#the scarf was a paid actor

[hoechlinth]

i thought he had a mullet 😭

[manicpixiedreamcurl]

The More You Give ❧ (Part VIII)

Pairing | Eddie x shy!reader Warnings | 18+ only. Do not interact if you are underage. Roleplay (PrincessxWannabe Usurper lmao), sexual fantasies (including rockstarxgroupie), Eddie says some weird possessive stuff but reader likes it, oral (M receiving), P in V sex, dom!Eddie, sexual guilt as per, there’s aftercare. Word Count | 10,400 A/N | Nobody ask me about the timeline of this story, either in the fic or how long it takes me to write it. Taglist Previous Chapter

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The air is stuffy, despite the growing chill outside. The last days of Summer are at least a week gone now, and with Autumn comes heated stores. An ABBA song is playing on the main floor, filtering through enough for you to make out the tune. It’s the sort of thing your Mom plays in the car all the time, your mind following the words even though you can’t quite hear them over the buzzing ceiling lights. 

I try to capture every minute, the feeling in it. Slipping through my fingers- 

The curtains pull back, the sound of metal over metal dragging you to full attention. May’s eyes are bright with excitement as she twirls, showing off how the strapless black dress fits around her waist and flares out at her hips. 

“It’s perfect, right?” She says, smoothing it down only to twirl and puff the skirt up again. “Ooh, let me see with the jacket.” 

You search through the bag at your feet for the cropped jacket she’d found earlier, then watch as she pulls it over her shoulders. She fluffs her hair and poses in the mirror at the end of the changing room hallway. “I mean it actually is perfect, right?”

“For sure, you can totally see who you are already.” 

“Right? And then I can just backcomb my hair a little. My Mom’s gonna lend me her scarf. God knows what earrings I’ll wear, but I can work it out. Definitely can’t get anything new after this,” she finishes, turning her head and pulling at the tag on her back to double check the price. She pulls a face before tucking it away gingerly.

“That bad?” 

“That bad. Even with 30% off.” May smooths her hands over the skirt again, turning once more to the mirror. Her smile lights up her pretty face. “But totally worth it.” 

Once the dress is folded and wrapped in tissue paper by the woman at the counter, paid for with what seems like every spare penny in May’s purse, attention moves to your costume. “Okay, Fairy God Mother,” May says, linking her arm with yours. “Game plan. Where do we need to go?”

“I think just the costume store. I have a blue dress I can use. But I’d like some wings and a wand. Maybe a tiara, if I can afford it.”

“Ugh, you’re gonna look so cute. Are you sure you don’t want to come to Tommy’s party?”

“The whole reason I’m dressing up is for Grace,” you reason, spotting the orange banner reading City of Fright, which appears in the same spot every year mid-September and vanishes November first. 

Gone are ABBA’s lilting tones, replaced with stock Halloween music, the occasional creepy laugh and thunder clap. The entire front of the store is complete costumes, wrapped up in plastic and hanging on metal rods, but once you reach the shelves at the back, you are surrounded by an array of vampire teeth, witches hats and face paints. 

“Eddie’s renting Theatre of Blood,” you tell her, not waiting for a reaction before launching into a prepared defence. “It sounds really good. It’s about an actor who takes revenge on his critics by murdering them like Shakespearian deaths - drowning in Malmsey wine, that kind of thing. He picked it cause, you know, he thought I’d like it.” 

“Okay, but she’ll be in bed by what? Eight?” May asks, wandering around the table of paraphernalia as you start thumbing through fairy wings piled next to fake blood bags, searching for the right blue. “You could come after.”

There’s a moment of silence, then she sighs softly. “Okay, I will say it’s kind of cute that he picked that. In a weird, not really that cute cause it’s a horror movie about gruesome murders, sort of way.” 

You stifle a grin, chancing a look at her over the table. “That sounded…almost like a compliment?”

“Almost,” she agrees, walking back round to your side. Then, before you can answer, she has seized a shiny silver plastic tiara and is reaching out to place it gently on your hair. “There. Fit for a Princess.”

You shake your head, laughing. “What about a Fairy Godmother?”

May hums, grabbing a set of the net and wire wings and pulling them over her arms. “I’m the fairy now!” She declares, raising her chin and going up on tiptoes to whirl around the racks, wings shaking behind her. “Here to make all your Halloween costume dreams come true!” 

Your heart warms, a giggle escaping as she peers curiously at the rubber masks and cat ears in character, mumbling about the strange habits of humans. 

“Oh please, fairy godmother! I need a wand if I’m going to look anything like the real thing!” 

“A wand, of course!” She cries dramatically. “No true fairy would be seen dead without their wand.” You watch her scurry on tip toe around until she comes to a display of wands of various colours, topped by stars and hearts, sequined tassels and glittery handles. She wiggles her fingers above them, picks out one with a simple silver star and travels back to you gracefully. You take it from her with a flourish. “There, and now your wings.” She helps you into your own pair, then turns and throws a graceful hand into the air. “Now, we fly!” 

You flit about after her, laughing at her with every pause she takes to frown disapprovingly at fake scars and rubber spiders. She stops in front of a Tinkerbell costume, pointing with a surprised smile at the model on the package. “Hey, I know her!”

You snort a laugh and it sets her off, all attempts to stifle your laughter only making it worse. Your giggles are only beginning to settle when you feel the sudden awareness of being watched tickle the back of your neck. 

“Uh, hi girls.” 

Your heart drops. Caroline stands, a hand over her mouth, barely covering the smirk. “You look like you’re having…fun.”

Suddenly, the clear elastic of the wings is too tight around your shoulders. You can feel the crooked angle of the tiara atop your head, close to slipping off entirely. The wand in your hand isn’t silver now, just chipped paint on plastic. 

Next to you, May is wrenching off her wings, laughing airily. “Just messing around,” she assures, folding them up and holding them with a tight fist at her hip. “You costume shopping?”

