#romeo click and drag

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

[wqnwoos]

love & shakespeare (x.mh)

-> genre fluff, college!au, academic rivals to lovers -> warnings swearing, kissing, multiple shakespeare references, gn!reader -> word count 2k

there is nothing and nobody you despise more in this world than xu minghao.

you do not like his cocky little smile and his annoyingly pretty face. you do not like the way he rocks his chair back and forth during lectures and spins his pencil around his fingers carelessly. but most of all, you do not like that he’s made it his personal mission to make your life hell.

that’s the only explanation you have for the rivalry you two have going on — everything you say in class, everything you manage to bring up, he counters. he argues. you argue back. the argument veers off the rails slightly, curses slipping out of both of you mouths, until the professor eventually steps in and stops your “debates”. it’s the same story, every literature class, every thursday at 10 in the morning, until today —

“you’re kidding.” your voice is aghast, and rightly so, you feel, as you gaze at minghao in disbelief.

“believe me,” minghao mutters darkly. “i wish i was.”

“why?” you groan, throwing your head back in despair and dragging out the syllable. “i don’t want to partner with you! that is literally the last thing i have ever wanted!”

minghao just takes the seat next to you with a roll of his eyes. “like i said, sweetheart. i don’t want this either, so can we just get on with it?”

you scoff, but he does have a point — so you shut up and dig out your laptop, before professor choi can scold you both. you drum your fingers lightly on the keyboard, turning to minghao reluctantly. “so… which book are we doing?”

“book?” he repeats, scrunching his nose at you. “have you been listening, like, at all? we’re doing a play. a shakespeare play, dumbass.”

you wave your hand dismissively. “whatever. i don’t care. it’s too early for this shit.”

he blinks at you, deadpan. “it’s half ten in the morning.”

you don’t break eye contact. “exactly?”

a short pause, before minghao clicks his tongue, turning away from you. “okay, we’re not doing a midsummer night’s dream — ”

“agreed.”

“— but i was thinking macbeth or twelfth night. or romeo and juliet.”

slowly, you nod. “those all sound okay, i guess. there’s more to say about macbeth and romeo and juliet, though. theme-wise, i mean?”

“there’s always plenty to say about shakespeare,” minghao counters. “but sure. let’s do romeo and juliet.”

“why not macbeth?” you’re asking just to be difficult. you don’t really care which play you do, you just want to see the way his brows furrow when he’s annoyed.

minghao eyes you balefully. “i don’t want you getting ideas. murdering me in my sleep or something.”

“if it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,” you quip instantly, and the joke actually makes him snort, biting down on his lip to repress his laughter.

you gasp, pointing at him. “no way! he laughs!”

“don’t be stupid,” minghao retorts, but colour is already rising to his cheeks, and he ducks his head to hide it.

it’s cute, you think, and then immediately wonder why you’re thinking that.

unsurprisingly, working with minghao is not going well.

it’s been a few days since the project was assigned, and so the two of you are holed up in a corner of the campus library, laptops open, copies of the text spread across the desk — but instead of working, you’re too busy glaring at each other to do anything useful for the presentation.

“how are you not going to put love as a theme?” minghao hisses, raking a hand through his hair.

“please!” you snort, rolling your eyes and looking away.

minghao slaps a hand to his forehead. “___, we’re literally talking about romeo and juliet. you know, widely regarded as one of the greatest love stories of all time?

“the whole thing takes place over like, four to five days, minghao,” you emphasise, leaning forward over the desk. “there’s no way anyone can fall in love that quickly.”

your project partner passes a hand over his face, biting out, “it. is. fiction.”

“infatuation is more accurate,” you pronounce, ignoring minghao’s narrowed eyes. “in my opinion, anyway.”

minghao sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes. “you know what? let’s split the slide into two. we’ll do an argument for love and an argument for infatuation. how’s that, your highness?”

you beam at him. “minghao, that’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all day.”

“oh, fuck you too,” he mutters, as he begins typing. “just find your fucking infatuation quotes and get on with it.”

“oh? and how many slides have you done, o great — ”

(within the next half an hour, the two of you are kicked out of the library. for disturbing the peace and foul language.)

“i feel like romeo is a tad dramatic,” you announce suddenly. “listen — i defy you, stars! is kinda crazy for a girl he just met.”

minghao glances up at you, taking out an airpod with a sigh. “he’s in love. it’s meant to be romantic, idiot. do you not like romance or something?”

“no! i like romance fine!” you protest, scowling. “i guess i just don’t get this play. romeo kind of bugs me. i like other romances.”

“you kind of bug me,” minghao replies childishly. “what other romances do you actually enjoy, then?”

your eyes brighten a little. “so basic, but i like pride and prejudice.”

he stares at you. “don’t tell me you’re one of those mr darcy lovers.”

you sniff. “i won’t tell you then. you just don’t understand the cultural significance of the hand flex scene.”

“sure,” he says, rolling his eyes. “god. maybe we should have done macbeth.”

you hum, eyeing your copy of the play critically. “maybe. like i said. i just don’t get it.”

“it’s a love story.” minghao takes out his other airpod. “what is there to get?”

shrugging, and slightly embarrassed, you continue. “i don’t know, it just — maybe because i’ve never been in love or something. is it really that… eclipsing?”

to your surprise, minghao doesn’t pounce on your moment of vulnerability. he just tilts his head to the side, looking at you unreadably, before shrugging. “i don’t know. you’re asking the wrong person. i’ve never been in love either.”

you nod, and then cut your eyes away from his — the atmosphere is different now. this is uncharted territory; you’re used to snarky, quick remarks and returning them equally. but recently, minghao has been…

nice. he’s been nice, and you don’t know how to deal with it.

you’re jolted out of your thoughts by his voice again. “i’d like to be, though,” he says, voice quieter, avoiding your gaze. “in love, i mean. it sounds pretty nice.”

“yeah,” you hear yourself saying. “i think you’ll get there.”

something flashes in his eyes, but he’s quick to disguise it with a mischievous grin. “oh? you think i have loveable qualities, ___?”

“to me, no. to others, sure,” you say dismissively. (and you’re lying through your teeth, you realise with a sinking stomach as you say it.)

minghao cups his hands under his chin in a flower pose, beaming. “you think i’m handsome though, right?”

you scoff, beginning to studiously write out your notes again. “sure, minghao. you’re cute.”

(inwardly, you’re screaming. outwardly, you are the very epitome of calm and dismissive.)

there’s silence for a moment, so you glance at him, and with a hidden smirk you realise he’s blushing. “i wasn’t expecting you to actually admit it,” he mumbles, eyes wide.

you wave a hand, continuing your writing. “i’m not blind. you’re handsome or whatever, just… not my type?”

“not your type?” the boy opposite you snorts, leaning back and folding his arms, looking slightly offended. “why? what’s your type?”

you bite down on your lower lip to suppress an amused giggle, instead maintaining your unbothered facade. “mmm… do you know kwon soonyoung? the football guy?”

minghao raises a brow. “he’s a friend of mine.”

“ahh, really?” you feign surprise. of course you knew that already. “he’s cute. he seems kind.”

minghao just wrinkles his nose in blatant disgust — if you actually liked soonyoung, you’d be a little indignant at the way he turns back to his laptop. you do manage to catch his distasteful mutte: “that man genuinely believes he is a tiger, and this…” — before he trails off into silence, shaking his head.

after that day, minghao hasn’t been as nice to you. the two of you finished off the presentation in stilted silence, charged with a tension you can’t quite work out. he only talks to enough when necessary, barely meets your eyes, and while once you might not have minded, now your feelings have changed. significantly.

but clearly, he’s tired of you.

a week later, you and minghao ace the presentation on romeo and juliet. your professor loves the slides — compliments your arguments on love versus infatuation — is intrigued by the quotes the two of you have picked out. you do everything right.

which means both of you are awarded full marks; it has you bouncing out the room with glee, while minghao trails behind you, hiding a smile at your giddiness.

“you’re acting like you’ve never gotten full marks before,” he remarks. “and i know for a fact that’s not true.”

you glance at him, wondering how he has the gall to comment on your happiness when he’s been the cause of your unhappiness for so long. “dude. can i not just be happy?”

startled, minghao raises his hands and steps back. “of course you can. i just meant — i don’t know. you can be quite serious a lot of the time.”

“me?” you sound shocked when you whip round to face him, but that’s because you are. “i’m the one who looks serious? what about you? you look like you’re always sucking a lemon.”

your partner looks insulted. “excuse me?“

“what?” you snap, sudden months of frustration pouring out. “i’ve literally never seen you look at me without burning anger in those eyes.”

“burning anger?” he repeats, lips forming a slight sneer. “that’s a little dramatic, sweetheart.”

“don’t call me that!”

he steps closer, quirking a brow. “or what?”

suddenly, he’s too close — you turn your head to the side, glancing down the deserted corridor with warmth rising to your cheeks. “nothing,” you say, with more heat than necessary. “you’re so annoying, xu minghao.”

“you’re so dramatic, ___ ___,” he mimics immediately, tilting his head to the side. god, he’s unbearably close; you can feel his body’s warmth, smell his cologne — fresh, minty, altogether too enticing.

“you look flustered,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. another step forward; his voice takes on a light, teasing tone. “do i make you nervous?”

“no!” you retort, sharper and louder than needed. “you annoy me. you’re annoying.” but even as you utter the words, you’re leaning back into him.

“shut up,” he murmurs, so gently it feels like a confession — he brings a hand up to cup you cheek, thumb caressing your skin, as you bite out your next words;

“make me.”

minghao’s eyes spark at the challenge; one second he’s gazing at you with fire in his eyes, and the next, his lips are colliding with yours in bruising, urgent kisses — “god,” he gasps out between them, as your hands loop around his neck and into his hair, “you are so — fucking — irritating.”

you pull back with and beam at him innocently. “oh, but you like it.”

he rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it.

you push your luck, wrapping your arms around him and beaming. “one might even say that… you like me.”

silence, as he gazes at your bright eyes and happy smile, before softening his facade and smiling. “sure,” he admits reluctantly. “i like you. my only love sprung from my only hate, you could say.”

his smile widens when yours does, as you place a kiss on his cheek, and then he mutters lowly; “god, i knew you were lying about soonyoung!”

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Same anon from last time, but skskfjd I have so much to yap about?? Especially about my personal favs

The last Ritsu fic just make me think of Leo version, for some reason. Because like, this man, this guy, this Satan spawn if he was sent to the future and somehow, miraculously ended with Leo, he straight up the type to go into denial.

Like, him?? Leo?? The 600k influencer?? Where all of his fans is dying to be with him and a much better option (dramatic ass) somehow ended up with the NPC?? He's having an identity crisis because did he lose his taste in people already?? He blame Darkwick for not allowing to leave all the time because he ended up settle down for the "Honor Roll" or the "Useless NPC"

He probably think or believe he ended up with MC because she must've been desperate to be in a relationship. Of course, he's the Leo after all, everyone would wanted to be with him, even the basic NPC themselves. (Spoiler alert; he's the one who fell first and hard. Who's the one into the chick now, Leo?)

The diabolical streamer gets married?? (No click bait)

Leo wakes up in an unknown yet familiar room where he discovers some things about the future

Wc: 2,1K

Notes: it's implied you two were about to have sex.

No beta, if I have to close the document again I will die. Who would have guessed rewriting the same thing three times would make you fed up with it? /S

If leo is kinda ooc let's just say the anomaly made him more mellow jsjs

The thumping pulsation of his heartbeat inside his skull, pushing against the bone seeking to burst, does an unsurprising better work at waking him than any alarm clock, the pain ripping the sleep away from Leo in each of its quick waves.

One of his hands falls between his eyebrows, applying force against them that rolled down his temporal to the occipital where it pooled as honey-thick pleasurable pressure, even though it did an underwhelming job at soothing the ache to say the least. It's unlike any hangover he had ever gotten.

“Why in hell does my head hurt so fucking much?” It isn't like he has been drinking lately, ever since coming to darkwick the only chance at getting drinks was when he gets an R&R accepted, which Alan hasn't done in a good few days. At one point he thought that obscuary’s bar might sell him booze, given Romeo's complaints about a ‘drunk’ Haru, but they were just anomalous drinks that mimicked it so he wouldn't get a hangover either way.

Extending his hand towards the nightstand Leo starts patting around trying to find his phone to call Sho so he gets him some aspirin or something. After a few failed attempts he reluctantly starts opening his eyes slowly only to see that his phone wasn't there. Did he forget it at the bar? Or maybe sober designated driver Sho decided to take it away so he wouldn't embarrass himself?

Before he can even start cussing his friend out a whiff of sweet chocolate catches his nose. Could it be that he finally caved in and made him the trendy chocolate pastries shaped like dachshunds he has been asking him to? He always refused to, saying things like ‘cooking isn't the same as baking’ or ‘it’s really precise, I can't just throw things in a bowl and hope it works out’ but it seems he is humoring Leo again.

Now in a better mood, he peeks a leg under the unusually nice and heavy comforter and starts looking for his slippers still laying down. When he finds one he sits up and follows the smell.

Dragging his feet across the tiled floors Leo doesn't notice how different the floorplan -or everything really- is to Vagastorm, the white paint on the walls pristine rather than dirty with dubious substances and the hallway has a lingering scent of bergamot and sage clinging to clean AC cooled breeze, totally different to the drowning rust and oil hanging in suffocating hot air. Strangely enough he doesn't notice either how naturally he navigates without even one though forming, almost as if he was familiar with it.

Stopping just under the arch leading to the dining room, his enthusiasm falters as the white plate on the glass table was holding, disappointingly, not his pastries but cut up brownies with some red flakes over, maybe chili flakes? It would still be a spicy dessert so curious he reaches a hand over but before his fingers even graze it a playful voice scolds him like a little child.

“They are still hot! I don't want you whining about stomach ache”

If ghouls weren't more sturdy than humans Leo is 100 percent sure he would have gotten whiplash with the way his head snapped towards the right, surprised at your presence. Despite what he might have normally done, going on and on about how much of an obsessive fan you were for hanging out around his room and how he would make Darkwick get a restraining order on you, something inclined him to do nothing, almost feeling like it was obviously natural for you to be here.

It isn't until you start walking towards him, a playful smirk on your face, that he notices that there is a baby no older than ten months hanging on your hip.

Now beside him, your hand combs his bed hair, raking his scalp with the blunt end of your nails, the few times his ashy gray hair tangled around your fingers and got pulled, his nerves and spine trembled slightly. Even if he reasons pulling away –He cares so much about his hair, spending a good amount of money and time on it only for a nobody NPC to spread skin oils on it?!– the surprising ease that came with your touch urged him to stay and rest against the warmth

“Did Emmy wake you up? it's unusual for you to wake up so early” looking through his eyelashes, the black minimalist asymmetrical clock with cherry red arms points to 7:30. How come he woke up so early? When he spends the night editing or doxxing he barely can stand at 12:45. The sleep still hanging to his yellow eyes reminds him of when Alan bangs on his door to force him to train “were you editing that video up late?”

“Video?”

Putting your daughter in the highchair you start tinkering inside the kitchen, cutting some berries and fruit, grabbing a plastic bowl shaped like a panda and putting a dollop of yogurt before sprinkling chia seeds “weren't you doing a summary video for our anniversary? Your fans are kind of pushy about it, and I know you defend them saying they are mostly teens but…”

Tuning out the rambling as background noise, Leo's yellow eyes meet matching ones on the high chair, looking up to him with such an innocent love he can feel awkwardness seeping out of his bones, seeing something so small and weak put so much trust on someone who regularly scams rich old men.

