” Will irritate. Freddie stood up as he approached Abigail’s bed. Abigail looked around the room with confusion in her blue eyes. “I’m Special Agent Will Graham,” he introduced himself.

“By Special Agent, he means not really an agent. He didn’t pass the screening. Too unstable,” Freddie looked at Will.

“I insist that you leave the room,” Hannibal interjected. Freddie pulled out her card.

“If you want to talk—”

Will snatched the card from her without saying a word. Freddie didn’t resist and left the room. Abigail looked between the two men as Will removed his glasses and wiped them.

“Abigail, this is Dr. Lecter,” he introduced. After a pause, he asked if she remembered them.

Abigail turned her gaze to Will.

“I remember you. You killed my dad.”

Will nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

“You’ve been in bed for days, Abigail. How about we take a walk?” Hannibal suggested.

Abigail walked weakly into the garden, supported by Hannibal and Will.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother. We did everything we could, but she was already gone.” Will said softly.

“I know. I saw him kill her.” Abigail replied, tears stinging her eyes but not falling. They helped her sit down. “He was loving right up until the second he wasn’t. He kept telling me he was sorry and to just hold still.” She stops “He was going to make it all go away.”

“There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail, but there’s nothing wrong with you.” Will looks at her. “You said he was loving. I believe it. That’s what you brought out in him.”

Abigail fell silent.

“It’s not all I brought out in him,” she whispered, looking at Will. “I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I? I’m worried about nightmares.”

Will didn’t respond. He couldn’t promise her she would be okay or that she wouldn’t be affected.

“We’ll help you with the nightmares,” Hannibal reassured her.

“There’s no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot. I worry about nightmares, too.” Will admitted as he sits down next to her.

“So killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?” she inquires.

Hannibal looks at Will, curious how honest his answer will be.

“It’s… The ugliest thing in the world.” Will says carefully as Abigail takes his words in.

“I want to go home,” she whispers.

Freddie Lounds leaned on the hood of Hannibal’s dark blue Bentley, waiting. When she saw Hannibal and Will approaching, she quickly stood up, almost respectfully.

“Special Agent Graham, I never formally introduced myself. I’m Freddie Lounds.” She offered her hand. Will put on his glasses, ignoring her hand.

“Are you trying to salvage this joke from the mouth of madness?”

“Please. Let me apologize for my behavior there. It was sloppy and misguided. And hurtful.”

“Miss Lounds now isn’t the time,” Hannibal spoke. Freddie looked at Hannibal but continued speaking to Will.

“Look, you and I may have our own reasons for being here, but I also think we both genuinely care what happens to Abigail Hobbs.”

“You told her I was insane,” he hissed.

“You weren’t the only topic in the article,” Freddie defended herself, noticing Will’s clenched jaw. “I can undo what I said.” Will tried not to laugh at how absurd she sounded.

“You help Abigail see me as more than her father’s killer and I help you with online ad sales?”

“I can un-do what I said. I can also make it a lot worse.” Freddie warned. Will’s face twitched as he stepped closer to her.

“Miss Lounds, it’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Sidonie sat at her desk, working on a sample from the corpse. Jimmy clicked his tongue in frustration, and Beverly raised an eyebrow.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Another article about Will Graham by We All Know Who,” He chanted. Almost everyone gathered around to look at the article on the computer.

Sidonie stayed at her desk, shaking her head slightly. She knew that no one, not even Jack, could stop her from writing nasty articles.

“It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.” Jack sits behind his desk reading off of his computer screen “You know what else isn’t very smart?” he looks at Hannibal, who sits next to Will. “You were there with him and you let those words come out of his mouth.”

Alana glanced at the two men next to her, and Sidonie did the same.

“I trust Will to speak for himself,” Hannibal clarified.

“Evidently, you shouldn’t.” Jack replied.

“I’m just happy the story wasn’t about Abigail Hobbs,” Alana said with a slight shrug..