Caroline looks around at where you are. “I mean, obviously. Not for me, though, for Ethan,” she sighs. “You know boys, no interest in shopping.” She sets her stare on you, eyes scanning from the crooked tiara downwards. “Are you girls dressing up together?”

Your throat feels blocked, leaving you just to shake your head. May answers for you both. “No, no. Like I said, we’re just messing around. So we should probably put this stuff back.” She slides her wings into the space between some hanging masks before elbowing you into action. You’ve abandoned the tiara and wand and are in the process of sliding off the wings when she adds, coolly, “I’m actually going as Madonna.”

Caroline’s smirk falls, replaced at terrifying speed with a deep frown. “What? You can’t, I’m doing Madonna. I’ve got a veil and everything. Ethan’s going to be Sean Penn.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m going as her in Desperately Seeking Susan, so it’ll be, like, totally different.”

“But I don’t think there should be two Madonna’s,” Caroline continues, almost sounding sympathetic. She crosses her arms, shrugging. “You’ll just have to go as somebody else.”

“Oh,” May says, shoulders falling. “Um, right. I get what you mean.”

You’re not in the habit of arguing with Caroline. It’s been easier, historically, not to contradict her or answer back. But you can feel May deflating beside you, and it tumbles out. “But you won’t look similar or anything, they’re completely different costumes.”

“They’re not though.” She answers with finality. “They’re both Madonna, and the last thing we want is comparisons, right? People talking about who wears it better all night?”

May nods. “You’re right. Totally. I’ll think of something else. No worries.”

“But May, your dress! You can’t return it now, it was on sale!” 

“It’s fine,” May snaps before smiling close mouthed at Caroline. “I can find something else to wear, no issue.”

“You could be fairies together!” Caroline says. “I bet the guys at Tommy’s party would love that.”

“No, no, like I said, we were just messing around,” May says. “Not really my thing. And anyway, she’s not coming on Friday.”

“Oh no!” Caroline pushes her bottom lip out into a pout. “But I haven’t seen you outside of school in ages!”

“I’m babysitting,” you explain, clutching your removed wings in your fists. 

“Oh sure you are, not spending the night with your boyfriend. We hardly see you anymore, I feel like there must be so much detail we’ve all been missing out on. You’ll have to come on the next girls trip, right May? So we can hear all about you and…Eddie.”

Your heart pounds as May nods. “Yeah,” she answers. “Eddie can’t have all your time.”

“Perfect. Well, let me know what you end up doing, May! See you later, girls!”

She flounces away, and May hides her face in her hands. “I can’t believe she saw me doing that.” 

“It’s okay-”

“It’s not!” She says, throwing her hands up. Her eyes shine with frustrated tears. “It’s not okay! Not for me, anyway. It’s different for you, people already think you’re weird.” 

You blink at your friend. Then you look down at the speckled linoleum floor, watch the spots fuzz and blend into each other as the lump in your throat builds. Before five seconds have passed, her arms appear at your sides, pulling you into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean that.”

But you know that she did. You know that’s exactly what she thinks. 

For the moment you have to think about what you say now, you imagine calling her out on this. Pushing her away and telling her that she doesn’t have to spend any more time with you, given you embarrass her so much. You’d buy your fairy wings and your crown, walk out with your head held high. 

Maybe she’d call after you, apologise again, say that losing you isn’t worth impressing Caroline or sitting at the cheerleader table.

But maybe any pain she’d feel at the prospect of your friendship ending would only bring out her anger. Maybe she’d swear to never speak to you again. 

If you were somebody else, someone who didn’t love May, maybe you’d take that risk. But you are you, and you’ve loved May since you were five. To you, the only thing worse than feeling hurt yourself is the thought of hurting her back.

So you shake your head at her shoulder, blink away tears and squeeze her tight in your arms. “It’s okay,” you whisper. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, pulling away from her collar that smells the way being seven smelled. You release her, and in turn her arms fall from you. “I get it, you’re just stressed.”

“I know! I don’t know what I’m going to do about my costume!” 

Your heart pangs. You swallow the lump in your throat that’s trying to rise back up. “Well, at least the dress is black,” you say, sniffing quick and quiet. You drag your hands over your eyes, clearing away the wetness clinging to your bottom lashes. Stop it, you think. Stop crying. “Let’s return the jacket, yeah? Then you’ll have money for a witch hat or something.” 

May nods slowly as she thinks it through. “Okay, yeah. Yeah, that works.” She gives you a relieved smile. “God, what would I do without you? Let’s go.”

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“Well, I didn’t think I wanted glasses because Katie has glasses,” Grace explains, holding her plastic pumpkin, now close to overflowing with candy, in both hands at her stomach. She looks at you with a look too knowing for a seven year old, then continues. “Katie is a tattle tale.”

“I see,” you nod. 

“But I want ones like Jessica’s!” She cries, arms extending with the weight of her treasure trove before she pulls it back up. “They go dark in the sun!”

“It’s not the same,” she whines. “And then when we went to the optom- uhm.”

“But you already have sunglasses,” you reason, picturing the little red plastic pair you’ve had to run back for when out on walks many times. Grace hefts the pumpkin again and you give in, lifting the bag from her grasp and burying your wand in with the candy. You soften when she grabs your hand with a deep sigh.

“The optometrist?”

“Yeah, when we went to see him, he said my eyes were perfect!”

“Well, that’s good.”

“No!” She yells, dramatically, pulling on your arm with her whole weight until you have to  heave yourself back up. You stifle a giggle at her distraught expression. “Because now I’ll never get glasses, and everybody has them.”

“Well, first of all, I’m sure not everybody has them,” you say, smiling down at her grumpy face. “And secondly, you shouldn’t just want something like glasses because other people have them, even if it was everybody else. You can’t just live your life just trying to be like everyone around you.”

“I know,” she mumbles. Then, catching your raised eyebrow, “I know!”