“But I guess it's whatever” coming back to the table you settle the bowl in front of the toddler and face him again, now slightly worried “are you feeling alright, Leo?”

“I must be missing too much sleep lately” the words leave his mouth before he can even think about them

“Sho mentioned sending you some things for it if you wanted them”

“Hmm… guess I should see if I can finish it already” Leo reaches for his phone that was laying on the table and unlock it as he walks to his study, a big desk with a three monitor setup and a green screen. Throwing himself on the couch Leo opens his Whatsapp and sees that his chat with Sho has a bunch of notifications, most if not all videos.

Leisurely scrolling through the miniature one of them catches his eye.

It's an off centered video inside his Vagastorm dorm, very obviously taken as a prank on him.

Both of you are laying down on his bed and seeing something on his phone.

“I don't like that one, you look weirder than usual” without giving you a chance to refuse he scrolls to the next picture.

“We have gone through 45 pictures, what is the fuss about?”

“A makeup brand wants to send a PR package for Valentine's so you need a proper headshot” scrolling away 5 or more photos in rapid fire he sighs into your shoulder.

“Why don't we take a few in my phone?”

“No way, your camera sucks”

“If it's so much of a drag why not just decline? It isn't like you need some spare cash ”

“If I don't post -anything- for Valentine's my fans are going to think we are going through a hard patch and you already saw how weird they can be” it is very obvious for you that he means last Valentine's when a swarm of fans chased after you two like paparazzi. Even then he digs his head deeper in the junction of your neck and his arms hug you closer.

“Is that all?” You ask teasingly and he mumbles something into your skin “hum? I didn't catch that”

“I want all those bastards to know you are mine”

For a second it almost seems like the video froze but suddenly the half of his body he can see is dragged off screen to the right side of the bed.

“Aren't you too sweet to be the demonic influencer~~?” The phone's audio managed to catch some soft mwahs.

“Stop slobbering over my face I have to meet-! Oh~ I don't mind this too much actually”

And the video cuts to black.

A curse towards his friend slips from his mouth before wondering why exactly he has a slight memory of the event like staring at a rock under muddy water.

Sighing and turning off his phone Leo's devilish yellow eyes turn to the monitor displaying the screensaver. It isn't even one second before his natural curiosity takes over and wants to start snooping, wanting to see any future trends or blackmail he could use -would it even be snooping if it's his own computer?- and as soon as the wireless mouse moves the oh so famous video pops on the editing app.

The frame he left it at was the ending of the wedding ceremony, just after the telling of vows. At the beginning it is quite far away, just enough to distinguish who they are by rough features but as the couple -or some reason it's less embarrassing to say couple than say you and him- get closer to kiss so does the camarographer, quickly panning closer until both of your faces are encased in the frame. His caramel eyes dripping with such sweetness it reaches out from the screen to his tongue and makes him sick.

“Aww, looking kind of sour over here” your hands smooth the shoulders of his pajamas before digging each thumb under his shoulder blade attempting to undo years of hunching over work and making him sit up straight “feeling kind of jealous I haven't been paying much attention to you lately?”

Sliding a hand up the column of his neck, the nails softly scraping the skin making him sigh and almost inaudible “NPC” Through half open eyes Leo sees your face getting closer and how your lips curve into a smile.

“Back to that stupid name like back at the academy? Last time I checked I was LI” hot lips climb up and around his neck and behind his left ear “reminiscing about those times now? How about we reenact something else from back then?” slowly he moves his head to the side, Instigated by the thumb pressing on his cheek. Instinctually he opens his mouth.

Something wet enters his mouth and his hair is pulled up dragging his head above water.

“dude, are you okay?!” Sho yelps, patting him harshly on the back to get the water out of his lungs “I knew this wasn't a good idea”

Roughly Leo elbows Sho let him go and he sits on the floor feeling his lungs and nose burn each time he breathes in.

As his sight stops being obscured by thick black fog his surroundings get clearer. It was supposed to be an offhanded mention by their teacher but, after the class insisted, he took them to an exceptionally big marble bird pond he claimed a person could see their future in if they dipped their head in yet he refused to allow any of the students to do so.

Unsurprisingly Leo's curiosity got the better of him and Sho fell alongside him, sneaking in to see if it was true.

Just behind Sho someone he wishes didn't have to see in a while appears, you.

“What is the NPC doing here?”The question fell from his lips almost like a hiss.

“Alan saw you two leaving Vagastorm after curfew and asked me to check” given how Leo seemed still too winded to stand sho tells you to help him drag him back to their dorm. As you hunch besides him and slide his arm behind your neck you notice something under his shirt “Leo, you have a cut there!” it isn't weird noting how he was positioned and the somewhat sharp edge of the birdpond.

Your fingers dance over the thin but long cut just above his clavicle, the white skin irritated red.

Regardless of how innocent this touch around his neck was, it was impossible to separate it from the previous sight into the future with the current one.

Now with newly gained strength he swats your hand away “don't get so handsy so quickly, NPC” and slides both arms over Sho's shoulders who just sighs and carries him princess style.

“Bye, senpai” Sho shoots you a quick goodbye before going away with Leo who he notices is far too quiet than usual but as he looks down he finds him blushing and even his ears dusted with cherry red “why are you even red faced? It isn't even the first time I hold you like this… Oh don't tell me-”

“Shut the fuck up”

“First bet you lose”

[g1rld1ary]

love's light wings - neil perry x fem!reader

wc: 967

cw: smoking, you meet neil at a party and he recites shakespeare to you

The air was cold and fresh on your face as you leant against the first floor balcony, a welcome change from the overwhelming heat from the party inside. Donna by Ritchie Valens was playing inside, muffled behind the closed door. You hummed along to yourself, unafraid of being heard. It seemed like your whole school was crammed inside the house, or at least was during the peak of the party. Through the course of your smoke break you’d watched people start to dissipate, couples leaving giggly and hand in hand, unaware of you watching from above. You frowned, taking another drag from the cigarette. You were stuck at the party until your friend’s dumb boyfriend decided he was ready to drive you both home. Maybe you did want a boyfriend, if only for the perks.

Neil wasn’t typically one for a party. He hadn’t been to a real one at all until he’d been brought along by Knox, who’d gotten a plus one from Chris. He’d enjoyed it, mostly, but he’d never learnt how to handle his liquor which was why he was out in the snow alone, throwing up into a bush. Youth was on his side and he recovered quickly, still feeling some of the effects of too many drinks. Then he saw you. You, leaning up against the balcony like an angel, backlighting from the house creating a halo effect around your body. Neil wondered if you were even real. Smoking peacefully, Neil thought you were undoubtedly the most beautiful girl he’d seen in his entire life.

“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.” The lines tumble from his lips before he could even consider it might be a bad idea. If he was sober he would have been mortified, both at the utter reveal of his soul, and that he’d spoken to a pretty girl, just like that.

You’d never had Shakespeare recited to you before. You’d studied Romeo and Juliet in school, of course, but it only properly clicked when a boy was reciting it to you as if it had come from his own heart.

“And you’re Romeo in this scenario?” You called down to him, amused by his dazed expression. He nodded eagerly.

“See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand.

O, that I were a glove upon the hand,

That I might touch that cheek!” You giggle at that, glancing at your glove-covered hand.

“Do you have a name, Romeo?”

“Neil!” He yelled, waving adorably. You returned it with great amusement. “Neil Perry.”

“Why haven’t I seen you around before, Neil Perry?” There weren’t that many schools in the area, and you were sure you’d found all the cute boys already.

“I go to Welton,” He replied, “I only see the sun once a year.” You laughed loudly at that, tipping your head back joyfully. Neil watched in adoration.

“You should come by more often, Romeo. This is more interesting than anything the airheads in there can provide.” You nod your head back to the house where people you didn’t like where doing things you didn’t enjoy. You’d only come for your friend anyway, and what had that gotten you? Well, it had brought you to this, so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

You opened your mouth to say something else, introduce yourself maybe, when the balcony door flung open and your friend’s boyfriend was yelling something about needing you for a drinking game — not enough people to make even teams. You sighed, rolling your eyes with all the strength of your annoyance and glanced back down to Neil. He didn’t look angry, just genuinely upset to have to stop your conversation.

You hesitated in returning back inside, leaving Neil with a taste of his own medicine.

“So Romeo would — were he not Romeo called —

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.”

You hardly had time to witness Neil’s shocked, euphoric expression, but kept it in your mind as you participated in whatever dull, alcohol-infused game you’d been forced into.

It was over an hour later when you next saw Neil, surrounded by a small huddle of strange boys you assumed were also from Welton. He actually lit up when he caught sight of you, literally creating his own light source. You reddened under his gaze, unused to the attention.

Neil liked you even more up close. The soft yellow lamp cast your face in the most ethereal light and your red swing dress was endlessly flattering. Your smile sent arrows straight through his heart, making it hard to pretend he was listening to a word Charlie was saying.

“Juliet!” He approached you eagerly, ignoring the teasing from his friends. You didn’t think you were into being called by another girl’s name, but it was strangely okay when it was Neil doing it. You introduced yourself properly anyway, charmed by the way Neil tried out your name softly, smiling as he did.

“Don’t leave me waiting,” Was all you said as you pressed a slip of paper in his hand, the contents being your name and phone number. With a quick peck up to his cheek you left, following your friend out to her boyfriend’s car and the cold winter air.

The next morning the phone rang minutes after you’d woken.

[levantesdrawings]

Illustration for a Ronin AU I've had in mind for a while. (Please, click on it for better resolution.) (Sasuke has long hair in memory of Itachi.)

Some Au snippets here. I'm still working on it. 😺

There will surely be innacuracies despite my efforts, I apologize in advance. 😿 And yes, there are some Romeo and Juliet vibes, I know. 😹

The Uchiha Clan (a poweful Samurai clan) fell out of favor with the Daimyo, who feared their growing fame among the population, and was therefore disbanded. This led to the Uchiha rebellion against the Daimyo and other loyal clans but of course ended in a massacre and Itachi's death on the battlefield in the attempt to stop the conflict.

Left for dead by his opponents, Sasuke managed to drag himself away from the battlefield and began a life as a ronin. The last of his clan, with nothing but pain and despair, he swore that one day he would get his revenge.

But the loss of his family and his people was not the only wound that Sasuke suffered. With the Uchiha rebellion the betrothal with Hinata Hyuga, daughter of one of the most noble clans in the nation, was broken.

At the beginning of their engagement they knew nothing about each other., but Hinata quickly won Sasuke's heart with her patience and kindness. Some time after the massacre, it was to her that he returned in the dead of night, when the pain and despair became too heavy a burden to bear.

They truly fell in love during those stolen moments, with Sasuke not knowing that the Hyuga were secretly a Shinobi clan and that there was an order from the Daimyo to the Hyuga Clan to track him down and kill him. This is because his body was not found on the battlefield. Something that Hinata never did, warning him instead.

[skyliv]

Inarticulation

(feeling weird again! did this instead of doing something that’d make me feel so much worse, so i’m pretty proud of that! i also love the Rio Romeo song so theres a fake little title)

There’s a faint beep from outside Olivia’s office. A shadow of a person looms at the frosted glass door, their open hand hovering over the sensor that denied access. The doctor squints, her sharp gaze scrutinizing how the figure’s hair was so unkempt it seemed like a halo around them, before she shrugs and clicks a security pop-up on her computer. The day had been a drag, why not humor this visitor.

The doors slide open with a sharp hiss, causing the young woman on the other side to jump with her surprise. It’s Lucielle, in almost comically large cargo pants, a small tank top, and a speckled fur coat hanging off her shoulders. Olivia reacted with similar shock, freezing up on her yoga ball before both women smile. Lucielle’s is sweeter, more practiced, as she waves when walking in. Olivia’s, however, is awkward; she looks exhausted, her brows furrowing as she lets out a breathless chuckle.

“Heyyy..” The mutant at the doorway greeted kindly, allowing the doors to close automatically and adjusting the messenger bag on her shoulder.

“Lucy?!” Olivia stands swiftly, the ball getting kicked back and rolling under her desk. She nearly trips when she rushes forward, her lab coat billowing to her knees and falling loosely at the rolled up sleeves. They meet in the middle, slipping on the shiny tile floors into a flourish of a hug. Olivia feels quite desperate, her long arms squeezing tight as her hands practically claw for the mutant to come closer, to drown in her. Lucielle gives a small laugh, squeezing the hug herself, her eyes clenched tight.

Olivia doesn’t let go, and her words spill out without a second thought. “You thought of me! You thought of me enough to come over, are you serious?!” She practically cackles, “What about your work though? Your degree work? The bookstore?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, that’s for sure,” Lucielle answers simply, barely breaking away from the hug to look up at the exhausted smile on Olivia’s face. Even with seemingly more on her plate, her worry was directed to Olivia. “I should be asking you that! You’ve barely slept, I’m scared you haven’t been eating, is there anything I can do?”

As the mutant spoke Olivia faltered, she loosens the hug and let her gaze fall to the floor. Her face went slack with a hint of a frown. “Ah, well, no it’s been fine.. You have no need to worry!” And just like that, her professional mask slips back on: a still weak smile and a stronger stance as she attempts to hide her exhaustion. “I’m more surprised you took the time to come here than anything.”

Olivia steps back, her brows knitting together and her eyes flitting up and down her little friend. She does glance to her computer and steps back to put a nimble hand on the corner of her desk, but she keeps a polite smile on her face. Lucielle slings her bag down, the buttons on its flap quietly clinking together. She drops it and lets it droop, more interested in taking a small step forward.

A few seconds of awkward silence passes between them, barely broken up by the fans of Olivia’s computer. Until the selkie asks, “Are you available for a break? Or should I schedule an appointment?”

Lucielle rolls forward on a wheeled stool, stopping a collision by propping her leg at the base of one of the many counters surrounding the office walls. Olivia sits in a similar seat, her elbow resting on the white countertop as she gently puts her glass of water back down. Her posture is practically ruined, but Lucielle isn’t one to judge.

“I couldn’t be luckier,” Olivia continues.. She had finally gotten a time to just let loose, she may have been on the clock but rambling to this young woman was a release she didn’t know she needed. She ranted to her employees, almost berated many of her team, but knowing that this person actually listened was nice. Her emotion led to lashing out, she usually took it out on Spider-Man but it could weigh her down if she didn’t have an outlet.. And it built up quite quickly. “If I told anyone else they’d write me off as crazy- Again!”

Impressively, she wasn’t complaining about what she saw as incompetence of her workers, nor the mistreatment from her boss. Rather, it was about how she knows she’s lost herself. How she wants so much, how she’s so close to achieving it all, how she’ll keep going, but mainly how tired she’s become. Lucielle nodded along, chiming in now and then, but never wanting to overstay her welcome. She added on her understanding, sympathizing with her own stories to try and lighten the mood. It was like two old friends reconnecting, a duo you’d see at a cafe or a park, drunk or eating, spilling their hearts out.

Lucielle had ditched her sealskin coat, it laid draped over her bag on the counter next to Olivia’s lab coat. She moved to stretch, pulling her hands over her head in a much more relaxed manner than earlier. “Mmh, no, I’m lucky,” She says with a small catlike yawn, showing off sharp canines- That make Olivia remember the first time she saw them, that feeling of wanting to get close to her and just learn, just learn everything she could about this woman. “I know you, and you trust me. That must mean something.”