“Then it’s a victory.” Jack pressed his lips together and nodded. “So Abigail Hobbs wants to go home. Let’s take her home.”

“What Abigail wants and what she needs are two different things. Taking her out of a controlled environment would be reckless.” Alana defends.

“You said she was practical.”

“That could just mean she has a dissociative disorder,” Will adds in.

“You take her home, she may experience intense emotions, and respond aggressively. Or reenact some aspect of the traumatic event without even realizing it.” Alana worried as Jack glanced at Hannibal, knowingly.

“Where do you weigh in on this, Doctor?”

“Doctor Bloom is right, but there is a scenario where revisiting the trauma event could help Abigail heal and prevent denial.” Alana shook her head and looked at Sidonie, who was quietly observing the discussion.

“Then we have a difference of opinion. Therefore I’m choosing the opinion that best serves my agenda.” Jack looked at Will. “I want to know if you are right about our Copy Cat Will.”

Will, looked tired, almost asleep.

“We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for her when she goes home,” Alana points out.

“And the publicity might make things worse. The whole city knows about her and her father because of Freddie Lounds.”

“Miss Renard has dealt with Freddie Lounds before. I’m sure she can talk to Abigail about it.” Jack asserts.

“I should add ‘Public Relations Expert’ to my resume,” Sidonie snarked with a slight smile. “I feel like I deserve a raise.”

“Perhaps a comic would be a better choice.” Jack retorts at the comment.

“A shared experience can help Abigail deal with her situation, but Miss Renard isn’t qualified to question her,” Alana argues.

“Hannibal and Will will accompany her as she works on the case.”

“It seems I don’t have a say in this,” Alana’s tone was sharp with frustration.

“No, not on this one,” Jack confirmed.

The room fell silent.

“I think Jack’s right,” Will spoke up, recalling what Hannibal had said on the way to the hospital. “Having someone who’s been through a similar ordeal could help Abigail. It might bring her some… normalcy and comfort.” Hannibal looks at Will, somehow amused at his agreement. He looks at Sidonie, who also seems to be taken aback by his words. “Maybe she can make things easier for everyone…”

Sidonie and Will lock eyes for a moment, their gaze sharing a sense of understanding, or knowing, like back in the pharmacy.

Hannibal observed the moment between Sidonie and Will with curiosity.

“Well, I have to admit, Will, I didn’t see this coming,” Jack says with a tone of genuine surprise as they break eye contact. “But I’m glad you’re on board.”

“So what’s the plan?” Alana asked.

Jack turned to Sidonie.

“Get ready for the trip. We are taking Abigail Hobbs to her nest.”

[prometheus-ghost]

Okay, new fun post/theory: this is how Daniel looked when he and Maura met, and why his outfit here looks so similar to the way he's dressed in the Kerberos sim (olive green mock turtleneck and black jacket with a big popped collar).

[shadow0haven]

So I've done a few "Whiskey Old Fashioned Sour" doodles a few times (will do more in future moat likely because this au lives in my head rent free) and it's a fun Malevolent AU by @bluejayblueskies Featuring some John chibis, and Arthur in an aro sweater, and them on a date from the fic 🥰

IDs under cut

[ID: The first image is a chibi drawing of John Doe. John Doe is depicted with olive skin with some acne scars, dark black hair pulled into a bun, decorated with various tattoos and piercings, and has bright blue eyes. He has a serious look despite being relaxed, his head tilted to the side. John holds a mixer in his right hand and a bottle of alcohol in the left. He has a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants and shoes, and he has an apron on with a "Frost" logo on for his bar.

The second drawing is of Arthur Lester from "Whiskey Old Fashioned Sour". Arthur has light skin with tons of freckles, soft brown eyes, curly red hair that is streaked with grays, and angular features. He also wears black framed glasses and a black turtleneck sweater with jeans, the pattern and colors on the sweater an abstract aro flag. He stands in front of a creme mottled background, one hand in his pocket and the other on his shoulder in a mostly relaxed gesture.