You round the corner to her street, and by the time you’re approaching her house, she’s moved comfortably on to the next topic of her candy eating schedule for the next three days. “Because Jessica saves all her Skittles for last,” Grace explains, her position now firmly against being anything like Jessica. “Which is stupid, because you should have the best candy first.”

“Mm? Why’s that?”

Grace looks at you with a frown. “Because the best comes first,” she tells you, with the tone of somebody kindly trying to hold in their frustration with an imbecile. 

“Of course, silly of me to ask. Hi, Mrs. Miller!”

Grace’s Mom was clearly waiting for you near the front door, already out and standing on the front steps as you walk up the front path. Grace holds her hands out to take her bucket back, launching forward when she’s got ahold of it. “Mom! Look at all my candy!”

“Whoa! There’s no way you’ll be able to eat all that!” Her Mom says, eyes comically wide. “Think you need someone to help you out, hm?”

Grace shrieks indignantly, running under her Mom’s arm inside and clambering up the stairs out of sight without a bye nor leave for you. 

“Everything went okay?” Her Mom asks, smiling when you give her your usual answer, all fine. “Will you be okay getting home? I can get her back down if you need a ride.”

“Oh, um,” you check either side of the street, feeling suddenly warmed inside at the sight of Eddie’s van parked at the end of the road. Now that you’re concentrating on it, you’re sure you can hear the music blasting behind glass. “No, it’s okay. That’s my boyfriend.”

“Ah, Eddie.” She smiles, then smacks her teeth as she, too, registers his music. “Maybe tell him to keep it down next time? I don’t mind but I already get monthly phone calls from Mrs O’Hara about the sound of the lawnmower.” 

“Oh, sorry. I’ll do that,” 

“Okay,” she says, calling after you as you start up a fast pace towards Eddie. “You have a good night!”

You pull your cardigan sleeves down over your hands to fight the chill as you move, smiling when you can properly make out Eddie sitting in the front seat. He had a special D&D night planned when he dropped you off at Grace’s earlier. While your costume sat folded in your bag all day, he’d gone to school dressed all in black, even his white Reeboks swapped out for a pair of knockoff doc martens he’d launched himself towards when he caught sight of them at the thrift store. They’d fit him just fine with three pairs of socks.

This morning, sitting in his van, he’d barely managed to control his excited twitches while you lined his eyes with a cheap black pencil from the drugstore. Your work is a little smudged now, but on him, it looks even better than before. Which makes sense, you think. Eddie doesn’t suit neat lines. 

“Hi Princess!” He calls, turning the music down enough that his excitement is just audible through the glass as you approach. 

“Not a Princess,” you remind him as you climb in, turning your back to shake your shoulders and display the blue net wings. “A Fairy God Mother.” You settle back into the seat, shivering away the chill that had gooseflesh rising over your body. Eddie rubs your arm over your cardigan, and you take the opportunity to grab his hand. As much as you want to warm your cold fingers, it’s mainly just to touch him. “How was the game?”

His grin turns sharp as he leans back in his chair, chin tilted up. “So fucking good. I have them right where I want them. I thought for a second Lucas had me worked out. He hesitated when they were getting to the caves, but then he just went along with it. I can’t wait till next week.” He lets go of your hand long enough to start up the van before returning his open palm to the space between you for you to take hold of him again. “How is Princess Grace?”

“Increasingly despotic. She executed like five of her toys before we went out trick or treating.” 

“Jesus,” Eddie laughs. “What for?” 

“Well, her not-so-wise Fairy God Mother,” you start, gesturing to yourself. “Made the mistake of telling her about royal food tasters? Now there’s a poisoning attempt every few days.” 

“Very active imagination, this girl. Violent, but active.”

“Mm, I think most girls play that way. When I was little- Well, me and May, we’d act like witches sometimes? And make potions out of mud and sticks and stuff. And talk about who we would curse.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks. “And which poor soul had earned this spite, pray tell?” 

“Did you ever have Mr Gilmour?”

“Oh, Gilmour, yeah, I fuckin' hated that guy!” Eddie yells. His eyebrows furrow. “I threw up during gym in seventh grade and the sadistic prick made me finish running a mile.” 

“Yeah, I forgot about that till now.” His brows stay taught for a second longer, then he shakes his head a little, tapping his fingers along your knuckles. “Too bad I didn’t have you around then, coulda cursed him for me a little earlier.”

“Oh, Eddie, that’s horrible.”

“I would have,” you promise. “But you were telling me about the game. Did you get Dustin with the, um, venom troll?”

“Not yet. We didn’t get as far as I’d have wanted before they had to go. I mean, what fourteen year old has a curfew? I didn’t, and I turned out alright. But I’ll get him next week. I can’t wait to see his face - that little punk thinks he’s so smart, but he is pre-dictable.”

Eddie continues describing the campaign, the traps he’s set for them that he’s sure they’ll run into, the whole drive to his place, excited and animated as he usually is on the rare occasion you get to see him after Hellfire, wound up from the events of the day. He only slows down when you’re settled on his couch. Sneakers left at the door, wings, tiara, and wand abandoned on the kitchen table, wrapped up in his arms as the opening titles of Theatre of Blood play. 

Eddie’s so warm, and unusually still when you sit with him like this. Being cuddled up to him puts you in mind of your aunt’s black cat. She spends the first couple hours of every visit pretending that she isn’t interested in being anywhere near you. Then, after letting her sniff your hand, rubbing gently between her ears, she darts up on your lap, her soft heat spreading through you. 

Eddie might not admit it, at least not verbally, but he likes being petted the same way. You’ve seen his eyes flutter when you play with his hair, heard the gentle sighs he lets out when you touch his cheek. Now, leaning into his chest, rubbing lazily at his torso, you can feel the way his body relaxes into the couch under your touch. It makes you smile at the TV even as Vincent Price swears revenge on all his critics.