When Olivia was surprised, she looked like an owl: wide hazel eyes boring through you and tightly pressed lips. She was impressed to say the least, the mutant reciprocated her care and she didn’t want to recall the last time she felt that. She’s about to respond, but-

“And I trust you.”

Olivia feels like she might pass out, almost lightheaded in her shock. She rests her forehead on her hand, and sighs weakly. Lucielle rolls a bit forward on her chair, clasping her hands in her lap as she leans forward and tilts her head to the side. “Oh, shit, did I say something wrong?” Lucielle mutters. She was prone to overthinking, fearful that anything could be her fault and that she could’ve done better.

The doctor begins to laugh again, quietly, but genuinely. She shakes a bit with it, unable to contain herself before sitting up. She’s smiling again, and looks more put together than when she was venting, but as she runs a hand through her hair Lucielle can still feel how tense she is. The selkie frowns some, but can’t properly bring herself to say something.

“I- I really can’t see how! I’ve told you so many times that you know what I’ve done, what I do for a living.. And you’re still here! I don’t want to drag you down with me, the last thing I need is you getting hurt because I told you too much or-“

The villain’s voice began to shake, but she’s cut off by the boldest action she’s ever experienced. A short peck of a kiss from the other woman, silencing her in a split second. No one had ever done something so out there, almost outrageous, but she’d be lying if she didn’t like it. It doesn’t last long, and Lucielle pulls back with one hand on the counter beside them. And she just smiles again, her freckle peppered cheeks rising and her gaze lighting up when she sees the doctor’s shock. She was almost smug, like she found the only proper way to shut the head scientist up, even if her breath trembled with the boldness of the act.

Olivia was always so put together, stoic and cold to anyone in her way. She even tried to be that with Lucielle, although a bit more charismatic, she hated showing weakness for too long. Now, she couldn’t stop it. A few blinks and a few quick breaths later, she can still barely think.

Lucielle was about to sit back when Olivia’s hand on the counter reaches up to her’s before she can. That hand holds fast when it gets to her forearm, and she tugs the mutant forward on the wheeled chair, right into another warm hug. Olivia almost falls back herself, as the movement pulls Lucielle right out of her chair. She wants to say something more, some form of thanks, but she realizes the words were kissed out of her when she buries her face in the crook of the other woman’s neck.

[mybiggaybooktour]

Join the team for @lou-wilham & @ellebeaumontbooks's July tour of Benvolio & Mercutio Turn Back Time before July 1st.

To sign up to be a host click HERE.

Verona has 99 problems—including a time machine.

All Benvolio has ever desired is a peaceful life alongside his spirited—albeit quarrelsome—roommate, Mercutio. But as the story goes, the course of true love never did run smooth, and when tensions between the Montagues and the Capulets reach a boiling point, Benvolio and Mercutio are dragged into the mess Romeo makes of all their lives.

Then an older version of Benvolio crashes into their lives, offering the opportunity to change fate, Mercutio does as he always does—seizes the chance. There's just one problem: no deal is without strings, and this one involves a deadly secret that Mercutio is determined to take to the grave.

What follows is a lively adventure through the ages, replete with love and heartache. Amidst the chaos, this inseparable duo will unravel the true depth of their friendship.

A riotous romp of a retelling of Romeo & Juliet. Side effects of reading may contain laughter, heartache, and a need for more. This light, sci-fi fantasy is the perfect shelf companion to The Queer Principles of Kit Webb by Cat Sebastian, Something Fabulous by Alexis Hall, and The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting by KJ Charles.

Genre: Adult LGBTQ Scifi Fantasy Romance

Representation: Gay, and panexual main characters

TW: Character death, drug use, blood, gun violence

[fandomnsfw]

Not The Same Little Kid PT.2 - Carl Grimes x Reader

Pairing: Carl Grimes x Reader

Prompt: Notebook by Melanie Martinez; You are older than Carl and to you he was always Ricks kid but as you arrive at his 18th birthday you soon realise he might not be a kid anymore.

Warning: none just fluff, grumpy Daryl Dixon and swearing. Smut will be coming though.

ENJOY!!!

**********

Previously on Not the same little kid...

“Thank you Carl. I know I could’ve handled it myself but I’m thankful I didn’t have to. You’re a good man Carl Grimes.” You whispered carefully as you watch his smile grow.

“Anytime darlin’.” He chuckled, lifting his hand and stroking your hair sweetly before he picked up your bag and exited the front door. You felt your cheeks heat up as you followed slowly behind him and all you could think was you couldn’t believe the man in front of you was the same Carl Grimes from yesterday.

*********

You scrunched your eyes tighter as you felt the sun hit your face, choosing to drag the covers over your head as you opened up your eyes. You took a deep breath, sitting up suddenly remembering you weren’t in your own home.

You looked around the guest room with a groan before slipping on your fluffy slipper boots and taking yourself downstairs still in your pjs which consisted of cotton shorts and a tank top. When you arrived at the kitchen you nodded to Rick who was by the coffee machine.

“Mornin’.” Rick muttered as he passed you a cup, which you gladly took.

“It’s so quiet here in the morning.” You laughed softly.

Judith suddenly threw a piece of toast at Daryl who was quietly sat at the table drinking coffee. You let a snort of amusement out earning you a glare from the older man.

“Quiet? What the hell do you usually do in the morning?” Carl snorted as he entered the kitchen going straight for coffee.

“Blast music and dance around in my pjs while I make breakfast.” You chuckled as you sat down at the table with Daryl and Judith.

“Don’t let us stop you.” Carl smirked as he looked you up and down suggestively making his dad choke on his coffee.

“Carl!” Rick scolded as he tried not to smile.

“Smooth Romeo.” You snorted sarcastically, patting his cheek with a smirk before taking your coffee and walking out the room slow enough to hear Daryl laugh at Carl.

“Jesus kid ya’ got balls.” Daryl snorted making you shake your head as your walked up the stairs to your room to get dressed.

You grabbed your iPod, selected a random playlist and clicked play. Putting in your earphones before checking out your window for a weather assessment. Once you’d seen it was sunny you grabbed your khaki green high waist shorts, your black cropped vest and a pair or black combat boots. You danced around your room as you changed your clothes and put your Y/H/C hair in a high ponytail.

After you were done you grabbed your radio, attaching it to your belt. You pick up your thigh holster attaching it to your leg before sliding your knife into it. You checked your reflection as gave a nod before making your way to the kitchen with your now empty coffee cup.

You noticed no one was in the kitchen anymore so you gave a shrug before dancing your way to the sink to the song playing through your earphones. You swayed you hips sexily as you washed your coffee cup and a few left over pots someone had left, singing little bits of the song softly.

When the chorus came on you did a little spin as swayed your hips in the most seductive way you could but as you looked up you wish you hadn’t. You let out a squeal, ripping your earphones out as you clutched your chest as you stared at Carl’s amused face

“H-How long have you been stood there?” You huffed your face turning red.

“Hmm right about when you sang ‘You got a fetish for my love’.” He chuckled darkly his eyes scanning your body.

“Oh and then there was the lyrics ‘Don’t see a point in blaming, if I were you I’d do me too’ that was my favourite one.” He added with a smirk as he watched your face slowly turn bright red.

“Well now I know my rooms the only place I can dance in peace.” You huffed childishly as you shot him a glare.

“Aww Na’ I’m sorry I’ll not watch again I promise. I don’t want ya’ to feel uncomfortable this is your home too. For however long that’ll be.” Carl sighed softly as he realised how upset you were.

“T-Thank you…” You looked at him with a curious glance trying to resist the question on the tip in your tongue but as Carl looked over your body when he thought you were looking made you blurt it out.

“Do you really have a crush on me or are you just being a normal horny teenage boy?” You whispered across the room with a shy smile that you tried to hide behind your hand.

“It’s a secret.” Carl muttered before walking out the kitchen leaving you there to ponder his answer.

You spent the day helping Rick with whatever he needed it usually entailed things like delivering important stuff between council members, watching Judith or going on runs for him. Today he’d asked you to watch Judith which you were happy to do because she was beyond adorable.

“Then he said it was a secret what do you think that means?” You asked the 3 year old and almost cried from laughter when she shrugged her shoulder like she even knew what you were talking about.

“You are so cute you make me want one of my own. Should Y/N have a baby Jude?” You asked in a childish voice and she grinned up at you before nodding her head.

“Yes!” She exclaimed loudly clapping her hands encouragingly.

“I would but I need a boy to help me.” You muttered giving he a fake pout, patting her hair softly, her curls pinging everywhere.

She gasped and ran into the house as if she had a plan so you got up to follow her. She walked all the way into the house and started going upstairs. You frowned but followed her anyway as she arrived at a door she let herself in and you realised it was Carl’s room.

“Judith you should knock before you enter someone’s bedroom.” You scolded softly but she still ran up to Carl who was looking at you confused but all you could manage was a shrug.

“You help Y/N?” Judith muttered softly and suddenly you realised what she was doing and you grab her shushing her quickly.

“Don’t ask him that Judith, Y/N was joking baby girl.” You explained calmly as you flushed under Carl’s gaze.

“No I wanna hear this now. What can I help with?” Carl asked Judith as he took her from your arms.

“Help Y/N make a baby!” Judith cheered happily and you immediately covered your face with your hand. Carl whispered something in Judith’s ear before he put her down and she ran over to you happily.

“Carl said yes!” Judith laughed happily like she’d just done you a favour.

“Jesus Christ.” You muttered awkwardly as you walked out his room hoping you never have to see him again but then you remembered you live in the same house. Fuck.

You take Judith downstairs into the kitchen to start on everyones lunch. You thankfully forgot all about the incident that was until lunch actually came around.

“Did you hear Joan is pregnant?” Michonne asked Rick as they all started eating.

“What’s pregnant?” Judith asked innocently making everyone smile.

“It’s when someone is gonna have a baby.” Rick answer softly pinching her cheeks at how cute she was.

She clapped her hands and suddenly Carl looked at you with wide eyes and before you could change Judith’s train of thought she said it.

“Carl’s gonna help Y/N make a baby!” She cheered happily and suddenly all eyes were on you and Carl.

“Oh is he?” Rick asked Judith with a raised brow before turn to you.

“That was way out of context!” You defended innocently.

“I told Judith she’s so cute that she made me want a baby, then when I said I need a boy to make a baby your daughter thought your son would like help before I could stop this train wreck your son proceeded to tell Judith he’d love to and here we are.” You blurted out so fast your cheeks were beyond red and Daryl started laughing and pointing at you. You knew it was childish but you bit his finger and you had zero regrets.

“Ow you little bi-”

“Don’t you finish that sentence Dixon.” Carl snapped making everyone look at him with smiles. You looked at him with a small smile as he flushed under everyone gaze.

“Why? Ya’ got a crush kid?” Daryl snickered, throwing a cherry tomato at him.

“Ya know what I’d love it, if everyone could stop treating my feelings for her like they are childish and fleeting!” Carl snapped before standing up and storming out the room leaving everyone feeling guilty. Including yourself.

You looked around the table and caught Ricks eyes, he gave you a nod and you quickly stood up to follow Carl. You walked up to his bedroom and stopped as you arrived at the door. You gave the door a knock before entering the room slowly.

“It’s just me.” You muttered gently as you approached his bed. His back was to you but you sat down behind him before thinking about what to say.

You felt like an awful person. Carl was a sweet and good man that didn’t deserve to be treat like a child but you had been doing it and he’d just took it with a pinch of salt. And you knew that wasn’t fair on him so you decided as a sign of respect you would take his feelings seriously and try looking at him like a man.

“I’m sorry Carl.” You mumbled shyly touching his shoulder lightly. He sat up and looked at you with the saddest look you’d ever seen and it was so cute you almost want you kiss him in that moment and it shocked you.

“I know you see me as a kid but I’m not.” He grunted unhappily before getting off his bed to stand up as he paced around the room.

“I know your not.” You mumbled shyly making him spin around to face you.

“It’s just a habit.” You added as he strode across the room, grabbing your hand pulling you up to your feet and spinning you around, backing you up until you were pressed against his bedroom wall. You looked up at him in shock as he searched your face.

Your breathing quickened as he leaned down, tucking your hair behind your ear. You looked up at him nervously but made no move to removed yourself from the position as soon as he saw that he lent down brushing his lips against your ear.

“Don’t underestimate my feelings for you darlin’.” He whispered deeply in your ear, the depth of it causing a shiver to run down your spine.

He pulled back to look into your eyes, his pupils almost swallowing the blue of his eyes. God if that wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. It was like all his desires for you were swimming around in his eyes. You’d never felt so sexy and turned on in your entire life

“God you’re so beautiful.” He whispered more to himself but you heard it clear as day and it made your heart race. All you could think was ‘Please kiss me’. But instead of answering those prayers he stepped away from you. You felt cold as soon as he moved and you wanted to grab him and pull him back but you didn’t.

“I’ll see you later.” You whispered shyly before fleeing his room.

You went straight back to your room and as soon as you closed the door you collapsed against it with a shaky breath. You held a hand over your heart as you tried to calm yourself down. The warmth of his hand still burning where they touched. You could still feel his lips hovering near your ear, brushing it occasionally as his breath sent shivers rippling through your body. Jesus you were done for.

You eventually left your room when a Rick called you down for dinner. You gave a sigh as you walked down the stairs your mind still stuck in what happened earlier.

You entered the dining room with a small smile, before you sat down in between Rick and Daryl. Which was directly across from Carl. He was staring at you and you could feel it. Every glance he swept down your body sent a shiver down your spine which must’ve been visible cos Daryl asked if you were cold.

“Huh? O-Oh no I’m fine.” You stuttered awkwardly.

You lifted your eyes to see Carl was no longer looking at you. Which gave you chance to look at him. His skin was pale a dusted with freckles which you thought was beyond cute. His bandage was covered by his long wavy hair but you always thought it made him almost look like a bad boy. His full lips are what had you clenching your thighs together. He was talking to his dad about something and he laughed before biting his lower lip as if trying to stop the laughter.

You wanted to kiss him so bad. You actually wondered if he’d moan under your lips or if he’d growl and take control but it’s didn’t matter which scenario you thought of every single one of them was dirtier than the one before.

“So Y/N I was looking at houses available but the only one good to use is all the way across the other side of Alexandria.” Rick spoke to you snapping you out of your sinful thoughts and you looked at him with a forced smile.

“But you’re always welcome to just stay here. I mean you really help with Judith and we have the extra room plus I think Michonne likes having another woman around that she can actually talk to.” Rick added and you looked at Michonne who nodded eagerly. Then your eyes flicked to Carl but he was staring at his food. You wish you knew what he thought about it.

“I don’t wanna be in the way.” You muttered shyly as you shuffled your food round your plate with your fork.

“Nonsense we’d love to have you. Right Carl?” Michonne snickered as she shot Carl a smirk. Carl shot her a glare before he looked at you with a mischievous smile.

“Yeah and if your bed ever gets too lonely you can come find mine.” Carl smirked like he didn’t just invite you to sleep with him in front of his family.

“Jesus Christ Carl!” Rick choked out pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to keep his cool.

“What? Was worth a shot. I mean she hasn’t said no.” Carl chuckled as he shot you a wink. You felt you cheeks getting more hot by the second but you narrowed your eyes softly at him.

“I’ll give it some thought.” You snorted as you took a sip of your water that was next to your dinner. Carl’s eye widened slightly but it soon turned into another smirk.

“Y/N don’t encourage him.” Rick laughed behind his mouth full of food. You shot him a grin before turning to Carl.