The third image is a colored chibi drawing of Arthur and John from Whiskey. They're visiting the bourbon festival in chapter 6 og Whiskey. Arthur is a light skinned man with lots of freckles and dark red curly hair. He has glasses and brown eyes, and is wearing a dark green shirt with a bag slung over his shoulder. He is holding a notepad and pointing at it. John stands next to him with an uncomfortable look of embarrassment on his face. He has long black hair pulled into a bun, blue eyes, acne scars, an arrangement of tattoos and piercings, and is blushing profusely. John is wearing a blue tank top with a jean jacket slung over his right arm. The artist logo is next to Johns arm in the corner. /END ID]

[loveshetlands]

[murrays-wardrobe]

The Slaughter Affair (02x17) Outfit 1

[phenomenice]

Haven't done much fanart this year, but I WAS able to do RQBB again! And I got to draw so much Grizzop and gobbos for @emwoman25's wonderful "Weapons Drawn". I'll reblog with the link to the fic in a moment! And you HAVE to read it to find out why Hamid is a baby.

This is part of @pilesofnonsense 2023 Rusty Quill Big Bang and as always it's been an absolutely joy participating.

Image IDs under the cut!

Image 1: A black and white watercolour and ink image of Grizzop drik acht Amsterdam, a goblin. He has large eyes and ears and is wearing a coat. He also wears a tactical-style baby carrier, in which he carries halfling Hamid Saleh Haroun al Tahan, who is a baby. Hamid has curly dark hair, chubby cheeks, and is chewing on the wing of a stuffed dragon.

Image 2: A colour watercolour and ink image of a family picnic. From left to right we see Kriz, Plik, Izzo, Grizzop, Hamid, Vesseek, Esk, Frax and Grat. All are goblins except Hamid, who is a baby halfling. Esk is also a baby. Hamid is wearing green pyjamas, Esk is wearing purple pyjamas. The younger goblins are all clad in various colours and styles. Izzo wears a yellow dress, Grat wears a brown tunic and olive hose. She carries a plate of fruit to the red picnic blanket everyone is sitting on. The babies are sitting on Hamid's purple cloak, which also holds a plate of cinnamon buns. Hamid and Esk are playing with a red and blue ball; Hamid has his arms raised in the air. There is a tree and blue sky in the background, along with a low stone wall and some shrubs. There is grass on the ground.

Image 3: A black and white watercolour and ink image of a side-hug between Hamid Saleh Haroun al Tahan and Grizzop drik acht Amsterdam. Hamid, on the left, is an adult halfling with pointy ears and dark curly hair. He wears an immaculate suit. Grizzop, on the right, has his arm around Hamid's shoulder and wears his breastplate, a turtleneck, a coat, and spaulders on his shoulders. He is a goblin with large ears and rings in his ears. His face is reminiscent of a sphinx cat.

[elfboyeros]

Grimhaven

"Welcome to Grimhaven"

In West Alexandria's capital city, there is the Grimhaven Agency! An outsourcing arm of the government that trains, hires, and sends out Grotesquerie Hunters to protect Willowcrest citizens from the monsters that hunt and harm them

Ah, the first chapter of Grimhaven, this story is supposed more "relaxed". I just trying to have fun with it (I say as if I don't have fun with my other stuff) Things may not contact or make much sense but that's because it's not suppose to lol. Please enjoy. Read about all my nerds and junk

Grotesqueries

Rabid animals in want of human blood, demons of flesh and bone, for as long as one can remember monsters have infected the world along with the human race. In a modern age, one need not worry about leaving the homestand and dying instantly. However cannibalistic monsters far too similar to humans still hide in the shadows waiting for the time to feed.

Little blue, squinted eyes stare up at a tubular building resembling a large, tall office building covered in tinted windows in the middle of a bustling city. A black-haired, ivory-skinned man stands on the sidewalk, in a long sand-colored trench coat, black turtleneck, black slacks, and black shoes. His face displays a clear look of disdain while looking upon the building in front of him.