You turn your head just a little, trying to be subtle as much as possible so you can look at him properly. Eddie’s eyes, which in sunlight can be bright as copper, are dark and focused in the electric light of the TV. The light freckles that dotted the tops of his cheeks and nose during Summer have faded from the cloudy days and early sunsets, leaving only his soft pale skin. His lips, as always, are soft looking and pink, still shiny from the last time his tongue peeked out, set in a near constant subtle pout. 

You sigh gently, and in turn breathe in the remnants of smoke and laundry detergent from his shirt, the fading spice of his drugstore aftershave.

“You know I picked this movie out special,” he says, only his eyes moving to fix you with a mockingly suspicious expression. “Vincent’s a master.”

You’re surprised to find you’re not ashamed at having been caught. “M’just looking at you.”

“Therein lies the problem, sweet thing. One minute you’re just looking. Next thing I know my head’s trapped between your thighs.” This time he leans in properly. “Wicked temptress.” He whispers it, his breath warming your face. 

You think he’ll kiss you then, but instead he relaxes back into the couch with a sigh. “M’just lucky you weren’t dressed up all day.” His hand tugs at the hem of your skirt, then spreads out just above your knee. “I wouldn’t have been able to think about anything else. It’s a miracle I even got the movie playing instead of trying to touch you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” you answer, trying not to sound too eager. 

“I bet,” he says, eyes shining. Then his face turns serious, palm coming to his heart. “But Eddie the Chivalrous would never touch a Princess without properly wooing her first.” His eyes scan over your face quickly. “I guess that means we need to finish the movie.”

He’s teasing you. He wants to push, see how much he can get you to say, if you’ll ask him outright to just touch you the way you want. Warring feelings compete to decide what you do next. Maybe months ago, when you first started dating Eddie, you would have pressed your thighs together and settled in to finish the film. A part of you still calls for that, screams that whatever you say won’t be right. 

You stare at Eddie now. His eyes still lined dark, the smirk he’s trying to hide. Your toes curl just looking at him, and the thought escapes naturally. “You don’t look like Eddie the Chivalrous, right now.” 

Eddie blinks slowly. His head tilts. “No? Who do I look like, then?” 

Now, something like shame creeps back in, and you wish you’d just settled down to watch the movie.

You haven’t ever put a name to it before. In your fantasies, the ones that appear unprompted when you’re alone in your bed and you haven’t been able to touch him in a couple days, Eddie’s always Eddie, but sometimes just a little different. 

Maybe Eddie the Chivalrous is the right name for how you first thought about him like that, calling you Princess as usual but meaning it. You thought about him as your knight and guard, sworn to protect you, breaking all the rules by laying you down and treating you gently, better than any lord or Prince you could be promised to.

Then you’d think about his laugh, the one that comes out when you moan a little loud, or lose your patience and try to direct his hands or his tongue to where you need him. The mocking gasp and teasing tone that often comes along with it, you want it bad, huh, Princess? You think about an Eddie who’s like that all the time, teasingly mean with you, dark and dangerous to everyone else, finding you alone in your soft bed, holding your hands above your head and- and-

People already think you’re weird.

You give in to the sudden hot shame, pressing your face to Eddie’s chest lest he read your expression so perfectly that he works it all out. You whisper into his shirt, more to yourself than him. “I’m so weird.” 

“Well, s’a good thing you’re with me then, mm?” He says, big hand moving to stroke the back of your neck. “Cause if you got a fantasy, like, something you think about when I’m not around. You know I won’t judge you for it, right?” 

“I know.” It comes out muffled against his shirt but it’s certain. It’s instinctual, now. You’re as sure that you don’t need to worry about Eddie judging you as you are that the sun will rise tomorrow morning. More and more, you find yourself talking to him the way you talk to yourself in your head. Easy and free, not waiting for the other shoe to drop. But this is different. “It’s just- It’s like-” You sigh, searching for the words that won’t come. 

He hums, still rubbing your neck. “Maybe I could- I mean, do you…wanna hear one ‘a mine?” You emerge from your hiding place, leaning back into his hand to gauge how serious he is. Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the sides at having coaxed you into looking at him again. “Yeah?”  

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” he echoes. Eddie searches his side for the remote first, pausing Vincent in the middle of another monologue. “Okay. Well, yeah, sometimes I think about- Wait no, gotta set the scene. I’ve just played maybe the best show of my life. Nothing too big,” he continues, giving you a serious look. “I’m not a sell out. We’re talking the smaller arenas, you know? Anyway, after, when I get backstage, feeling like hot shit, there’s this girl. Prettiest I’ve ever seen. And she’s wearing the band’s shirt.”

“And she’s a little shy. Can barely look me in the eye-” He catches you just as your gaze moves to his collar, pulling you back to staring, helpless, into his dark eyes. Eddie takes your hand from where it was playing with the hem of his shirt, weaving your fingers together. “She’s kinda fidgety, too.”

You swallow. “Me?”

“You, sweet thing. S’always you.” You bite the gum behind your bottom lip, holding back from grinning too much. You squirm a little under his gaze, waiting for him to speak again. “And you tell me you’ve been waiting for me,” Eddie says, voice smooth and quiet. “You tell me you’re my biggest fan. And you can’t quite say everything you wanna say, but it doesn’t matter, cause I’ve got you worked out. So I get real close,” he says, his face disappearing as his mouth moves towards your ear, “and I ask if you want me to touch you?”

“And I do,” you continue for him, shivering again at the little groan Eddie lets escape from his throat. 

“Mm hm, real bad.” His eyes reappear, scanning over each part of your face. “So bad you wanna earn it. Wanna show me I was right to pick you and not some other girl. You get on your knees for me.” Eddie licks his lips quick. “And I know you’re kinda inexperienced, but it’s good, the best I’ve ever had. You know why?” You shake your head, gaze darting between his eyes and his mouth. You watch his lips move around his words. “Cause you’re so fucking grateful for it.” 