“I dunno it’s the most attention I’ve had in years.” You smirked at Carl who blushed slight as he tried to hide his smile.

“Gross.” Daryl muttered before he continued stuffing his face.

“You don’t even live here, yet I see you more than Rick.” You huffed at him with a challenging glare.

“God! Ya’ know wha-Ya’ can’t ju-Shut up!” Daryl spluttered his ears turning slightly red but you patted his back with a sarcastic nod.

“I know I’ve heard it before, ‘If I was ya’ ol’ man yer’ ass’d be grounded’.” You imitated before bumping your shoulder into his. You enjoyed teasing Daryl but you knew he was a good man and seriously underestimates himself constantly.

“I’m only teasing Daryl and if I had you as a dad I’d be pretty thankful.” You smiled at him softly as he looked at you with his mouth slightly open. He quickly closed it and nod his head in response before going back to eating slower this time.

By the time dinner was finished you honestly felt tired but you knew it was still pretty early so you decided you go outside for a smoke and then do some reading maybe worth a glass of wine. You didn’t make a habit of smoking after the world ended but every now and then when you had a lot on your mind you’d go outside and have a smoke. It usually helped you calm down enough to think clearer.

You lit your cigarette and sat down on the porch steps with a sigh. This thing with Carl had you unsettled not only because of his age but because you’d only just broken up with someone was it really a good idea to jump into something new especially with someone who probably hasn’t dated much if at all.

You were lost in thought so you hadn’t heard anyone coming until they sat down next to you. You looked over and saw Daryl with a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth. You gave him an half smile which he returned before flicking some ash of his smoke.

“Ya’ okay?” He grumbled as if he had been reluctant to ask but honestly it made you happy that someone as untrusting as Daryl has chosen you to be someone he cares for.

“Just my mess of a love life.” You laughed bitterly whilst taking another drag of your own smoke.

“Y’ended it with that prick, so what mess?” Daryl snorted softly as he popped his smoke back into his mouth.

“Carl has made his feelings for me pretty clear.” You sighed as you leant back on the steps looking up at the sky.

“He’s a good man.” Daryl stated but you noticed he said man yet you knew he always called Carl kid. Most of the time he called you kid.

“I know but he’s so young and I can’t imagine he’s been doing much dating.” You huffed as you looked up at Daryl who was watching you.

“But he’s been through ‘nough ta’ know how to treat a woman. He has good role models.” Daryl chuckled as he hinted to himself.

“I’ve never even seen you speak to a woman casually unless it’s Carol.” You teased him as you sat up again.

“Don’t mean I don’t know how ta’ treat one.” Daryl grumbled grumpily before flicking his cigarette in the bucket before walking off the last step and heading down the road to his own house.

You quietly laughed to yourself realising he was on his way out but stopped for a smoke just to check on you. Daryl Dixon was going to be a good Daddy one day. You thought as you flicked your own smoke into the bucket before going inside.

You strolled into the kitchen to grab a drink and found Carl leaning against the counter drinking what looked like a glass of whiskey. He hadn’t noticed you yet because he had his eyes closed with his head tilted back, it looked like he had the entire world on his shoulders and it made you sad to see it.

“Underage drink. Love it.” You chuckled softly, he jumped a little at the sound of your voice but his eye opened and he gave you a soft tired smile.

“There are no laws anymore.” He chuckled softly as he took a drink of his whiskey.

“Very true.” You bit your lip to stop the smile but Carl seemed to notice anyway.

“ Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?” Carl asked, his voice sounded so confident you were actually a little shocked.

“Are you asking me on a date Carl Grimes?” You giggled nervously. Should you say yes? Maybe you should ask Rick for permission? Was that a thing? What the hell could you say? There were too many questions in your head you had no idea what to do.

Part 1 <- -> Part 3

[destinyc1020]

Hi Destiny, Sunday confession time:

Even though I know it’s parasocial of me I’m really hoping Romeo & Juliette gets some good critic reviews. The majority of audience reactions so far are really positive for the whole cast which ultimately should be the most important thing however if the critic reviews are unfavourable I can just imagine how much people will jump on that to drag Tom. Usually if a west end show received mixed reviews it wouldn’t cause too much attention but Toms name generates clicks so I imagine they’ll be quite a lot of articles/online discussion about it much like what happened after TCR. I would hate for that to overshadow the hard work the full cast and crew have put into this.

Hey Anon 👋🏾

Sorry, I'm just now getting to your confession Anon. I was out of town and had a serious family event that was pretty emotional, so I kind of took a little break from Tumblr for a few days.

Anyway, I think that although reviews for Romeo & Juliet have been somewhat mixed so far, I still feel that most reviews were mainly positive for the play, and even the negative reviews seemed to be more so complaining about Jamie's style of directing, and eccentric way of stage presenting the R&J story. Most of the reviews don't seem to be critical of Tom.

But I have been seeing a lot of positive reviews about Francesca's performance, and that might also be due to the fact that Fran has been doing theater for many years, so she probably has a lot more theater experience.

Overall, I don't think Tom chose this project for "good reviews" anyway.... I think he chose the play for his own personal enrichment and passion. 🤷🏾‍♀️

Plus, seeing the overwhelming love, appreciation, and support from the fans and the London community is probably worth WAY more to Tom than the reviews of critics any day of the week. 🥰

So I don't think it's a bad thing Anon. Overall, I think that was a great idea for Tom, and it will probably only help to fine-tune his acting skills even more imo.

I'm ALWAYS 100% a fan of actors doing theater....especially film actors. 😊

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 7

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 7: Monster

Chapter Summary: With help from your best friend, Dieter sets a trap to confront you.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.9k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, talk about addiction, grief, communication problems, drag queens, confrontation, argument, nipple play, piv sex, laugh attack

Notes: Chapter title from "Monster" by Lady Gaga. I wavered between this title and two others for longer than I'd like to admit, but I think Monster is fitting of the Halloween theme. Thank you for reading! You are an angel and I appreciate you.

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The backstage dressing room at Barracuda Bar is in complete chaos.

Half a dozen drag queens are getting into costume and character, scurrying around, painting their faces, half-dressed with padding and layers of nylons and wig caps. Loud conversation and raucous laughter fills the crowded space, barely able to fit so many larger-than-life personalities. Everyone is wired with an undercurrent of excitement and nerves. Only adding to the calamity is “Monster Mash” blaring out of a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. 

One of those queens is Parker, who is transforming himself into his drag persona Jackie Lantern. He’s leaning over the vanity, face hovering close to the mirror lined with pictures of Harold Perrineau as Mercutio in drag from the 1996 production of Romeo + Juliet. One eye open, the other closed, he applies white glitter to his eyelid. His mouth is gaping wide in concentration. 

Trying not to disturb his zen as you approach, you gently set down the bottle of champagne you brought as a gift on the cluttered vanity, then look around the room with a wide grin, gleefully soaking up the effervescent energy that hangs in the air like a thick fog. 

Parker turns towards you, eyeshadow brush in hand as he reads the word from the sign hanging around your neck, “ Sorry? ” and frowns, then meets your eyes, “I don’t get it.” 

You look down at your fitted tuxedo and hold your hands out at your sides, then spin around in a circle, thinking maybe if he sees the whole thing it will click. But he just blinks. With a sigh, you explain, “I’m a formal apology.” 

The gears visibly turn in his head, and then he throws his head back in laughter, “Oh my god, ok, I see you Midwest.” 

You smile wide and nod at him, “I love the Mercutio costume. It’s perfect. Are you doing that song from the movie?” 

“You know it,” he winks, then turns back to the mirror and starts on the other eye, “Pop that champagne, love, I’m gonna need it ASAP.” 

“Should I get some cups?” you ask him while picking the bottle back up and peeling off the foil wrapper. 

“Nah fuck that, we can just take pulls,” he mutters. 

You shrug in response and untwist the muselet caged over the cork, “Is Reese coming to see the show?” 

“Nope,” he responds with an air of annoyance, “I invited him but he never responded. Probably doing something with his wife .” 

The word wife comes out with such venom, you wonder if the woman could feel a shiver run down her spine from across Manhattan. 

“Mmm,” is all you respond, not wanting to comment further on the touchy subject. It’s not like you have any room to give dating advice. You tug on the cork of the champagne and it comes off with a POP! that garners a howl of celebration from a neighboring queen. 

Parker sets the eyeshadow brush down on the vanity and takes the bottle from your hands, raising it to his lips. He drinks it gingerly enough not to spill champagne down the corners of his mouth, but fervently enough to make you raise your eyebrows. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so nervous for a show before,” you comment as he returns the bottle to your grasp. 

He lets out a belch, then winces, “That’s so fucking warm, holy shit.” 

In the spirit of commiseration, you take a few swallows of the champagne. Your eyes start watering from the carbonation and you burp, nodding in agreement, “That’s fucking gross.” 

“One more,” he mumbles and grabs the bottle, taking another long pull before he returns to his makeup. 

You eye him suspiciously. Something is up with him, but he obviously doesn’t want to talk to you about it right now. Normally before a show he’s filled with the same raw, confident electricity powering this room, but right now he’s a bundle of nerves. 

“Did you invite your flavor of the week?” he asks, words forming around the tight O of concentration on his mouth. 

“Who, Kelly?” you respond, but don’t wait for him to answer before you scoff, “No. She asked me to meet her husband. I’m not trying to get involved with their fucking marriage.” 

When Parker turns from the mirror to stare at you blankly, as if to say really, bitch? You add, “No offense. Sorry.” 

“The shade,” he chides playfully, then returns to the mirror and asks in a casual manner, “Have you talked to Dieter?”

The question gives you whiplash. Your head spins and heart starts pounding in your chest. That name hasn’t come up in conversation in months. 

“No…? Why would I?” You push off of the vanity and cross your arms, turning your body to face Parker so you can study his face. 

“Considering the luck you’ve had dating,” he shrugs, but avoids looking at you, “I thought maybe you would reconsider.” 

A bewildered chuckle huffs from your chest, then you shake your head, “No fucking way. After what he did-“ 

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?” Parker finally pulls away from the mirror and turns his attention to you, propping a hand up on his hip, “They both came out and said it was a one-off. Y’all weren’t even exclusive. It was a meaningless hookup. You, of all people, should know a thing or two about how those work.” 

You jerk your head back in surprise, blinking at him as his gaze pierces you, then stammer, “I- I can’t date another fucking cokehead-“ 

“He has been on the wagon since then. People slip up sometimes. Again, something you , of all people, should know,” Parker advises defensively. 

It feels like a punch in the gut. 

He must recognize this, because his posture softens and he sighs, “I just… I know how much you liked him. And you keep going out with people and making all kinds of excuses for why you don’t want to see them anymore, but I think…” his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, as if he’s contemplating whether or not he really wants to tell you what he thinks. But he searches your face as he lets it rip, “I think it’s just because you still like him.” 

Your mouth gapes open as his observation hits you like a freight train. You can feel tears start to burn behind your eyes, but you shove them down. His face melts into a sympathetic pout. He continues. 

“I’ve known you since college, Lou. You’re my best friend in the whole world, and I’m gonna be real with you. The only other time you clicked that well with somebody was when you met Ethan.” 

This dissolves the dam of resolve you had been building up to keep yourself from crying. Right there in that crowded, joyous room, dressed in a silly Halloween costume, tears start to fall. 

“I know that what happened hurt, but I just think it’s something you should think about before writing him off forever,” Parker tells you softly. He places a hand on your shoulder and your face crumples. 

Mortification intertwines with the betrayal of your best friend’s honesty and a deep shame starts to percolate in the cords of your neck. They vibrate and tighten your chest until you’re gasping for breath between sobs. 

Why right now? Of all the times to talk to me about this, why right fucking now?? When we’re in a crowded room and he knows it’ll make me cry?

Even if he’s right. 

The thought grips your stomach and makes you feel squeamish. 

“Come here, baby,” he coos and envelops you in a hug, stroking your hair. 

“Miss Lantern, are you making your friend cry right now?” someone nearby asks him, but you both ignore it. 

“I love you and I don’t want anything to stand between you and happiness. Even if that thing is you,” he tells you. 

“I know,” you respond in a shaky voice, returning his hug. The surprise tide of emotion starts to waver as you get a grip on your grief. 

Parker grabs your shoulders and holds you out to inspect your face, muttering to himself, “We’re gonna have to fix this shit.” 

“Is it bad?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. He winces in response, so you turn and look in the mirror and groan. Your dramatic makeup is streaked down the sides of your face from your eyes to your jawline. You pout and whine, “God damnit , Parker.”

“Hold on,” he tells you, then peers around the room and scurries off to talk to someone while you take a few pulls off the champagne bottle. 

When Parker returns, he has a petite blonde lady in tow, and points to you, “Can you fix it?” 

Her mossy green eyes look over your face appraisingly, then she nods and tells him, “Oh absolutely,” she turns back to you and smiles, “Come with me, doll.” 

The term of endearment wrenches at your heart, but you follow her out to the hall where she has you sit on a bench. She reapplies your makeup with an expert hand, humming along to the Halloween music still blaring over the speaker from inside the dressing room. The two of you make small talk. You find out her name is Angela and she’s the lighting technician for the show, but is also a part-time makeup artist. She always brings her makeup to shows in case of emergencies.

Not that you’d call your bleeding mascara an emergency or anything, but you’re grateful nonetheless. 

Just as she’s showing you the finished product, which is fucking phenomenal, Jackie Lantern comes out of the dressing room. 

Her big white afro wig frames her face, showcasing the white glitter cut crease eyeshadow, glossy red lips, and goatee. She turns in a circle, flaunting the rhinestoned white bra and mini skirt. A matching cape flows behind her, shimmering in the light. White garter belts extend down her legs from beneath the skirt, holding up white thigh-high tights. She’s wearing long, white, fingerless gloves that almost reach her armpits. The bright, dazzling white of her outfit contrasts her dark skin beautifully. 

She is full Mercutio. 

You clap and hoot, bouncing to your feet to prance over and give her a hug. She hugs back and asks, “Are you gonna be ok?” 

You assure Jackie with a tight squeeze, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” 

She pulls back and smiles warmly at you, “I’m sorry for coming at you like that, I just wanted to talk to you about it since- ” 

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. But only for a second before she picks up the fumble, “Since it’s been on my mind.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion again. An awful feeling churns in your guts, and you ask, “Are you talking to him or something?” 

“What? No,” she scoffs, then averts her gaze to Angela and tells you, “Hey I have to talk to Ang about something, babe. I’ll see you out there?” 

“Jackie-” you warn, searching her face. She brushes you off and walks around you completely, then links arms with Angela and starts off down the hall. 

You throw your hands out to your sides in exasperation behind them. As you make your way out of the backstage area to get a drink, you replay the conversation over and over in your head, finding a million ways to interpret the things Parker said. But no matter which way you twist it, his name, even just existing in your brain as a thought, burrows beneath your skin. 

Dieter made sure to wait until just before the show started. 

He approaches the crowded, red backlit bar and orders a drink for his nerves. From what Parker has told him, this could potentially end in disaster. But he has to try. You’ve blocked him from all forms of electronic communication, and, short of showing up at your apartment unannounced, where you wouldn’t let him in anyway, he doesn’t have many other options but to trap you. 

Dieter reached out to Parker a week after you blocked him. Parker (rightfully) reamed into him for breaking your trust. 