“Mr. Otto! Hemlock Otto!”

His name comes from a rather posh feminine voice in front of him. Taking his eyes off the building, he sees the vision of an elderly white woman dressed in a long, light lime-colored skirt and a rather vintage-looking blouse. Cane in hand, she sweeps the ground in front of her as she walks, fading green hair up, with bangs swooping to one side of her face.

“You have to speak, boy, or I don’t know where you are!” she says in a stern tone.

“I’m here ma’am,” Hemlock replies, moving closer to her so doesn’t walk too far into the sidewalk, her cane smacking the side of his shoes before stating calmly, “I’m in front of you.”

She smiles letting out a light chuckle. “Very good!”

He can see the scarring over her eyes, now closer to her. If he had to guess, she was burned with acid years ago. “With all due respect ma’am, I—”

“Shush now! I don’t want to hear about this “I work alone, this system isn’t for me.” This is for your benefit, sir, do not get arrested!” she interrupted, “Now come!”

 “Mrs. Whitlock,” Hemlock exclaims as the older woman swiftly turns around and walks back into the building. He follows.

She leads him through the automatic doors, into a barren first level of an office building. If this is supposed to be the great agency of hunters in the city, it looks like pure shit, with its pale walls, willing plants, large, tinted windows, and uncomfortable-looking couches.

“Mrs. Whitlock it is quiet—”

“Pay this no mind! It is simply a cover, a safety between the real world and us.” She remarks, “And enough with the formalities! Call me Granny Gwyn!”

As Gwyndolyn and Hemlock walked through, two young individuals stood off to the side watching them. A woman with duel-colored hair, blonde on the left and pistachio green on the right, bisque skin, and pale olive eyes. Wearing an oversized neutral-colored sweater, a pleated skirt, stockings that matched her skin color, and tall-heeled boots. Next to her was a man, clearly related to her, given their shared skin tone and eye color only he’s hair is blonde. He wears an acid green beret matching the accents on his light brown oversized cotton vest that overlays a cream button-up shirt tucked into his brown slacks that barely reach his dark brown dress shoes.  

“This is our punishment,” the man sighed.

“It’s not a punishment, Caelyn,” the woman replied.

“The craziest vigilante in the Willowcrest inducted into the agency, and put under your care—”

“Most, if not all, of the GGHs are “under my care”, he’s not going to be any different.”

“Blythe—”

“I don’t know why you are so worried,” Blythe scoffs. Heading for the stairs. “You don’t even work here.”

“But I do live here, and you’re my sister!” Caelyn exclaims, following after her.

Hemlock presses the elevator call button before stating, “Mrs. Gwyndolyn, I have very little faith that this becoming a GGH will make much of a difference for me.”

“Yet, it will keep you from going to jail for Five years!” Gwyndolyn declares as the elevator dings before the doors open. “We are starting to floor seven, son.”

Hemlock observes the many buttons on the display. There are 5 floors below and 64 above. “I have no need to show you the basement floors, our forensics lab, our garage, and some other department that lives down there, places I doubt would be of any interest to you,” Gwyndolyn comments.

Hemlock shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the garage at some point. If I have to work here for the rest of my career.”

“You like cars?”

“Motorcycles,” Hemlock simply replies, “but I also like cars.”

“My husband loves motorcycles.” Gwyndolyn coos softly before the elevator opens.

The two steps out in the small area hosting the elevators, soft warm natural-colored walls reminded Hemlock of the old childhood memories of Hemlock going to the family doctor with his mother.

“I’ll have you meet the secretary. I know you; hunters feel a center way about offices and desks, but if you need an office one can be provided to you, and it will be on this floor,” Gwendolyn explains as she and Hemlock walk down the hallway.

Hemlock hums before stopping at a door in about the middle of the hallway. A dark door with a placard reading secretary. After smacking her cane on the bottom of the door the bottom of the door, the same blonde man with an acid green hat who had been watching them before, opens it.