“Mm. And when I decide you’ve earned it, I lay you back on a couch somewhere. A green room or a tour bus or something. And I show you you were right to wait for me.” You shiver. It’s a delicious thrill to picture Eddie that way, completely new to you, a total stranger, yet so sure of what he can take. “And after that?” He says, giving the back of your neck a squeeze. “I keep you.”

“Eddie.” You feel your heartbeat between your legs, wishing he would touch you there now, or even put you on your knees the way he wants so you could show him you’re as grateful for him here and now as you are in his fantasy. 

The fantasy fades when Eddie kisses you. With the press of his lips, the taste of Dr Pepper on his tongue, he’s your Eddie again, familiar and perfect. You’re still floating back to Earth when he pulls away. “Your turn.”

You flinch, crashing to the ground instead. “What?”

“You like Latin, right? It’s quid pro quo, sweetheart. I show you mine, you show me yours. Tit for tat. That was the deal.”

“It was implied.” Eddie answers breezily. Then, with his thumb rubbing gently at the back of your hand. “C’mon. Try? You liked mine, right?” You give a barely noticeable nod, but Eddie catches it. “Yeah. And I bet I’ll like yours.”

“There was no deal!”

“I can’t- I don’t have it all, like, thought out the way you do.”

“Well, I’m a storyteller by trade,” he says, pressing his free hand to his chest. “All my sex fantasies have lore. And we can build on yours, if it needs it.Alright. I’m not Eddie the Chivalrous right now. Who am I?” He tilts his chin to where you have started playing with his rings, twisting each round his fingers in turn. “Apart from Eddie the Stress Toy.”

“It’s not- You’re just-” You swallow, rubbing your thumb over the metal skull sitting where a wedding ring would go. “You’re just somebody…somebody I shouldn’t want.”

“Intriguing. And you are?” Your face flames. You mumble it, barely opening your lips, and Eddie squints. “Mm?”

You sigh. “Princess.”

“Always,” Eddie replies, ducking his head to make sure you see his face, reassuringly still smiling. “Okay. I can work with this. Maybe I'm…Eddie the Banished. I tried to take power for myself by force but I failed.” He brings your hand to his mouth, kisses the thin skin at your wrist. “And I’ve returned, because I realised I don’t need to win a battle. I just have to…take the Princess?”

You clench around nothing. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, yeah. C’mon, sweet thing.” 

Your gaze follows him as he stands. “You want- Right now?”

“Why not? We’re all dressed up. The time is now.” Eddie pauses his excitement when he registers the fact you’re still sitting. “If…if you want.”

“I do,” you breathe. “But I can’t, y’know, talk like you.” You just know Eddie already has some dialogue thought up, things he can say as the character he’s just come up with that will make you dizzy. “I’ll get stuck.”

“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Eddie says, squatting down in front of you, hands spread out on your knees. “I don’t mind taking the lead. Besides, the Princess would be kinda nervous anyway, right? If you’re not supposed to want me. The outlaw, the traitor. You’ve been told about all the terrible things I’ve done, what I tried to do for power. Now you feel guilty about what you really want from me. And I’ve been thinking about you while I’ve been on the run, living rough- You know, this is good stuff,” he says, interrupting himself and looking round. “You got a pen? I should maybe write some of this down- No. After, sorry.” He gives you a sheepish grin, then leans in close. “Don’t think there’s much chance I’ll forget this, anyway.” 

He stands then, hand extended to you with wiggling fingers for you to take and let him guide you through to his room. Eddie hums when his door is closed, shutting out the world beyond the frame. “Shoulda done this at yours,” he says, sitting you down on the mattress. “In your pretty Princess bed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say breathlessly, meaning it entirely. All that matters is it’s him. He’s the only person you could do something like this with. 

“Okay, I need a little more. You shouldn’t want me, I’m…morally grey, let’s say. Chaotic neutral. Am I mean?”

“Kinda,” you answer. “You’re…selfish?”

“Selfish,” he repeats. 

“Just like, y’know. It’s like-” Eddie’s hands spread at the sides of your thighs, teasing the skin at the hem of your skirt. You want them everywhere. “You know I want you. That I’ll…do things for you. And you take advantage. ”

There’s a pause. “I think I’m following. Things somebody like you shouldn’t do?” You nod quickly, cheeks burning as you watch him work it out. “You wanna get your mouth on me, Princess?”

You fight the instinct to hide, the urge to look away, the voice telling you to deny everything, take it back. Instead, you start playing with the hem of his shirt again, soft cotton between your fingers.  

“Mm hm.”

“Shit. Okay. Anything-” His voice cracks a touch, and he clears his throat before he speaks again. “Anything else?”

“It’s not like- Even though you’re mean, you still- With me, you feel-” Now you do have to look away, staring at where your fingers are fiddling with the black fabric. He can read you too well, and you don’t want him to see exactly what you want from him. “You-”

You love me. 

“I feel…how I feel about you?” He suggests.

You bite the gum behind your lip to stop yourself asking exactly what that means. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good. Hard to pretend anything else.” Eddie leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, long enough that your whole body relaxes into it, your mind settling on Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. When he pulls away, it’s easy to answer his question. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Eddie stands to full height, his shoulders back. He tilts his head, expression shifting. From your Eddie, with chestnut eyes and his perfect, dimpled smile, to a smirking man with a dark gaze excited to ruin you. 

“I’ve been looking for you, Princess,” he says, voice smooth and confident. A thrilled shiver runs up your spine. “Knew I’d find you eventually, but I could only hope I’d find you like this. All alone.” He takes a step towards you. “Unprotected-”

“Eddie,” you whisper. 

Softness peaks through with raised eyebrows. “Good?” You nod quickly, and it disappears again as he slinks closer towards you. “I missed you, while I was away,” he tells you, soft and teasing. “Did you miss me?”