He confided in Parker, admitting that sex with Katie only confirmed his feelings for you. That he knows there’s something more with you. He asked what he could do to make it up to you. To get you back. Parker, a bit of a closet romantic, agreed to help Dieter on his mission. He told Dieter to stay clean and give you space. That he’d be in touch. 

So Dieter did exactly that. Dieter hasn’t used coke since the day of the wrap party. 

The fucking wrap party. 

If ever he has been filled with disdain for the attention fame brings, it was the fucking wrap party. If ever he has wished that he could wipe his memory fucking clean, it was that goddamn party. 

He had been awake for 36 hours straight when they wrapped. For 54 hours when he arrived at the party. It’s like he was outside of himself, a passenger as he watched himself walk into the black tie event wearing no shoes and dirty clothes, wielding aggression towards anyone who looked at him. 

Then he saw Katie… and completely lost it. 

Every ounce of hurt he felt came spewing from his mouth like acid he hoped would fucking melt her skin to the bone. 

He screamed at her for seducing him, telling her that she ruined his fucking life, even though neither of those things are true. Like he has time and time before, he ruined his own fucking life. His part-time hobby of destroying anything that brings him joy. 

And in true ruiner fashion, when people came to Katie’s defense, Dieter lashed out at them, hurling insults and tables and really whatever the fuck he could get his hands on. The cast and crew were all present to witness, or fall victim to, his tirade. He was escorted back to his hotel room, where he slept it off for the next few days. A pilgrimage to the land of the living dead. 

Once back in LA, Mark and Darlene called a meeting, and made it clear: he’s on thin fucking ice. 

It just so happens that the movie they wrapped on tells the story of a drug addict who spirals out of control. Dieter’s meltdown so perfectly paralleled the character’s that they were able to spin it as a publicity stunt. The film is somehow projected to do better because of the incident. 

Dieter apologized to everyone involved. When he called Katie and told her that he was deeply sorry for the things he said to her, then admitted that he was on a two-day bender with no sleep, she responded casually that it “got her name in the headlines and press for the movie, so, whatever.”

Which, honestly, didn’t surprise him. 

Considering what a fucking fool he made of himself, the sanctions on his acting career have been minimal. The same can’t be said for his mental state, though. He hated himself thoroughly after his actions replayed in his sober mind. Never thought he would be able to face any of the people who received the shrapnel of his emotional explosion. 

But, miraculously, all of those people accepted his apology and moved on. Except for the person he finds himself caring about the most: you . And he hasn’t been able to do a goddamn thing about it. The degree to which he pines for your affection, for your favor, is driving him fucking mad. 

He can’t figure it out. It makes absolutely no fucking sense. The more that time goes on, the truer it is. He spent a 24-hour stint as your real life lover. Just a taste of your devotion. That’s it. 

But it’s like you engrained yourself into his fucking DNA in that 24 hours. 

Thoughts of you haunt him every single day. Innocuous shit like his bathtub, soggy paper towels, pancakes, the scent of vanilla, reality TV, the fucking Beatles, and worst of all: literally every single baked good that crosses his path. Every time it’s like you’re whispering in his ear. Memories so vivid, if he closes his eyes and focuses, he can taste them. 

From time to time, he wonders if you even think about him anymore. The dark side of him tries to convince him that you’ve moved on. But for some reason he knows, really, that isn’t true. It’s like he can feel your yearning from across the country, deep in his bones. 

This knowing intuition comforted him, kept him from giving in to the hunger that threatened to swallow him whole after he quit using coke. But he was patient. When the hunger got deafening, he closed his eyes and tuned into the buzzing in his soul that told him there’s still hope . Then two weeks ago, he got a text. 

> PARKER: > I have a plan. 

And it’s certainly a plan. Whether or not it’s a stupid fucking plan has yet to be determined. But Parker confirmed that you’re here in this bar. 

“Bugs Bunny?” a stocky Tina Turner asks him, then sips their drink through a straw as their eyes scan his baggy, gray rabbit costume. 

He tips his glass to the stranger and corrects them, “Easter bunny.” 

“Adorable,” they reach up and tug at one of the floppy ears attached to the upright hood of the onesie. 

Dieter smiles and nods at the compliment, “Yours is great too. Tina is-“ 

The sound system starts to boom, then lights flood the stage, and they both lose interest in the, frankly, dull conversation, turning instead to the start of the show. Dieter drains the remainder of his drink down his throat and sets the glass down on the bar. He sets off towards the side of the stage, angling himself to face the crowd. 

A drag queen named Boo Who is up first. Boo Who is wearing a rooty highlighter yellow wig with a side part, an angular mirrored mini dress, and mirrored high heels, a la Lady Gaga at the Monster Ball. Appropriately, she lip-syncs “Monster” by Lady Gaga.  

As Dieter scans the crowd, he notices it consists of two types of people: either singing and dancing along, or completely entranced by the performance. Everyone is in costume, which doesn’t really help with the whole “trying to ID you” thing. He checks his phone and sees an unread message from Parker. 

> PARKER: > She's a formal apology

Dieter frowns at the screen and squints back up to the faces in the crowd, wondering what the fuck that means. But then something near the front of the stage catches his eye: a white neck placard that reads SORRY in big, bold letters. The person wearing it is wearing a tuxedo, complete with a black bow tie and white gloves. Their hair is slicked back and shiny with gel. Of course, he recognizes you, even beneath the black pencil mustache painted above your red lips. You’re singing and dancing, your smile wide and taking up your whole face. 

The air is sucked from his lungs. Even from here, he can feel your light warming his soul. He can’t help but start grinning at the spectacle. 

When the song changes, you turn around and start towards the bar. His heart starts to thud heavy in his chest, feet propelling him after you before he can think twice. 

You’re on your tip-toes, stretching across the counter, yelling your order over the music to the bartender when he sits down next to you. 

“Vod-ka cran-ber-ry?” you holler, enunciating each syllable as much as you can. The bartender nods in acknowledgement, then his eyes land on the person next to you. 

“Whiskey, neat,” the man requests. The timbre of his voice resonates down your spine and into your limbs. 

Your head snaps towards it. 

The man next to you has the hood of his bunny onesie in the upright position, hiding most of his face. But you can see a shock of messy, dark curls. He’s wringing his hands together, and you can see that on one are two thick-banded rings. And his aquiline nose is poking out from behind the shadow. Soft, musky notes of violet and patchouli. 

“I’ll pay for hers, too,” he tells the bartender when he returns, setting a drink down in front of each of you. The man slides a $100 bill across the bar, “Keep the change.” 

Blood rushes to your head in a flare of rage when it all falls together.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you bark. He blinks back when he finally turns to meet your eyes. The eye contact feels like he’s reaching through your ribcage and squeezing your heart. Your knees feel wobbly and your stomach drops, but you hold your steel gaze steady. 

“I thought this would be better than showing up at your apartment unannounced,” he reasons, pressing his eyebrows together as he searches your face. His eyes flick down to the sign around your neck and the corners of his mouth upturn, “I like your costume. Very handsome.” 

Words fail you. All you can do is scoff and turn back towards the stage and walk away from him. But he catches your arm and says, “Please, Lua.” 

You spin around and square your shoulders as you spit, “What?!”

Your ferocity doesn’t scare him away. In fact, he comes closer, crowding you until all you can smell is his cologne and you can feel the heat radiating off of his body as he leans in and tells you, “It was a mistake. I’m so sorry.” 

He meets your gaze again after he says this. His eyes are soft and sincere and warm and you want to curl up inside them. Then you remember he made a fucking fool of you. He coaxed you out of your emotional hiding spot, then gutted you. 

You tried to shove those feelings back in and stitch yourself up months ago. Denied your wound’s existence, even to yourself. Ignored the rotting flesh you couldn’t bear to deal with. Now proof is humming loud in your body. The seams are pulling tight against your swollen belly. You’re so fucking close to splitting open, to spilling your guts, so he can see what he fucking did to you. 

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?” 

Parker’s words from earlier nibble away at your brain. And, logically, you understand all of the points he made. You can acknowledge their legitimacy and see the apologetic look on Dieter’s face and know that he’s being honest. 

But all the hurt you buried for months has been resurrected. You’re right back where you started: jilted. 

“Ok,” is all you respond before shaking his arm off and turning around. In that second between the word leaving your mouth and spinning away, you see his shoulders slump and sadness etch across his face. 

You zig zag through the crowd until you’re close to the stage, then don’t look back. But you can feel his gaze glued to you. Like when the mirrors in Ethan’s room come into view, a shiver runs the length of your spine and lingers. 

It tingles at the back of your neck until about half way through Jackie Lantern’s set. That’s when Dieter appears in your periphery, just a few feet away. You keep your eyes forward on the stage as you cheer and dance in support. When her last song, “Young Hearts Run Free” by Candi Staton, starts playing, everyone fucking loses it. Dieter extends a few bills up to Jackie, who takes them and stuffs them into her white, rhinestone bra. Her eyes flick from him to you and you resist the urge to flip her off before she gets back into the zone. 

She fucking kills it, as always. The crowd loves her, and they continue to cheer after she walks off stage and the intermission music starts. Your eyes dart to where Dieter was standing and find he’s no longer there. Which is your cue to get the fuck out of here.

With your head down, you push your way through the crowd, stopping at the coat check to get your jacket before you hurry out the exit. 

Brisk autumn air licks your skin as you step out the door into the night. A thick layer of clouds lay low to the ground, reflecting the artificial golden light from street lamps, making the sky glow. Frost speckles the concrete sidewalk and sparkles as you walk. 

You’re plugging your headphones into your phone when you hear Dieter coming up behind you, commanding your attention when he barks your name, “Lou ella! ” 

You jump and turn around in surprise. 

“Are you fucking serious?” he scoffs, throwing his hands out to his sides as his face twists up with outrage. 

The fire in his question ignites your anger. It flashes bright and hot beneath your skin and you respond with vitriol, stepping towards him, but allowing for about two feet of distance, “ What? What, Dieter , what the fuck do you want?” 

“I want you to stop fucking running from me,” he answers through gritted teeth. His face is shadowed beneath the hood of his fucking bunny costume, but you can see the cords of his neck standing out and know that he is furious . He continues, taking a step towards you, “Stop fucking holding back. I know you are-“ 

“You don’t know jackshit about what I’m fucking doing,” you meet his glowering eyes in a challenge. 

“No?” he raises his eyebrows and blinks. Looks up at the glowing golden sky and shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. His gaze falls on you again, “So you’re not trying to avoid talking to me?” 

“No,” you lie. Neither of you move. The word hangs in the air. It settles like shards of glass in your stomach. 

His tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip, then he scoffs, “Fucking coward .”

It comes out of his mouth in a white hot puff when it meets the cool air. 

“ Fuck you,” you growl in return.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk and he steps closer. You swallow hard at the dwindling distance between your body and his. That constant, humming electricity that ripples between you is so thick your skin is buzzing. 

“That’s it, doll, let me have it,” he purrs, “I wanna hear it. Come on.” 

Your nostrils flare and your heart starts pounding, rage bubbling in your chest, “You- You come here to my best friend’s show,” you step closer and jab your finger against his chest, “and you fucking ruin my night-“

“It’s more than that, Lua, come on, you know it is,” he coaxes, “Give it to me.”

“You- you- you- ” 

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?” 

“You-” your voice cracks, but you push the words out, “ Hurt me.” 

He nods and searches your flushed face. Like this is what he was looking for. You continue. 

“You fucked this- this fucking gorgeous woman. You were probably just fucking me on the side while you actually fucking date her. Because she’s not fucking broken like I am-“ a sob catches your throat, “She’s- she’s-“

“She’s not you , Lua. She doesn’t fucking matter to me. She is not the person that’s stuck in my fucking head. She’s not what I think about every goddamn day. That’s you ,” he holds your gaze steady as he tells you this. You start to shake your head and open your mouth, like you could convince him that he’s wrong to think that, but he starts again, “And what about you and your no-fucking-strings-attached? How’s that going for you now?”

You flinch at the mention of your promiscuity. He cups the sides of your face, and studies you carefully as he asks, “It’s not the fucking same, is it?” 

Your throat tightens. All you can think of are his hands warming your cheeks. His intense gaze. The huffs of his interrogation against your skin. 

“Is it, Lua?” he repeats, softer now, almost a mumble. His eyes are scanning your face, landing on your lips. 

You swallow hard and shake your head. 

“Why is that?” 

Your mouth falls open to answer, but he pulls your lips to his before you can utter the truth that he already knows. 

Because it’s not him. 

You meet him with a ravenous energy, That spark, that fucking magic, it’s there . It’s in his touch that drops to your waist and pulls you in close. It’s flipping your stomach upside down and rattling those stagnant butterflies loose. 

His tongue slides against yours, breaching your mouth, hungry and searching. Your hands rest against his chest for a moment, soaking in the heat of him through your palms. They slide up the surprisingly soft fabric of his costume to the hair at the nape of his neck. You pull his body to yours, and a rumble sounds from the back of his throat. 

He pulls back only enough to plead, “Stay with me tonight,” before his lips are back on yours again. Like he needs them to breathe. Like he couldn’t bear to break the contact just to ask this of you. You nod in response, refusing to pause your onslaught of messy kisses. 

“Come on,” he mumbles against your mouth, guiding you towards the busy street. You take his hand and follow him a whole three steps to a black town car that’s parked and running. He opens the door to the warm backseat and gestures for you to get in. 

This is when you notice two things:

Your red lipstick and painted-on mustache has transferred to his face and he looks fucking ridiculous. 

He had a goddamn car waiting here the whole time. 

A jolt of obstinacy makes you scoff, “Really?” 

He grins sheepishly, but doesn’t respond. As you slide into the leather backseat, you decide not to tell him about the black smudges all over his face. He gets in after you and tells the driver to go to the hotel, then turns to you, “I know you better than you think I do.” 

“Is that right?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He slides closer, leaning in so his breath is hot against your ear, “You think I don’t know you need a little stretching before you open up?” 

Heat rises to your face and pools in your belly. Your eyelids flutter as you glance up to meet his eyes. The look in his eyes is full of mischief and lust, but there’s something else there that’s softer, which keeps your gaze locked in place as its meaning steeps in your soul. 

“I missed you,” you admit, naming the significance. 

He presses his lips to yours and the kiss lingers for a tender moment before he renews it with more urgency. A tingle of want rolls across your body. 

You rake your fingers through his hair, pulling his hood down. He pulls back from the kiss and brushes his thumb against your cheek, meeting your eyes again, “I missed you, too.” 

“Yeah?” you smile, eyes flicking to his lips. 

He shrugs and gives you a boyish grin, “Maybe. I guess. A little bit.” 

You shake your head and roll your eyes, smile not fading, “I like your bunny suit, by the way.” 

“Thanks,” he looks down at it, then points to you, “I like yours, too. The tuxedo is um,” he licks his lips like he’s searching for the right words, “Really doing it for me. It looks so fucking hot on you,” his eyebrow quirks as his gaze trails down your coat, and he leans in until his nose is nuzzling against your cheek, “I can’t wait to strip it off of you piece by piece.” 

Just as your lips part with a gasp, the driver pulls up to the entrance of a hotel and puts the car in park, then calls back “Here, sir.” 

The two of you scramble out of the backseat. He grabs your hand and leads you into the hotel. Judgmental looks from the fine patrons of Whatever Fucking Five Star Hotel This Is whiz by as you trail behind him. When you reach the elevator, he punches the UP button impatiently.