“Hi granny,” Caelyn says with a smile.

“Is your sister in?” Gwyndolyn asks as she enters, Hemlock slowly entering behind her.

Cream-colored walls, walnut-colored furniture, black filing cabins, a large neatly cluttered desk in the center, a nice cream couch against the wall next to the desk with a green quilt hanging off the back of it, and pictures and degrees on the wall.

“I’m right here granny,” A Blythe remarks standing up from squatting down to get into the bottom drawer in a filing cabinet. Looking up from the thick file in hand, the duel-haired young woman smiles at the sight of Gwyndolyn and Hemlock, “Welcome to The Grimhaven Agency.”

Hemlock quickly observes many things silently. Everyone in the room talks in a posh manner. Gwyndolyn is the poshest of the three. The young man in the room is not fond of him. The office feels very lived in. The young woman in front of him has a beautiful smile—a smile that pulls locked-away memories of lost love to the front of Hemlock’s mind and gives him the beginnings of a splitting headache.

“I’m Blythe Rosenheim,” Blythe informs sticking a handout for Hemlock to shake.

“Hemlock Otto,” he replies shaking her hand.

“I’ll report to me for most of your needs,” she adds, “assignments, testimonies, excreta.”

Hemlock nods, his mouth open ready to ask the young girl a question before Gwyndolyn taps her cane on the ground, “Alright there is more for you to see,” she comments, heading for the door.

“Have a nice day granny,” Blythe calls as Gwyndolyn and Hemlock leave her office.

“Who was the blonde boy?” Hemlock asks.

“Caelyn,” Gwyndolyn simply replies, “Was he giving you evil looks?”

“He didn’t seem fond of my presence.”  

“Pay him no mind. He is just a little boy angry at the world.”

Hemlock hums as they approach the elevator, he presses the call button and steps into the elevator with Gwyndolyn waiting for her instructions.

“Floor 4, son.”

The older woman leads Hemlock to the many floors, departments, and areas in The Grimhaven Agency building as if he were a dog. The fitness center, the infirmary, the armory, the cafeteria, and even the garage. He was her little pup, chasing after her dress strings as if they were toys, disputes not having an interest in the Grimhaven Agency, and its bureaucracy around the hunter society he had been in since his early 20s. However, he does listen and observe, because the great Hemlock Otto- Willowcrest's most prolific vigilante grotesquerie hunter- would rather die a hunter under the Grimhaven Agency than in a prison cell.

“Alright son,” Gwyndolyn sighs, “You now have freedom to do as you must until 6, unless you have changed your mind about living here.”

“No, Mrs. Gwyndolyn, I have not.”

Gwyndolyn ticks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, “At least call me Mrs. Gwyn, enough of the Gwyndolyn shit.”

“Apologizes, my mother raised me to be polite.”

Gwyndolyn hums, “I hope to hear more about your mother,” she comments before heading off, “Enjoy your first day, son.”

Hemlock watched the older woman toddle away, before getting into the elevator once again to go back up to the seventh floor to Blythe’s office. Knocking on her door, she remarks a soft “Come in.”

Sitting behind a multi-monitor computer, eyebrows raised at Hemlock coming through her door, “You’re not moving in?” she asks.

“I have my own apartment,” he replied.

Blythe hums, “Well, I have nothing for you today. " She explains, “Everything is either taken or occupied. If I had known you weren’t moving in today, I would have called you out.”

Hemlock sighs, “If you would like to stay to see if anything new comes in, you are more than welcome to,” Blythe adds.

He settles on the couch, a hand resting on his cheek. The comforting sounds of Blythe’s fingers hitting the key on the keyboard, the comfortable temperature, and the smell of eucalyptus and green tea lulled him to sleep.

“DREW! DREW!”

“COME ON STAY WITH ME!”

“Hemlock…”

“It’ll be okay, It’ll be okay! I gotcha babe, stay with me!”

“Hemlock…”

“DREW!”