“I-” You swallow. You’re used to repeating back what Eddie says to you, in times like this, letting him guide you through everything he wants to hear from you. But you don’t want to just watch him do this for you. “No.”

Eddie blinks, surprised, then he puts on a mockingly hurt face, hand over his heart. “No? You wound me, Princess.” That same hand reaches for your face, cupping your cheek. His thumb strokes gently under your eye and you can’t help but lean into him. “Or you would, if I believed you.” He tilts your head up to see him properly, standing over you. “You think I didn’t see the way you’d look at me, before I left?”

Your fingers twitch to reach out and brush at the ends of his hair as it falls towards you, but you keep them at your sides on the bed, curling into the sheets. “You didn’t leave, you-”

“Left, banished, driven out; it all comes to the same end, mm?” His eyes scan your face, down your dress and back up. “That’s you and me, Princess. Here, alone together. You gonna pretend you never wanted that?”

His thumb, callused and warm, keeps rubbing over your cheek. “I can’t want it”

“No, you can,” he presses. Eddie, your Eddie, would sit with you now, squat in front of you to talk to you at the same level. Now, his grip on your jaw tightens just enough to remind you that he could stop you looking away if you tried. “Cause I’ve had time to think about it.”

“While you were hiding in the woods?”

“While I was regrouping,” he corrects. “I realised something. I went about it all wrong.” he tells you. “It was foolish of me to try and use force to get what I want. Not when you were right here. Waiting for me.”

His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, then presses inside to the tip of your tongue. 

“If I make you mine, everything else follows. That’s right, isn’t it?” He nods slowly until you copy him. “The throne, power, vengeance on everyone who tried to hold me back. And you, in my bed every night. All day if I wanted.” He pulls at your lip again as he steals his thumb back, leaning in until his breath is warm against your cheeks. “That sounds nice. Doesn't it, Princess?” You glance at his lips, wanting him to kiss you now, to take it from you. Eddie shakes his head, drawing your gaze back to his. “I wanna hear you say it. You wanted me to touch you, just like this, and more, didn’t you? Wanted me to show you how to make me happy?”

You can feel your heartbeat heavy in your chest, your breath coming quicker. Only Eddie could do this, have you convinced of a story which before tonight only existed half formed in the fantasies of your bedroom. You can feel the internal conflict as if it really is your duty to say no, and your heart’s only desire to give your next answer.

“Yes, Eddie.”

He gives you a kiss that’s half teeth, dragging at your bottom lip. Even this is different. You’re used to the gentle start, feeling him smile on your mouth. He breathes deep through his nose, pulls from you so suddenly that you make to follow him until he presses a hand to your shoulder. 

“And I will. Get on the floor.” Eddie steps back, and it doesn’t even occur to argue with him now. You slide off the mattress easily, knees falling to the carpet without looking away from him. There’s a pause. He speaks quietly, as if he doesn’t want an invisible audience to hear. “You comfy? You want the pillow?” 

“No,” you answer, heart aching. “I’m okay.” 

“Okay.”

You watch the way he steels his face again, looking at you on your knees in front of him like that’s where you’re meant to be. His hands work at his belt, a soft hiss escaping when he presses his palm down the front of his pants. His head tilts back, displaying his thick neck, the rising pinkness across his pale throat, and he breathes a laugh. “Now, Princess- Wait!” You jump at the suddenness of Eddie pulling his hand from his pants only to clasp them at his waist as he half-jogs towards the door. “Just a second. Don’t move!” 

Eddie disappears through the door, mumbling to himself. His words are faint but it’s clear enough that he is looking for something. You close your eyes, focusing on his voice, however fuzzy. You never thought you could have something like this. Someone like Eddie. Someone safe. So safe that you can abandon yourself to fulfilling a silly fantasy thought up under the covers of your bed. 

Something catches your hair and you open your eyes to find him standing over you again. The tip of his tongue curls over his top lip as he places the plastic silver tiara just so on your head. When it’s as he wants it, his teeth show with his smile. “Perfect,” he says, pressing two fingers to your chin and turning your head each way. “My Princess, mm? I’m going to show you what it is to be mine.”

Eddie reaches into his pants to pull himself free. His hand drags over the shaft, quick and dirty, just for a moment’s relief if the clench of his jaw the second he stops is any indicator. 

You think you know what to do now, tipping your chin, opening your mouth, ready to take him. Only he angles his head away from your tongue. You peer up at him in confusion, watch the way his excitement plays out on his face. “C’mere, Princess.” 

Cupping your cheek with his spare hand, he guides you to the base of his cock, where he is softest. Your lips graze the fuzzy skin of his balls and Eddie makes a noise that has you squirming for the lightest touch between your legs. You kiss delicately, blinking up at him, watching his thumb rub over the head of his cock, catching wetness to ease the slow movement of his hand. He taps his fingers on your cheek gently. “Open up. Want your tongue.”

Your toes curl. You want to taste him here, aching at the smell of him; like his neck at the end of the day in Summer, his sweat and musk, fading body wash. You want to make Eddie feel good so badly, you think you might do whatever he asks as long as he looks at you the way he is now. 

You reach for him, palm settling on his knee where denim meets exposed skin. Opening your mouth, you lick quickly at the seam of his balls, taste salt on soft skin. He groans, fingers flexing around your jaw. “That’s it,” he encourages. “Fuck yes,” Eddie bites out when you lick broad and wet up to the base of his cock, thinking of his wide tongue drawing upwards from your pussy to your clit. “Fuck, yes.” 

He draws you back, smiling down at you. It makes your face burn, but you struggle between looking him in the eyes and staring at his cock. His balls are pink and wet from your attention, his hand moves steadily over his length, drawing folds of skin over his thick head and back.