The desire that hung thick in the air on the car ride begins to dissipate in the hotel lobby. You catch a glimpse of yourself and Dieter in a mirror. Your lust-fogged mind starts to clear and a strange sense of self-awareness dawns on you. Dieter has his bunny hood upright. Your hair is shiny and hard with hair gel. Smears of red lipstick and black paint coat both your mouths. Damning evidence that you were just making out. 

The two of you are incredibly out-of-context in this ritzy place. Plucked off the floor of the Barracuda Bar and dropped in this lobby that seems to be all gleaming white marble and chandeliers. 

In the elevator door’s dull reflection, you can see a few people gather behind you. Everyone is silent, all concentrating on the elevator floor countdown. 

Dieter raises your clasped hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. 

The gesture is so simple, yet so sweet it makes you feel giddy. You look up at him and find he already has eyes on you. He’s studying you with a warm kind of amusement. It brings a wide smile to your face, which spreads to him.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. A few people come out before he pulls you inside, pressing the 20 button, and you both nestle into the back corner of the elevator as the remaining guests file in. 

“You, um…” your eyes flick to him and you barely stifle a laugh, “You’ve got a little something on your face.” 

Completely stone-faced, he glances down at you, then gestures to the general area of his face, “Here?”

You nod and clamp your lips closed. The crowded elevator is hushed except for the whiz of the pulley system and the muted beeps indicating ascent. He hums and frowns, pulling the phone out of his bunny suit pocket and opening the front-facing camera. The display reveals both of your faces as a mess of black and red smears. Your black eye makeup has bled down onto your cheeks, giving you raccoon eyes. 

“I think we look fine, don’t you?” he deadpans. 

Laughter bubbles up from your belly, bursting through your nose as a snort. The noise ricochets off the walls and earns a few dirty looks. Dieter breaks, his low-pitched laughter rumbling in his throat and shaking his shoulders. 

“You’re right,” you squeak, voice cracking into another wave of laughter that you can’t stop when you look back at his phone, “We look really fucking cute.” 

The doors slide open at floor 5 and release a couple that looks annoyed by the outburst. 

“Wait wait, serious face, I’m gonna take a picture,” he instructs, and you are both able to mold your faces into solemnity for one whole second before the laughter erupts from your throats again. You bury your face against his shoulder and give into the giggles, despite the impatient sighs of your fellow elevator passengers.  

The doors slide closed and the ascent begins again. 

“Lua, wait, is it,” he nudges you for your attention. You lean back and watch him lick his thumb, then rub the very corner of his mouth, “Right here? Did I get it?” 

An involuntary snorting noise sounds from your sinuses, then you squeak, “That- that's it, babe, that’s perfect.” 

“Oh thank god,” he sighs with exaggeration, then another stifled laugh rips through his words, “I’d- I’d hate to look like a mess- in- public- ” 

The last 3 words come out in breathless wheezes. This has you both doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down your cheeks, unable to breathe, for so long you don’t even notice the other people get out on their floors. 

On floor 20, the doors slide open and he pulls you down the hall to his room, the two of you still shaking with giggles. As the door clicks closed, you’re unzipping your coat. 

Dieter turns to you with a smoldering smirk. You shrug the jacket off your shoulders and fold it over your forearm. Before you can find a proper resting place for it, he tosses it on the floor and interlaces his fingers with yours.

You let him reel you in and wrap his arms around your shoulders. Your body responds, relaxing against him as you return the embrace. The placard around your neck struggles to conform into this new shape, crinkling in protest.

He nuzzles into your hair and releases a deep sigh, “This fucking sign, Lua, it’s gotta go.” 

You snort in response, but don’t go to take it off, or move, or anything. Your joints and ligaments decay into gelatin. His lips press against your forehead and he mumbles, “Do you wanna take a shower?” 

Leaning against him like this, you can feel his cock twitch at the thought. 

“Lead the way, bunny foo-foo,” you tease, then straighten your spine and return your weight to your feet.

“Easter Bunny,” Dieter corrects you as he pushes off the wall and starts towards the bathroom. 

“Whatever you say, Peter Cottontail,” you snicker. From behind, you watch him chuckle and shake his head, so you sing, “Hoppin’ down the bunny trail. Hippity hoppity, Easter’s on its waaaay.” 

Dieter shoots you an amused smile over his shoulder as he turns into the bathroom, flipping on the light. 

This bathroom, like the one at The Plaza, is as big as your bedroom back home. A large, rectangular, backlit mirror hangs above the white marble double vanity. The floors and walls are also outfitted in white marble. There’s a deep rectangular bathtub on a platform, separate from the shower. The shower itself takes up a third of the room, sectioned off with a frosted glass divider. 

Dieter walks over to the shower and cranks the knob to hot, then spins around and stares at you. You pull the SORRY placard off over your head and set it down on the counter, grinning, “What?”

He shakes his head and approaches you, crowding you against the vanity’s countertop. His hands settle at your waist and he meets your eyes as he mutters, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

You tuck your hair behind your ear and bat your eyelashes up at him, “I’m glad I’m here, too.” 

“I am sorry,” he reasserts. You link your hands behind his neck and watch him as he glances up into the mirror, then back to you, “For… everything.”

For a moment, the only noise comes from the shower head spraying water onto the tile floor. It looks like he’s deep in thought. You study his face as he presses his forehead to yours and becomes out of focus. 

“I don’t even know how to explain myself,” he admits, “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have-“

“Hey,” you interrupt his spiraling, pulling back to meet his eyes, “I forgive you.” 

His shoulders sag and his features relax. You bring a hand to his cheek and brush your thumb against the stubble there. He flutters his eyes closed and leans into the touch. 

The tenderness that you both seem to hold hostage within yourselves so well comes into the light and lets itself be seen. Connection swells and throbs within your chest. When you close your eyes and zero in on the sensation, you swear you can feel it radiating between your souls. 

An open door. An invitation. 

Your lips meet his, soft but urgent. His fingers find the buttons of your tuxedo jacket and undo them, then the buttons of your dress shirt. You untie the black bow. It drops to the floor, followed by your jacket. His lips depart yours and press wet against your neck, then follow the unfastening of your shirt down your torso. 

You’re livewired and wanting, letting your eyelids close and your head fall back heavy. Your palms press against the countertop as you arch into the tantalizing sensation. Hushed whimpers escape your throat when he rolls his tongue against the delicate skin of your belly. 

Like he’s kissing away the hurt he caused. Licking your wounds. 

Dieter unfastens the last button and spreads open the starched white dress shirt. He grips your hips, splaying his fingers around to your back, up to the hooks of your bra. His mouth follows the firm pressure of his hands, leveraging your abdomen against his mouth as he continues to lick and kiss and suck his way up your body. 

Pleasure bubbles hot at your center, sending your pulse racing. Each flick of his tongue drips thick down your spine. 

A click sounds from your bra being unhooked and brings your attention back to Dieter. You drop your heavy-lidded gaze onto him, meeting his molten dark eyes. The elastic band of your bra slackens as he tugs at the front. You shrug off the shirt, then the bra. 

“Fuck, Lua,” Dieter hums, palming each breast, pressing a kiss into your sternum. You bring your fingertips to his hairline and comb your nails through the wild, loose curls. He looks up at you, desire etched into his features, just as obvious as your smeared makeup settling into his skin. 

You bite your lip and pull his face against your chest, smothering him between your tits. He groans and digs his fingers into the soft flesh, pressing them hard against each cheek. His thumbs find your nipples and strum them in tandem. The sensation sends waves of ecstasy down to your cunt and makes you moan. Ferocious in his movements, he comes up for air and drags his tongue up the crease of your cleavage. It slides up the slope of your breast and rolls back and forth over your nipple. 

The fluid movement makes you gasp and nod. His eyes flick to yours as his teeth catch the sensitive bud. When your jaw falls open and you release a throaty moan, the vocal manifestation of the flames of desire licking your insides, he rumbles, “Fuck, I missed that sound.”

Your pelvis is thrusting forward with a mind of its own, desperately seeking friction. But he doesn’t give it to you. Instead, he pinches and tugs on your nipples, playing with different levels of pressure until he finds one that has you melting like putty in his hands, all the while mumbling, “I think about you all the time, Lua, you know that? You know that not one fucking day goes by where I don’t think about you?” 

Too turned on to continue with this torture, you grab handfuls of his bunny suit and pull him to his feet. You kiss him in frenzied bursts, unzipping his costume as he unbuckles your pants and they drop to your ankles. 

You slide your hands down his chest, down to the elastic of his boxers, “Dee,” you whine against his mouth, “Please.” 

“Tell me what you want, love,” he purrs, plush lips catching yours. His hands slide down your sides and a finger hooks on the black lace of your underwear. An ache of anticipation throbs at your core, body screaming for him to touch you. 

“I want you to to bend me over this sink and fuck me,” you breathe, looking up through your lashes to meet his lust-blackened eyes. 

Without further question, he turns you around and pulls both your underwear and his to the ground. You meet his eyes in the mirror as his chest presses against your back. His body heat on your skin salves your chapped soul. The way his eyelids flutter tell you the feeling is mutual. 

One of his hands settles your hip, fingers digging into your flesh, while the other guides his member to smack lightly against your ass cheeks. 

You grin at each other through the mirror, and he hums against your ear, “Is this what you need, baby? Need my fat cock to stretch that sweet little pussy?”

The filthy words slide into your ear canal, down your spine, leaving a trail of charred remains as it fills you with fire. You swallow hard and nod. His cock nudges against your entrance. 

“Say it.”

The demand itself makes you whimper. Your lips form a pout and you try to drive yourself back, hoping to spur him into action. But his hand on your hip doesn’t allow for movement. He doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes steady on yours and waits.

“I- I need your fat cock to stretch out my sweet little pussy.”

“Good girl,” he coos, then presses a kiss against your pulse. His hips thrust forward, and his cock sinks into you at an excruciatingly slow pace, “Holy fuck-”

You sputter and watch his hot gaze on your contorting face. Both of his hands grip your waist now as he finds a rhythm that makes you writhe and gasp from pleasure. Each thrust sends shockwaves across your body, from the walls of your pussy through the tips of your toes. 

“Is that what you need, sweetheart?” he rumbles against your ear. 

“Faster,” you plead, pushing back against him at a quicker pace, following the urge tingling at your center. His tempo conforms to yours and you gasp, “Yes, yes, just like that, Dee-“

He groans and his fingertips dig into your skin, “Love it when you say my name, Lua,” his voice trembles with each sharp thrust that melts you from the inside out, “Does it feel good on your lips? Does it feel right? Do you feel that?”

His questions flip your stomach upside down. Because, yes, his name is like powdered sugar on your lips. Because, yes, being with him is like hearing your favorite song. Like warming your chilled hands on a fire. Like climbing into bed at the end of an exhausting day. 

“Oh my god, Dee,” you pant, nodding in agreement, “Yes- yes, I feel it.”

The mirror is starting to fog from the shower’s steam. You can barely see the reflection of yourselves anymore. Just blurs of skin moving in time. But your nerve endings are on fire, every square inch of your body doused in ecstasy as he fills you again and again. His lips hum against the crook of your neck, groaning curses with increasing frequency. 

Pleasure builds and builds at your center. You chase the sensation, meeting his thrusts in a frenzy, pushing hard against him as you moan, “Fuck, fuck, fuck- Dee, don’t stop, baby.” 

“That’s it, Lua, tell me what you need. Such a good girl, Lua. So fucking good,” he purrs into your ear. 

A twisting, dizzying static swells inside you, pulling sharp gasps of air in through your mouth. You let out a choked sob as your body fills to the brim with ecstasy, then releases it all at once. Your joints dissolve, arms and legs start to tremble, and your pussy seizes around him. 

His hips stutter, whole body going rigid for a moment before he moans and shudders, spilling inside you. He loosens his grip on your waist and wraps his arms around your belly, nuzzling into your neck. You can feel him smiling against you. 

Your chests heave in unison, relaxing more with each slowing breath. The two of you soak up all those beautiful post-orgasm happy chemicals, melting against each other more and more with each passing second. Eventually, he mumbles, “Shower?”

[ Next Chapter ]

[rosemaidenvixen]

A Secret's Worth

Chapter 38: Jim

Ao3

Jim leaned back and stretched against the bike rack just outside the front of the school, basking in the early morning sunlight. He’d gotten here super early, it was a full half hour until classes started, but he was in no rush. Content to enjoy the gold and peach light of the rising sun and the peaceful quiet while he waited for the others.

Twenty minutes later he heard the clicking of a bike approaching, turning to see Toby pedaling up to him.

“It is not fair how you can get up so obscenely early,” Toby huffed, dragging his bike to the rack and locking it in next to Jim’s.

Jim just chuckled “Hey we all have our strengths, but I know what will ease the pain,” he patted the white box sitting on top of the rack next to him.

Toby’s eyes widened “What i–”

“What is that?” Darci sped up to them on her own bike, eyes sparkling.

Jim just gave her an easy smile “You’ll have to wait until Mary and Claire get here,”

“Well that could take–”

“I– I’m here,” Mary pulled her own bike up, panting.

Toby raised an eyebrow “What’s with the wheels, I thought your Mo dropped you off in the mornings?”

Mary scowled “My moms caught me sneaking out to go on a date with Mallory, now I have to bike to school for two weeks,”

“Bummer,”

Behind them Jim saw a familiar car pull up against the curb and pushed himself all the way upright “Looks like Claire’s here to,”

A station wagon with a bright yellow ‘Baby on Board’ decal came to a stop by the edge of the curb, the side door popping open and Claire hopping out and moving towards them.

“Hey guys,” Claire said with a wide smile “Ready for the first day of sophomore year?”

“Technically we had our first five days last week,”

Mary snorted “Orientation and whatever the heck ‘Mole Spirit Week’ is don’t count,”

“Sounds like someone lost their school spirit,” Darci said in a sing-song voice.

Toby nodded sagely “Oh she definitely needs a school spirit transplant,”

That earned the two of them a groan from Mary.

Claire rolled her eyes at their antics, gaze landing on the white box “Hey Jim, what’s with the box?”

He grinned back at her, reaching over and picking up the box “Glad you asked. Since I was able to get an early start today, and mom gave me some cash for snacks, I decided to grab us a treat, celebrate the start of the school year and all,” he held the box out and opened it up, revealing five giant cinnamon rolls, oozing with gooey filling topped with generous dollops of frosting, four sets of eyes simultaneously widened.

Toby’s jaw dropped “Are these from that fancy bakery that opened last week!? How!? They sell out almost instantly and preorders are backed up weeks,”

“I got up at the crack of dawn, took the long way around town to school, and stopped by just as they were opening,” 

“So that’s why I didn’t spot you at the canal,”

“Ok clearly adding you to our friend group was a good choice,” Mary said, eyes locked on the open box, slowly edging closer.

“Glad to hear it,” Jim held the box out further “Go nuts guys I didn’t bring them here to look at,”

They took his advice, whipping their hands into the box and tearing into the cinnamon rolls. Soon the five of them settled back, leaning against the wall and bike rack, each munching on their own roll.

Claire finished hers first, sucking her fingers clean of frosting before speaking up “So…the drama department is doing Romeo and Juliet this year, I was thinking we should all try out, that way we could all work on the play together,”

She pulled out a flier which they immediately started passing around, all of them murmuring curiosity, Jim included. But when it came to him and he spotted the times he could actually feel the fluttering hope in his stomach sputter and die.