Hemlock bolts up out of his nightmare, with the same blanket on the back of the couch now on his lap as he lays across the small couch, having no recollection of lying on the couch or grabbing the blanket.

He let out a heavy sigh, sitting on the couch properly he rests his elbows on his knees before putting his head in his hands.

“Who are they?” Blythe asks, softly.

“Huh?”

“Who is Drew?” she replies.

Hemlock looked up at her, and she looked at him with a pitiful gaze before he sighed heavily once again, “My girlfriend.”

This silence blankets them. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not awkward; it’s just silent. The room still has a nice temperature, and the smell of eucalyptus and green tea is still in the air. However, it’s fainter than before, and there is no soft tapping of keys on a typeset.

“Go home, Hemlock,” Blythe instructs.

“I’m fin—”

“It’s 6 p.m., go home,” she remarks interrupting him, “I make sure there is something for you first thing tomorrow.”

Hemlock stands, “Have a nice night, Blythe,” he mutters before leaving her office to get back into the elevator for the umpteenth, exit the agency, hop on his motorcycle, and head home.

Entering his apartment, he shrugs off his coat and tosses it on the back of the couch after pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting it while heading to his kitchen.

His apartment is a modern style yet rather sparse of personal objects that would add to a comforting clutter. The only light in his space was from the overhead light above the stove in the kitchen, and the light coming through the large windows.  

Placing a pan on the stovetop, Hemlock pulls a couple of eggs from the fridge. With his nightmare about 15 minutes ago, he knew he couldn’t keep an “actual” dinner down, thus scrambled eggs would do.

While he cooked, sounds could be heard behind him. They were not the normal settling sounds of a building; they were almost inhuman sounds of something approaching him.

His cigarette rests in an ashtray near him, and he transfers his eggs onto a plate. The same inhuman sounds approached him slowly from behind him.

In one swift motion, he takes the hot frying pan he was using and smacks whatever is behind him, hitting something between a solid and a liquid. Hemlock turned around quickly facing a type of creature his is all too familiar with.

Animalistic in both appearance and nature, the creature is almost deer-like with muted colors. Unnaturally long in an uncanny way, very thin with a rib cage that is almost exposed, back hunched in an uncomfortable-looking way. Struggling to stand on the traction-less floor with its pencil-thin legs, it looks at Hemlock with deep soulless eyes that bulged out of their sockets before roaring a loud, screeching roar showing off its many teeth.

A grotesquerie, in his apartment!

“FUCK!” Hemlock shouts, racing out of the kitchen.

Barely making it out into the living area, he is rammed in the back sending him into the hardwood floors of his apartment. The creature gnaws at his legs, his thick pants preventing its sharp teeth from touching Hemlock's skin.

In the past seven years of being a private (and illegal) grotesquerie hunter, Hemlock has never struggled as much as he has now. Yes, normally, he has a weapon, yet the government confiscated any weapons he had in his positions when that finally “caught” him, even though he had legally obtained all the weapons he owned. Yet even with his fist, he can normally do enough to get at least free.

Kicking the grotesquerie in the face with his free foot, getting his leg free, however, the grotesquerie then chopped down on his forearm actually breaking the skin and digging into his skin.

It felt like time was going by so painfully slowly as he kicked at the beast atop him and lay on the floor with the stinging pain of the creature's teeth in his forearm. His front door is then slammed open, smacking into the wall after being taken off its hinges forcibly.

Then a gunshot.

Shot clean between the eyes, the grotesquerie flops into Hemlock's lap. When looking in the direction of the gunshot, “Blythe?!”

Panting in the doorway of his front door was that duel-haired secretary in her oversized sweater and pleaded skirt, with a compact handgun in hand. “You should have agreed to live at Grimhaven,” Blythe huffs.

His pain is too great to come up with a comeback. After Blythe helps him off the floor, they go back to Grimhaven, where he was being doctored by a sanatorium nurse, before reluctantly agreeing with Gwyndolyn that he should live in one of the penthouse apartments in the Grimhaven building. A lack of personal items makes the collection of his things smoother than presumed by those at Grimhaven, allowing Hemlock’s move to take just a day.