“Want you to suck on them a little,” he tells you. The pause he leaves gives a moment for you to squeeze at his knee, as if presenting your open mouth wouldn’t be enough to show your agreement. He drags the weight of his balls over your chin to your wet tongue, listing off curses when your lips close just enough to suck gently. Eddie’s hand moves faster over his length, the curve of his fingers brushing your forehead with each tug.

Eddie’s groans are all that matter now. His sack is heavy, falling past your lips the wider you open your mouth. “So fuckin’ full cause of you,” Eddie bites. You hum, closing your eyes, his hips stutter. First towards the warmth of your mouth and then away entirely, replacing his sack with the head of his cock tapping against your tongue.

Eddie gasps when you lap at his leaking tip. “Can I-” He pauses, rephrases, puts on the right tone. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth now, Princess.” 

He watches you carefully, gives you time to tell him no. You squeeze his knee once more, gaze moving from his dark eyes to his cock. You press a quick kiss to the swollen head, a darker pink than the rest of him where it peeks through folds of skin, then let him press your head back against the mattress. 

Eddie’s cock glides smoothly over your tongue to the top of your throat. “Fuck,” he breathes, rolling his hips. “M’starting to think this is what you wanted the whole time.” He eases further, just past the entrance of your throat. It’s easier, like this. You are more open to him with your head tilted back this way. He holds himself in the warmth of your mouth, watching you blinking back tears to try and keep him clear in your gaze. Finally your throat protests, and Eddie draws back till you can suck at his head, the exposed length of his cock shining with your spit. You gaze at him, wanting him to be proud of you for taking him deeper than you have before. He makes a soft encouraging noise, but Eddie like this won’t give you the validation you want so easily. “Teased me for so long. I think I deserve to take what I want, now.”

Eddie thrusts slowly at first, easing you in despite his words. The hand that was on your cheek now stroking at your heated forehead. 

You like it like this. 

You liked having him in your mouth the first time, and every time after that. Like watching him shake, hearing him groan and whine, and knowing that you’re the one making him like that. You like focusing on him; lick here, nip there, let him feel you moan around him. Now, you don’t even have to think about how best to please him. You can focus on your breathing, taking air in through your nose when he pulls back enough. And on Eddie and how he looks as he takes his pleasure from you. 

Eddie’s so beautiful. His dark hair frizzes around his face, eyes crinkling at the sides when he closes them and groans into the air. His neck is pink, a pretty blush crawling up to his cheeks as his thrusts speed up. “We’re gonna do this all the time, Princess, you hear me?” He grits, fingers curling into the sheets at the side of your head. You moan in answer, pleased when it makes his cock twitch in your mouth, his tip dipping deep enough past the entrance of your throat that you can’t blink away the wetness that springs to your eyes. “You’re gonna be in my bed all the time, maybe I’ll tie you up, mm?” He presses deep again, then holds steady. When the tears collected at the corners of your eyes start to fall, he wipes them away before they can reach the apples of your cheeks. “Keep you here, just for me. Don’t need to see or talk to anyone else ever again.”

If your head weren’t fuzzy, you’d start questioning why that makes you ache. Eddie withdraws his cock from the top of your throat and you only take a second to gasp in the air you need before following him, reaching up to touch the inches of his cock your mouth still can’t quite cover. Eddie laughs through a moan at the feeling of you jerking his cock into your mouth, licking wet at the end of him. “You want that, huh? Hey-” He drags you away from his cock, leaving you with wet, pleading eyes looking up at him. “You want that?” Your mouth opens, then closes. Your hips roll, seeking friction you can’t get while kneeling like this. Eddie’s eyes flick down, lips turning up at the sight. “Get on the bed for me, mm?”

Eddie reaches a hand out to help you sit up on his mattress. Then he pulls his shirt off over the back of his head, exposing all the soft pale skin and dark ink of his torso. You pull your dress up too, knocking your tiara in the process. When the dress is off entirely, Eddie’s there in an instant to fix it for you, his fingers caressing your cheek when he’s done. “Hey, uh. Am I doing alright? Is this the sort of thing you imagined?”

“This is better,” you tell him earnestly, loving how pleased he looks. You’re learning that this, the pleasure gained from praise, is something you and Eddie share. You love it when Eddie calls you good, or smart, or sweet. When he tells you that you’re good at something he’s teaching you. In turn, Eddie likes it when you tell him how good he makes you feel, that he’s doing everything right, that he’s looking after you exactly how you want it. 

He kisses you, and it’s softer this time until he bites gently at your bottom lip as he’s pulling away. “C’mon and lie down, Princess,” he says, guiding you to lay down. You press your legs together, knees bent and feet flat to the mattress as Eddie climbs up after you. His hands stroke up and down your thighs, making you giggle softly as he passes ticklish spots. It relaxes you enough to let him guide your legs open and back, allowing him closer. Eddie tilts his head, thumbing the little blue bow at the waistband of your panties. “You really want me to tie you up?” 

Without thinking, you glance quickly at the handcuffs hanging from his door. You feel the beat of your heart against your chest, wondering if you’re ready for that, knowing really that you’re not. Eddie’s hand cups your cheek, directing your gaze back to him. He kisses your knee. “Not tonight, Princess.” He leans in, whispers. “And only ever if you really want, okay?”

“I know, Eddie,” you answer. And you do. You know that as much as Eddie is teaching you, seemingly leading you along to each new experience, in truth he’s making sure you set the pace. 

“Take this off for me,” he says, pulling at the strap of your bra. You reach underneath your back to unhook it, shimmying it off your arms and letting it drop to his floor. Once you’re settled, he takes both your hands in his, pulling them up over your head. You can’t help but giggle, feeling both nervous and giddy. “Hold onto the headboard?” You follow the instruction, wrapping your fingers around one of the wooden slats. Stretched like this, chest presented to him, you feel open and exposed, your nipples tightening from the cold air and from Eddie’s attention. “Don’t let go, mm?”