“Sorry but I won’t be able to be in the play. It runs too late and I have to get home early because of…you know,”

“But rehearsals end way before– that, so it shouldn’t be an issue,”

Jim forced back a wince as he handed the flier back to Claire “Yeah for now, but as the season goes on, daylight savings and all, it’s going to start happening later,”

Claire blinked at him, eyes going wide “Oh…sorry,”

“Here’s a thought,” Mary cut in “Maybe you wouldn’t be able to act, but if Ms. Janeth is ok with it you can be a stagehand and just duck out before it starts getting dark,”

“That…sounds like it could work,” Jim felt a soft smile slowly spread across his face.

It wouldn’t be the same, not exactly, but they could all still work on the play and have fun together.

“I’ll talk to Mrs. J,” Toby said, siding up to Jim and flashing a grin “I’ll give her the ol’ Domzalski charm,”

Mary fixed him with a look “Toby we talked about this,”

Darci just rolled her eyes “How about we all talk to Ms. Janeth during tryouts on Thursday, strength in numbers and all,”

“That sounds good,” Claire added

Jim found himself nodding along “Works for me,”

“And I can give her the Domzalski charm,”

Jim laughed as Mary, Darci, and Claire simultaneously groaned, the giddy energy staying with him even as they broke apart and drifted towards their lockers. He was halfway through spinning the combination into his locker when it hit him.

It was this exact day last year when it happened.

The thought startled him so much for a moment he just stood there in front of his wide open locker with the door swinging in the air.

Getting hit with so much sadness and despair that he couldn’t handle it. Completely breaking down crying under the weight of the hopelessness to the point where he thought he’d never be happy again. Even though he knew it was a year to the day it felt like it happened just yesterday and a thousand years ago.

Jim still could very clearly remember just how utterly crushed he’d been, he didn’t think he could ever forget that. But after everything he’d been through over the last year all that misery felt so far away.

A year ago he’d thought his life was over, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Things had been hard over the last year, incredibly so, but he’d gained three new friends, learned so much, took back his life and made it his own.

Thinking about what would happen after high school still scared him a little, but now it also thrilled him.

There was a lot of uncertainty ahead. He still didn’t know what it was he turned into, he might never know. What changes he might go through as an adult. Facing the struggles of college and jobs. 

But whatever was ahead of him he wouldn’t have to face it alone. 

A gently warmth blooming in his chest, Jim reached out and grabbed his locker door, halting its swinging

Maybe bad things would still happen, as he got bigger he might have to eat more and more meat to survive, his dad might come back and stir up trouble again, more people might get close to his secret; but no matter what happened he had friends and family to help him through it. He didn’t have to face the unknown all alone. 

And bad things might happen, but maybe good things would happen to.

For the first time in he didn’t even remember how long, Jim could think about the future with a smile on his face.

He was still grinning like an idiot, practically dizzy with giddiness, as he tossed his bag into his locker, which was why he only caught the tail end of Eli’s ramble.

“--monsters with stone for skin!”

Jim jerked violently, heart yanking up and down, locker door slipping from his hand during his panicked flailing. Reaching out with shaky hands to slam it shut with much more force than needed. Leaning against the locker with both hands, trembling against the metal, Jim slowly turned around, desperately hoping he hadn’t just heard what he thought he had.

Eli was standing in the corner speaking rapidly and making large sweeping gestures with his arms as he talked, gathered around him were some wide-eyed freshmen and a few unimpressed looking upperclassmen. Jim shoved down the sudden spike of anxiety, if nothing else he’d gotten good at doing that over the last year, forcing himself to act casual as he walked over towards him.

“What was that you were saying Eli?”

Eli looked up sharply at him, a wild glint in his eyes “On my way to school this morning I saw two monsters with stone for skin fighting under the canal bridge!”

One of the others, Seamus, he now recognized, gave a sharp bark of laughter “Get real E-lame, if you’re going to make stuff up at least be creative about it,”

Jim didn’t allow himself to so much as twitch, but on the inside he was practically melting with relief. He hadn’t left the house before he’d changed, and he hadn’t been anywhere near the canal this morning. No way Eli spotted him while he was blue. Chances are Eli just saw something else from a distance and got confused.

“I’m not lying!” Eli’s voice was shrill, nearly a shout “There are monsters in Arcadia living right under our noses!”

“I don’t think you're lying Eli–”

Eli spun towards him, face practically radiant with gratitude, making the next part hard to say.

“But don’t you think it’s more likely you just saw some guys in motorcycle gear duking it out than actual monsters?”

“I know what I saw, it was monsters!”

Seamus scowled and opened his mouth to no doubt say something else scathing, but before he could get a word out first bell rung, scattering the loose gathering as they all headed for their classes.

Eli was harmless. Whatever he’d spotted this morning wasn’t Jim, and it wasn’t like any of his conspiracy junk had ever held water before. 

Nevertheless Jim was still on edge when he sat down in Mr. Strickler’s class for first period just before second bell run.

“Alright students quiet down,” Mr. Strickler strode to the front of the room, hands folded behind his back as the room settled into silence “I know the Punic wars might not seem like the most exciting conflict in history, but that’s just for those who don’t know better….”

Jim pulled out his notebook and started quickly scribbling down notes, doing his best to force Eli’s talk of monsters out of his head and focus on the lesson Strickler was–

James Lake

His heart shot up into his throat, jerking in his seat and snapping upright, pencil dragging a sharp line across his paper yanking his notebook to the side. 

“Dude you ok?” Toby whispered from the seat next to him.

Jim’s eyes flickered towards the front of the room where Strickler was still talking about the Punic wars while pointing at different parts of his projection while all eyes in the room were on him.  

No interruption in the lecture. No one looking his way.

“Did…you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s– never mind,”

Toby raised an eyebrow but turned back towards the front of the room. Jim shook his head and discreetly pulled in a deep breath. He must have imagined it, no need to freak out five minutes in to his first class.

He regripped his pencil and straightened his notebook just as Mr. Strickler turned around to face the room again.

“Now pay attention because this will be on your first test…”

Heartbeat slowing, Jim lowered his gaze towards his paper and went back to jotting down–

James Lake

He somehow managed to keep himself from jerking again, pencil in an iron grip and a slow shudder creeping up his body. Something slimy curling in his belly, Jim looked up again and discreetly looked around the room.

There was no way that it was Mr. Strickler saying his name, and it didn’t look like anyone else in the room was calling him either. Was his mind just playing tricks on hi–

James Lake

His heart dropped down into the pit of his stomach, pencil tumbling from his grip.

Nope. Not imagining it. There was an actual voice in his head.

“Is there a problem Jim?” Mr. Strickler’s cool voice cut through his mounting panic.

Jim looked up at him–

James Lake

Mr. Strickler and everyone else in the room didn’t so much as flinch.

Yep it was only him. Jim was hearing a voice calling his name that no one else could. That wasn’t good. At all.

“I…uh…have to go to the bathroom,”

One of Mr. Strickler’s eyebrows quirked up “Class just started,”

James Lake

“I really really have to go,”

Snickers and giggles filled the room.

“Alright then, just hurry back,”

Jim managed to give a frantic nod of thanks as he practically raced out of the room, Feeling Toby and the girls’ eyes on him as he went. 

In some part of his mind he knew it was bad he was having another big moment of public weirdness on the first day of school after the one he’d had last year. But the bigger part of him was focused on the literal voice in his head. He managed to make it to the end of the hall before it hit him again, much louder than it had been in the classroom.

JAMES LAKE

Ok, mysterious voice was getting louder. But was the volume increasing or was Jim getting…closer? Only one way to find out and he literally had no other ideas.

Moving through the school, the voice getting steadily louder as he went, Jim found himself standing in an open side door without even realizing it, staring at the open street ahead of him. For a moment he hesitated, imagining all the trouble he’d be in if he was caught ditching–

JAMES LAKE

Jim gritted his teeth and took off sprinting down the sidewalk. Running and running guided only by the voice in his head.

JAMES LAKE

Leaving pavement behind he raced down a dirt trail towards the canal. Slowing but not stopping when he reached the edge. Scrambling down the concrete he slipped and tumbled, landing hard on his hands and knees on the concrete. For a moment he stayed like that, palms stinging and knees throbbing, kneeling on the ground, panting.

JAMES LAKE

He froze.

That time the voice hadn’t been in his head. 

Slowly lifting his head up. Jim spotted a pile of gravel underneath the bridge, in the same direction that the voice had come from. He pushed himself upright, taking small, cautious steps towards the bridge.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

No reply, either from inside and outside his head. The only sound the distant rumble of traffic on the road above. Stopping right in front of the pile, Jim saw that what he thought was gravel was actually some very coarse rubble. Seeing nothing else but bare concrete around him, Jim got down on his knees and started sifting through it, not even sure what he was looking for.

Until he touched something that wasn’t rock.

Jim froze for a second before he closed his fingers around the object, cool and smooth in his hands, and pulled it out.

When he saw it he was so stunned he couldn’t move, kneeling in the bright canal marveling at the bizarre object in his hands.

The closest comparison he could make was to a pocket watch, but this was like no pocket watch he’d ever seen.

It was about the size of his phone, round, made of a shiny silver metal surrounding a sky blue face. There were hands and writing on it, but not in any orientation or language he’d ever seen, fixed together with gears sporting gargoyle-like faces in an incomprehensible jumble.

While Jim was still struggling to figure out what exactly he was looking at, the voice came again, emanating directly from the pocket watch, but softer, and almost…comforting.

James Lake

Then there was a sound almost like a sigh of relief and the pocket watch went silent.

Jim’s breath caught in his throat. For a few moments he could only stare at the object, then he slowly raised it to his ear

“Uh…hello? Anyone home?”

Nothing but silence. The voice was gone, and somehow Jim had a feeling it wouldn’t be back because it had done what it was supposed to.

But that still left him with far more questions than answers.

Adrenaline slowly draining away, Jim stood back up straight and turned the object over in his hands, trying to spot any other markings or clues that could give more insight.

As he examined the not-pocket watch he was hit by a sudden wave of awareness. Jim was standing in the canal in broad daylight talking to an inanimate object. If anyone going by saw him they would report him for truancy, or worse call his mom.

Mysterious voices and pocket watches aside he needed to get back to class.

Jim shook himself off, sliding the pocket watch into the back pocket of his jeans before making his way back up the side of the canal.

Despite the craziness that was his life, mysterious talking watches was a new one. What was this thing? Why did it call his name? What did it all mean?

Jim let out a breath as he planted both feet on the dirt bordering the canal, turning and heading back in the direction of the sidewalk that led to the school. Feeling the constant press of the object’s shape and weight in his pocket.

Well whatever this was, he wouldn’t have to tackle it alone, he’d have his friends to help him figure it out.

[grippingbeskar]

HELLO LOML congrats on your milestone!!! can i req 💃🏻3 w frank WAHHAAH (pretend to be surprised)

— OH YOU!!!! 😍 thank you so much!!! okay i know this is kind of short (by my standards) but I LITERALLY DIED WHEN I THOUGHT OF THIS. i hope you like it. it’s adorable.

— prompt:

💃 3. i’m only doing this because you look cute

— warnings: none. WOW!

[grippingbeskar’s 2k night out celebration!]

“Come out!” You called. Frank had been shut in your room for about half an hour, grumbling incoherently ever since you shoved a bag in his hand. The reason for his grumbling is because of what was in that bag: his halloween costume.

“This isn’t gonna fit.” You hear him complain, and you know that’s a straight lie. It was just another excuse not to put it on.

“Yes it will. Just try!” More groaning and grumbling, but then you hear the bag finally open. A ridiculous grin stenches across your face, because a little part of you thought he really might not do it. He caved, though. He always did if you asked nicely. And you asked very, very nicely— the thoughts of last night make your knees weak, but your interrupted when the lock clicks on the other side of the door.

“Turn around.” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“Frank. Just let me see—“

“Turn around.”

“Okay! Fine. Fine.” You spin, covering your eyes with your hands for extra effect, and his footsteps get louder as he stomps out of the room. “Can I look?”

“Hold on. I ain’t got the buttons right.” You can hear him start to fidget with the shirt. You know it’s a little tight— but it’s part of the costume! Besides, you could of been much meaner with the outfit choice. Metal clanks on his costume, and he sighs. “Okay. Guess you can look.”

Spinning around, the angel wings of your costume fanning out behind you, the first thing you notice is Franks face. He was staring at you, eyes raking up and down the white, flowing dress, a spitting image of Juliet’s angel costume from ‘Romeo and Juliet’.

Once you dragged yourself away from how his eyes almost undressed you, you looked at his costume. Your knight in shining armour— literally. The metal armour on his arms was a little small, but the silver chain mail underneath covered it up good enough for a costume. You were pretty proud of how it turned out, and something about this look was really working for you. You knew it would, it’s exactly why you chose these costumes.

“It’s itchy.” He pulled at the collar, and you all but jumped into his arms, kissing him hungrily. “Fuck. You like it, then, yeah?”

“Of course I do. My knight!” You giggle and he laughs, his head falling forward onto your shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because you look cute.” He mumbles into your skin, kissing up your neck and under your jaw. “My angel.”

“You look really good.” He pulls back, shaking his head. “You do! Seriously. Better than I imagined.”

“Yeah?” He picks you up, your legs wrapping around his torso as you nod. “White’s really your colour, baby.”

“You like it? The wings are a bit annoying.”

“You look so god damn beautiful. A real fucking angel.” Heat rises to your cheeks, and this time you’re the one hiding your face.

“Thank you. For doing this with me.” He kisses you again, and you force yourself to pull away, smiling down at him. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave now.”

“Fine. But I’ve only got about an hour in me with this stuff on, then I’m bringing you home.” He let’s you down, a kiss on your forehead making you look up.

“You’ll wear if for me, though, right? When we come home?” You drag him towards the door, watching as he fights with the collar again.

“If you ask as nice as last night, I’d wear your fuckin’ wings if you told me to.” Both of you are laughing as you walk out the door of your shared apartment, and he tucks you under his arm when you walk onto the street. The moonlight shines brightly off your knights armour, and everything else simply fades away.

a little psa: this is the costume if you didn’t know!! i was searching for a halloween costume i thought frank would wear and what’s better than a KNIGHT!!!!

[ilexdiapason]

I do think after Martyn and Sausage has gotten Scott to their base, Sausage wants to make a nice, hot bath for Scott but Martyn has to convince him to use cold water instead and at first, Scott isn't too hyped about the idea

but as Sausage helps into the bath, he gets the overwhelming surge of diving into the water. so he dunks his head under the water a brief moment and just lets the coldness wash over him, it feels like a nice, deep breath of fresh air. and then he gets to enjoy Sausage massaging his scalp and being pampered.

meanwhile Martyn tries to formulate a plan to convince Scott to come into the water with him, but he don't want to force him...

(figured that I might just as well not click the button anymore alskbjdaksjd)

Look - this plan's been a century in the making.

Martyn has spent decades in the water, floating, nomadic and alone. He's taken this weird aquatic state that the Coral Isles left him and he's tried to make the most of it - tried to forget about the lover that left him behind.

Everyone else? The friends whose corpses he'd dragged out of the shallow rivers where they'd fallen and into the forest before setting the whole damn thing ablaze, mansion and all… They're in the past.

And Scott left - walked away, somehow. Took one look at the narrative, at their tragic end, and decided that he was better off stepping out of it, and then did. The border let him leave, when for the last few hours (was that really all it had been? Twenty-four hours? That felt wrong, but it was true) they'd all been trapped in there fighting for their lives.

Martyn sat down, feet in the water, and waited to die.