“Fuck,” he curses, attempting to pick up one of the large paintings he had in his old apartment.

He can hear a door open across the hallway, turning around swiftly to apologize for the noise he’s making, he lets out a sarcastic little chuckle when his eyes meet Blythe’s.

Leaning against her apartment’s doorframe, a foot resting against her other leg’s calf in a pair of cotton shorts, an oversized sweatshirt with the embroidered text of her alma mater across the chest, and hair clipped up and out of her face.

“Do you need help?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine,” Hemlock muttered, attempting to pick up the painting again, only to lose his grip and have the wooden backing of the canvas slam into the wrapped wound on his arm, “SHIT!”

“Let me help,” Blythe scoffs.

With Blythe on one side of the hefty canvas and Hemlock on the other, the two of them easily placed the painting safely in his apartment. “I’ll figure out where to put it later,” Hemlock muttered.

Blythe hums looking around his living space and seeing all the other paintings already hung up on the walls, “Do you paint?”

“No, these were all made for me,” Hemlock answers.

“Who did them?” Blythe asks, “They’re beautiful.”

“My girlfriend,” he remarks quietly.

Blythe hums once again, “Is she the reason you didn’t want to live here?”

Hemlock doesn’t answer, rather he passes by Blythe to head to the kitchen, “You know she can visit you. She can even live here with you if she wants, this is the safest place in all of Willowcrest, probably even all of West Alexandria—”

“She’s dead,” Hemlock states, making Blythe freeze, “And even if Drew was alive…”

“Hemlock, I’m so sorry,” Blythe gasps.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not like you knew,” Hemlock shrugs, “Unlike how you knew I was in danger yesterday.”

“Tracking software is put on all GGH devices whether they are provided by the agency or not,” Blythe explains, “I took advantage of your nap yesterday to put the software on your phone.”

“And the Grimhaven secretary just carries a gun?”

“I need a way to practice myself,” she comments.

“Well thank you for saving my life,” Hemlock replies.

Blythe flashes him a small smile, heading back to her apartment, “Have a nice night, Hemlock.”

“You too, Blythe.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus Character Database.

"Hey, Lear, why are you ignoring my texts again? What if I was getting robbed at gunpoint and needed your help?"

"Why would they let you use your phone during a robbery, Nona?"

"Stop getting all wrapped up in the little details. The important thing is that you check what I sent."

"Alright, alright, let's see... huh. A personality test? Aren't those a pseudoscience?"

"What a lame thing to say. Just take it already. I'll tell you what Our-Lord-And-Savior-The-Exalted-One got if you do. Woah, geez, calm down, at least let it load!"

Nexus index.

Name: Lear (Nickname given by Miss Phaeales, birth name name is Vincent Metellus) Age: 118 Species: Nymphalian Faction: LOTUS-EATER World: Eris Path: Abundance Combat type: Ice Birthday: June 28th Sexuality: [First] Phaeales (he’s het) Height: 5′8 Hair color: Sandy blonde Eye color: Blue, with a white ring around his pupils Favorite animal: Penguins Favorite food: Pasteli, hot cocoa with marshmallows Least favorite food: Gummies, green olives Favorite things: Cooking, baking, gardening, sewing, mixology, sales at the food market and his red hairpins. Least favorite things: Group chats with more than three people, ads, sports and anything that causes Miss Phaeales distress. Clothing style: Casual. Lots of sweaters, turtlenecks, and the occasional trench coat. Prefers warm neutral colors. MBTI: INFP

Lear is considered by his co-workers to be a diligent yet reserved worker. He rarely calls out sick, never slacks off, and can get along with anyone. Most sigh in relief when they're put on the same shift as him. He wordlessly carries out tasks without anyone's prompting. Despite his solid reputation at the LOTUS-EATER, not much is known about him. He doesn't accept invitations to social outings or seek the companionship of others. These requests are turned down with a soft smile and apologetic look, which makes harboring any ill-will toward him difficult.

In his heart, he can't bring himself to enjoy the freedoms deprived from the one he treasures most. He swore he'd remain by the side of a girl who abruptly stumbled into his melancholic life. This unruly girl would go on to bring excitement and adventure wherever she went. Those boring cycles spent on his lonesome were no more. Her happiness became his, a fact that's never changed. He contents himself on caring for those who he's come to be close to.

Name: Nona Age: 113 Species: Nymphalian Faction: LOTUS-EATER, Arc's Pinion (formally) World: Eris Path: Nihility Combat type: Fire Birthday: November 3rd Sexuality: Pansexual Height: 5′3 Hair color: Chestnut brown Eye color: Amber Favorite animal: Octopi (specifically the dumbo octopus) Favorite food: Red velvet cake Least favorite food: Legumes, fatty meats Favorite things: Punk rock, video games (racing in particular), drumming, clothes, accessories, makeup and plushies Least favorite things: Work, 99% of the people she meets, capitalism and the IPC Clothing style: Gothic lolita and sweet lolita, anything super cute MBTI: ESFP

"A place where anyone can enter, but few can leave."

This would best describe Arc, the purposefully forgotten quadrant of Perianth II. Most who are born here never get to see light, artificial or otherwise. Although Nymphalian's have excellent night vision, Nona was never able to accept navigating a world of darkness. She joined a group of likeminded folk who supposedly sought to better the conditions in Arc. For many years, she sacrificed plenty to realize this dream. After overhearing two of the most prominent leaders squabble over the most insignificant things, she realized the futility of relying on others for a better future.

There had been talks of Nona infiltrating the LOTUS-EATER, as she exhibited the traits necessary for an Arbiter's field of work. Her application for Thelx citizenship was readily accepted. Instead of carrying out her group's wishes, she decided to live for herself. Though Nona was initially standoffish toward her fellow LOTUS-EATER co-workers, she soon formed a bond with her mentor, [First] Phaeales and the bartender Lear.

[abigaillinc21]

Ghostfriends if they had Super Modes. The armour was inspired by the Calamity Trio from Amphibia. Hope you like it! Also let me know whose super form design you like best!

Also here’s a little bit of context on the armour designs:

Since they’re the group “Ghost Friends” they have ghost symbols all over their outfits; the ghost-shaped gems on their armour, belts (in Molly and Ollie’s case) and shoes, the ectoplasm pattern on their capes (for Molly’s case, her outer skirt piece; for Ollie’s, on his shirt sleeves), Molly’s yellow skirt piece is supposed to resemble that of a ghost’s tail (another reference to how she became on and how she manages to befriend a few ghosts, the first being Scratch), the pattern on Ollie’s shoulder guards resemble a ghost tail and the rim of his chestplate also resembles a ghost tail.

Libby’s main colour is sea green as seen with her turtleneck sweater. The spikes on her armour is a reference to the episode, “Carbon Zero Heroes”, while Molly and Ollie are trying to live out a carbon-free lifestyle, Libby prepares herself (and Scratch) for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. One of her methods of protection is putting spikes on almost everything. Her favourite animal is a turtle and her shoulder guards and her shirt resemble a turtle shell.

Molly’s main colour is hot pink as seen with her skirt and shoes. Her hair is put into a fiery ponytail since she can be very energetic at times. There are yellow and orange accents on her outfit, which references her astral ghost form (she’s a yellow-orange colour).

Oliver’s (or Ollie’s) main colour is cobalt blue as seen with his jacket. The collar on his chestplate is supposed to resemble that of a collar found on a jacket (I tried). Unlike Molly or Libby, Ollie’s clothing in this outfit has dark colours, giving the whole “Dark is not Evil” trope since before he was a ghost hunter who hunted down all ghosts (good and bad) before realizing that not all ghosts are evil and befriended a few (hence the trope).