But the clock hit zero, and he just… didn't. Like the Watchers had gotten bored without their Romeo and Juliet to watch as they pulled each other apart in desperation and hunger and love. Like the narrator had been locked behind a door, and Scott had vanished with the key in his pocket. Like he was left, alone, in a universe made for his story, without anybody to direct it.

So he surrendered to the waves, and hoped to drown that way - hoped to go out cold and numb, and maybe surrounded by filtering rays of sun from the surface, by something beautiful.

He didn't die like that, either. He took a breath, and another, and it wasn't from his lungs.

Once he'd transformed, it got a little easier to forget the past he'd been forged by. Friends and alliances and enemies and lovers - they were all surface stuff. Underwater all Martyn had to worry about was his next meal, and watching his fingers and toes gradually web over days and weeks and months, and avoiding sharks or whales or whatever else lurked in the depths that were his new home.

There was always something missing, though. Some other half, some bigger whole of him that felt just out of reach. The Coral Isles hadn't claimed just one victim, after all, had they?

He didn't even die like this. The thrashers never caught him, and his food supplies never dwindled quite enough to starve him out, and Martyn had a feeling that even if they did he'd be alright. Years passed.

And then, quite suddenly, something else hit the water, and Martyn knew him already.

That should have been impossible. Scott, if he wasn't dead, was clearly dead set on never touching the sea, if this was what it led to. But Martyn knew that feeling, knew every curved lip and quirked eyebrow of his lover, knew the space between them intimately.

This was that space - just a little further than usual.

But Martyn knew exactly how to close it.

He surfaced just off a dock, and was promptly scammed out of the only property he owned - two raw cod - by someone who looked a little too familiar for comfort. There was chatter about factions and glory and money and family and legacy, and Martyn let it all wash past him, because he'd felt Scott here for the briefest of moments, and he wasn't about to let that go now in the name of some buccaneering fantasy. He kept haunting the various taverns of the isle, always blasé when people asked him if he'd chosen a faction, but always staying on their side.

By the end of the evening, he'd found exactly what he was looking for. It took another few weeks to get this new Scott alone with him. Not very long after that, he was being invited out with Scott and another guy, which didn't exactly hurt his self esteem, but wasn't super helpful towards the goal.

It was kind of weird - it wasn't the same Scott he'd watched as he left, but it wasn't not him either. They had the same voice, the same smile, the same beautiful eyes, and he was even complaining of "grey hairs" that Martyn clocked immediately as shades of blue coming in like new buds after frost. He wasn't what Martyn was used to, but he sure was getting there.

The only thing really keeping them apart was the fact that Scott was very touchy about the subject of the sea.

Eventually, after much plying, and many rounds on Martyn (who knew pirates left so much treasure lying around at the bottom of the sea?), and a few particularly forward promises, Scott gave up the truth. He'd never been allowed to swim as a child - yes, never! - and had tried recently, and it hadn't gone well. He did want to try again, but he was just a little scared that he might fare even worse if he did.

In that moment, Martyn resolved that Scott would never need to worry about the ocean again. Sure, yeah, he was pretty sure that what had happened to Martyn all those decades ago was maybe like three months max away from happening to Scott, but that wasn't something he needed to worry about, not if Martyn could help it.

Smash cut to now - he's played it a little too slowly, taken a little too much interest in Scott's comfort now over his projected comfort in the future, and it's too late. The guy's started having breathless moments in the street because he doesn't have the sense to stay at home when he's feeling faint and dizzy. Thank the sun god Martyn had heard him complaining earlier and headed down to the docks to grab some emergency seawater.

Scott sits semi-conscious on the toilet seat lid, and Sausage is trying to argue that he should get a warm bath of all things. Martyn kind of wants to bite his head off right now (oh, hello, creature-of-the-deep instincts, we thought you were left at the shore), but he's so nice about it instead, and just gently insists that the cold water will help better after the… heat exhaustion… Scott's just undergone.

Sure enough, his lover - more blue streaked with red now than red streaked with blue - settles luxuriously into the cool of the bath. Martyn can almost see his gills fluttering, but of course those aren't quite ready to pop yet. It's been a long, long time since Scott or his blood came close to the magic that turned him. This process, too, is long and gradual.

The captain smiles, worry still written plain on his face, and helps Scott's head back up and out of the water. Scott confirms that he does, in fact, feel better already, and he would love to have a little rose oil if Sausage has any going spare. Of course, "Anything for my treasure," Sausage replies, and he pops out of the room to go and grab the fragrance from his vanity.

Scott drops back under the water, maybe not even realising that he's doing it, and smiles, content. Martyn leaves him to soak. He's on his way; everything will be fine.

Martyn just needs to get a little more serious about convincing Scott to try swimming again when it's not a matter of life or death.

[thatoneandlonelyemo2005]

Part 3 of this pirate au that has yet to have name

WARNING: hanging

-Mush woke first, he could hear people from the window, looking up he saw the gallows getting put up

-He began to panic and Blink just opened his eyes and the door opened

-Mush screamed at them but was held back, Blink tried to fight them and the from lastnight made him look scarier but he was still too week

-Mush cried out for them and lost all hope after hearing the door click shut

-More people gathered around and Mush couldn't bring himself to look, it was only when he heard his name being called

-It was Katherine! And he yelled for her as she came running down the hall with a red head and a lean looking guy

-after opening the door "Mush no time to explain how I got here but we gotta go, this is Albert and Finch there friends of Kid Blink"

-Mush just nodded but it wasn't like he heard her, well he did but the main thing was to get out of here

-So they ran past a few guards and out to some new people Mush never seen before, he guessed it was more of Blinks friends

-The one with the red bandanna came forwarded and introduced himself as Jack Kelly and his partner David and his sister Sarah along with others named Tommy Boy, Buttons, Elmer, Romeo, Snoddy, Snitch, and Henry

-They quickly made a plan and got into places

-Elmer, Romeo, Tommy Boy, and Henry were up top ready with bow and arrows (istg i love robbin hood so much fight me) Albert, Finch, David, and Katherine where in the back, then Jack, Sarah, Snoddy, and Snitch were up front

-Mush was told to stay behind with Buttons but he just couldn't, I mean neither could Buttons because if he loses Elmer he was gonna kill Jack Kelly

-So they took the middle and watched as Blink was dragged to the guillotine

-His face was stained with long blood strips and even Mush could tell his his bad eye was hurt, the clothes he worn looked like rags with blood stains, they had used a knife earlier

-"People of my kingdom, I gather you here today to witness...Me getting money" Pulitzer smirks

-Mush rolls his eyes and notices Spot with a rope around his neck and Race who he met a few times along with the rest of Blinks crew

-"You see I caught the horrible pirate Kid Blink" Pulitzer kicks Blinks head, a groan could be heard as he tries to move out of the wood

-"And now we're killing him, in order to protect my wonderful citizens" he walks over to Blink and grabs a fist full of hair, "any last words"

-"I'm not a pirate! I give people money that I steel because fuckers like you steal all the townsfolk money!" he then spits on Pulitzer

-Pulitzer yells and shoves Blinks head down harshly, he then gives the single and the blade is dropped but it didn't kill

-Pulitzer turns around to see some girl was holding the rope that had the blade and one foot was raised from stepping on the guard she threw down

-"Wanna try that again, bitch"

-Chaos then erupted, there are multiple screams as the townsfolk run away, Pulitzer is in shock

-Sarah grabbes the keys from the guard and unlocked the wooden board before Pulitzer grabbed her but an arrow flew right into his hand dropping Sarah

-David rushes over and tries to stab Pulitzer but he's quick and there now in a fight

-Sarah finishes getting Blink out and she tries to get him to safety but Blink wants to fight so he did

-Mush and Katherine get Race and Spot not before Spot choked a little, while Mush almost got stabbed in the back, he kicked the stool over while trying to get away

-Katherine gets the guy herself and quickly help Spot who into returns to yell at them for almost killing him

-They also get the rest of the crew down

-"ELMER TO YOUR LEFT!" Buttons called out apon seeing guard coming at him

-They weren't gonna last and everyone knew that so Tommy Boy took the chance and shot an arrow at Pulitzer, right through the heart

- Everyone kinda stopped to watch the great king fall into the guillotine and get sliced

- A few threw up, most looked away but Katherine walked over and closed his eyes for him, he didn't deserve that she knew but she had to give him at least something he semi rais her (not me self projecting at the end)

-The guards went away being scared off by what just happened

-Blink looked for Mush who was no where to be seen, he called out for him but he didn't respond everyone did a double take and then they saw Mush crawling out from a few people who are dead

-Blink dragged him out with a scream, Buttons came over to check him, Blink whispered words to him "Mush please, Mush please don't die"

-"Never" he whispered back

-Buttons informed him Mush was gonna live if he could stop the bleeding, he got stabbed but not in a crucial area but he was still loosing lots of blood

-They all put there hands to stop the blood and Buttons bandage him tightly so they could get on the ship

-Doing a quick headcount they all made there way to the boat

-"Wait! " someone called out, Jack turned around sword raised "Thank you" all of them were stunned then a woman came out "Katherine will you run for Queen"

-Katherine thought it over "Maybe, but right now not ever"

- She just wanted to get away, and her answer was all truth but for now not ever did she want to see this place again

Part 4|

[spellbcok]

#𝐇𝐖𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝟔 starter call.

going to keep this simple as it's pretty last minute. if you'd like to plot then give this a like & i'll hit you up. otherwise, reply below for starter(s). you can find the aesthetics~ for everyone here (click the images for full size).

anastasia scarlet (going solo): ??/?? — plans to network (mostly going just to dress up though). she's not going to dance or be particularly festive.

anya jenkins (going solo): 2/?? liu qingge, ethan — honestly, had zero plans to go due to how other events in this city always end up. was eventually dragged here by someone.

blair waldorf (going solo): 1/?? rachel green — she came, she saw, she judged. blair wouldn't miss out on a gala, even ones that maybe she should. she's definitely regretting not staying home and watching roman holiday with macarons.

chloe decker (came to get trixie): 1/?? max, jamie — she was meant to work, but trixie heard free candy and more than likely snuck in so she's here to get her.

do dohee (blind date with harvey hufflepuff): ??/?? — dohee's only goal is to get married; however, not everyone is up for a quickie courthouse marriage in the middle of a first meeting, so will probably scare people (blind date included) away with her forthright nature.

tak dongkyung (going with doom): 1/?? sally, doom — here for all the fun! then will probably want to go home after an hour. but she'll enjoy it as much as she can until her inner homebody wants to lounge on a couch in sweats and watch tv or read.

ji euntak (will be with kim shin): 3/?? craig manning, junwoong, soren , pyrrha — not an official date, but euntak does find talking with kim shin fascinating. will be taking full advantage of the open bar and candy bowls while avoiding ghosts.

lorelai gilmore (blind date with kili oakenshield): 2/?? lu junyi, georgia, scarlett — mom signed her up for a blind date & is making her attend. she'll probably be a whole mess... especially with the open bar.

lydia martin (going with charlie weasley): 5/?? charlie, allison, romeo, tara, isaac — excited to be dressing up, be on a date, and just wants to have stress-free fun.

nora grey (going with patch): 1/?? arnold, rory — another nerd. will mostly likely spend most of her time away from the dancing & drinking and just exploring the museum. lest patch or someone drags her away.

ren ruyi (going solo): 1/?? feng yu — will be people watching mostly. she might partake if pressed, but she is more of an observer.

sabrina spellman (going solo): 3/?? hongjo, thea, fliss — stopped in to take a much needed break from trying to figure this place out. you will find her on the dance floor almost all night.

yan hui (blind date with wyatt lykensen): 1/?? a-xiang, wyatt — she didn't even know what she was signing up for or what this even is. but she was told it'll be fun and it's like a fancy party, so why not? it's not like she has much else to do.

son yeonseo (going with yoon chiwoo): 2/?? chiwoo, rosalie — not particularly thrilled to be here. fancy parties like this give her bad vibes for some reason (probably residual feelings from her past & all the wine authenticating she was forced to do for her dad). will try to have fun, though.

ki yuri (blind date with alyla vane): 1/?? alyla yeon, — is really looking for a fight or cause some sort of destruction after hearing lee rang is dead in the future (or past? present? however time works here as it is still confusing her).

[raayllum]

Literary analysis, by its very nature, is subjective. This is a false dichotomy and you know it.

Hi, literally got my degree in literary analysis and now teach/tutor in it for a Living, maybe it didn't click for you the first time but there is 100% a difference between "I'm evaluating something entirely on how it makes me feel" (which is entirely subjective) VS "I'm critically analyzing how a piece of fiction is put together and works regardless of how it makes me feel" which is subjective in its interpretations, yes, but there is an objective ground work that exists for every piece of Art or Literature (the "ur textual" foundation if you will, which yes, "ur text" is the term, it does sound very silly) that provides the basis for analysis in the first place.

If nothing about an artistic interpretation, even reading/watching the work itself as a process, is objective than no art can be analyzed in the first place. It was one of the first things we talked about in my narrative theory analysis courses

The example I always go back to is my experience in reading "1984" when I was in high school. Hated that fucking book. I hated all the main characters, I was rooting for them to get captured and tortured just so the book would end, I have no plans to ever read it again, etc. It was one of the best books I've ever read and I am infinitely grateful that I did read it bc 1) I learned a lot, 2) it has a lot of interesting discussions on the nature of language itself (which makes me think of "Fugitive Pieces" by Anne Michaels, which is also excellent) and 3) it's a fucking good, not enjoyable, book.

It's like I said in my own more recent posts and in others about leaving biases at the door to engage with what a story is actually Trying to Do. I'm staunchly against monarchy. If I brought my "we should abolish the monarchy" stance into TDP (when many kings and queens are also characters of colour for once) that would mean I'm focusing on how I think the story should be and dragging it for not doing what I believe and/or expect, rather than engaging with what the story Actually wants to say about monarchy, government, and leadership.

It's also just dumb to expect every story to explore a theme in the same manner every time? I explain it to my students a lot in terms of broad theme, like Love, but what matters is the specificity, i.e. Love as a theme in "Midsummer Night's Dream" vs "Romeo and Juliet" have overlap, 100%, but ultimately their thematic stance on Love is what determines the tonal and thematic culminations of their very different genres and explorations of a similar theme

As I said in my big post, if someone actually wants to critique S4 on a structural level and show me, beat-for-beat, how that structure is vastly different than the other seasons in execution, I'd be very interesting in reading it. I love that sort of thing and I like to think through all the angles. But thus far it doesn't exist and I think it would be a very hard meta to write, simply because there is more structural evidence for similarities than differences. Something can be very good while being structurally weak (hi Frozen) or something can be very bad/boring while being structurally sound. But because responses tend to be more subjective than analyzing structure, I prefer to work in analyzing structure. I never would've made it through my courses with books that were emotionally hard to read, like "Things Fall Apart" or "Wuthering Heights" otherwise. Preferring to work in structural analysis is my personal bias, of course, but that doesn't mean my structural analysis itself (i.e. Ezran being a peace maker for Callum and Rayla in 1x06 and 4x06) is biased, because that parallel is just a fact

Once again, pointing to:

Saying “this wasn’t worth the wait” is an emotional complaint. Which is also fine! But it’s entirely subjective. It’s saying your enjoyment of the season (a story that is separate as a concept out of time) is dependent on the time you spent waiting for it, something that means nothing to the story’s structure, because it was never built to take that into account from a Plot standpoint, never mind a narrative one

Dunno what's so hard to stomach about that, but your attitude is certainly sour