He leans down, kissing from the base of your neck down the skin between your breasts, his hair dragging behind him, tickling the sensitive skin. He leaves a wet mark on the curve of your left breast, the sting of his teeth quickly soothed by his tongue. When he takes the tight bud of your nipple between his lips, your whole body tenses. It’s a test of your submission, if you can last with only your memory of what it feels like to tangle your fingers in his hair. If you can bear not to tug at it when he flicks his tongue like that. 

Your hands tighten around the wood, hips tilting to find his cock where he tucked it back in his boxers, still hard and throbbing between your legs. The friction, however light, against where you have been waiting for him all evening, is too good to give up, and you keep searching for his hardness to rub against. 

Eddie releases your breasts with a grin. “You want it bad, huh, Princess?”

You whine, melting when he presses his hips forward to give you more delicious friction along your pussy. He huffs a laugh, sitting up and quickly reaching out for the pack of Trojans on his bedside. You watch him kneel between your legs, the way he fists his cock while he tears at the foil square with his teeth, his desperation to roll the condom over his length. Eddie shuffles forward on his knees and presses his wide hands to the back of your thighs. He gently guides your legs back, hitching your hips up for better access to your pussy, wet and swollen under his gaze.

“Wanted this for so long, Princess,” he says. “You’ve been waiting too, hmm?”

“Yes, Eddie. Been waiting so long.” You nearly cry from relief when his cock latches at your entrance, then from despair when he stills instead of filling you. The headboard creaks from your squirming. “Please,” you whisper, sounding pathetic in a way that would embarrass you if you weren’t aching from the emptiness.

Eddie stretches you perfectly as he presses inside your slick cunt. The tease of pain feels good now that your body recognises what it means, where Eddie filling you up leads. “Good?” He asks, once he’s deep enough inside that the curls of hair above his cock are teasing your clit. 

You mean to answer properly, but the intention is overtaken by the need for him to move. Waiting for him, your fingers tighten around the wood so much you swear there will be marks from your nails. “Eddie.” It comes out whinier than you intended, but he certainly doesn’t mind. 

“Eddie,” he mimics breathily, his teeth showing as the heat of pleasant humiliation crawls up your spine. He doesn’t keep you waiting any longer, snapping his hips to draw back and press deep again through your clenching cunt.

You’ve been under him every time, but like this you feel helpless. Hands voluntarily useless, body tilted up and legs opened by his hands, your body presented to him and positioned perfectly for him to set the pace. It feels right for this - you know now what the romance novels you hide under your bed mean when the heroine is taken. 

Your toes curl when Eddie’s hips roll just right, the heavy head of his cock hitting the end of you. When he reaches between you to press a thumb to your clit and rub in tight circles, your body tilts, hips trying to chase the pleasure, only for Eddie to press you back down to where he wants you.

“I like it,” you answer. “I like it, Eddie.”

“You like it, like this, hm?” Eddie asks. You blink at him slowly, wondering if it’s your boyfriend or Eddie the Banished asking. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe it, hair shaking. “Knew you would. Pretty Princess just needed to be fucked right, mm?” You shudder, tightening around his cock enough that he gasps, “fuckfuckfuck. S’good. It’s so good, honey.”

You breathe a laugh. “Princess, to you.”

“My apologies,” he says, snapping his hips to land heavy against the spot at the back of your pussy. You gasp, legs kicking out against his grip involuntarily only for him to tighten his grip and push them back to where he wants them. You can hear how wet you are, the sound of him moving inside you as loud as the bed springs, as loud as your moans. “Mine now, aren’t you, Princess?” 

You nod easily. “Yes.”

“Gonna give me everything I want from now on, aren’t you?” 

“Yes. Yes-”

“Made it so easy for me. Should have just done this in the beginning, just taken you for myself.”

“Yes. Yes, Eddie.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back as his hips speed up. “Fuck, I can’t- Can’t get enough of that.” When he looks back to you, the detached, mocking look is gone. He’s all intensity and warmth, your Eddie again. Your whole body tightens. “Tells me everything I need to know when you say my name like that.” He gives you a mean thrust, tongue peeking out as he watches where you’re connected, the slick coating his cock, before his gaze returns to your pleasured, sweaty face. “You’re so fucking good, you know that? So fucking good, the way you talk to me. Telling me what you want. Not gonna hide anything like that from me again, are you?”

“Nuh,” you manage, legs twitching. “Eddie.” 

”Again,” he gasps. “Please. My sweet girl-”

“Eddie. Eddie-”

Maybe you keep chanting his name, maybe you cry it out, maybe you stop altogether to scream out instead. You don’t know. You just know he’s all you’re thinking of as the pleasure crests, spreading out from the back of your cunt through your body until it’s intense enough you think you might cry. Then it fades to the gentle delight of Eddie still moving inside you, the warmth and weight of his cock when he buries himself deep. You hear him groan, feel the potential for bruises blooming where his fingers dig into your thighs. Then it’s his weight easing down on top of you, the ache in your shoulders and your legs as you let them relax before wrapping yourself around him.

You finally get your hands in his hair. The roots are damp from sweat, his curls tangled in knots. Eddie’s face is pressed so fully to the space between your breasts that you’re not convinced he can be breathing. He mumbles something that’s lost to your ears, then tilts his head up till you can see his face, and his goofy smile. Your heart aches even as you giggle. Then he’s crawling up your body to kiss you, his mouth warm and tasting like the sweat from his upper lip. 

“I’m gonna pull out now but I want it known that it’ll take amazing strength of will on my part.” 

He does so, disappearing from the bed for less than five seconds to throw out the condom before flopping next to you again and opening his arms to let you clamber into his hold again, you try to fight the rising worries by pressing your face into his neck. He hisses at the scrape of the plastic tiara under his chin, taking it off himself before returning to stroke at your temple with his fingers.  “How do you feel, sweet girl?”

It takes you a minute to answer, sorting through all the complicated feelings that emerged the second Eddie wasn’t inside you anymore. “Good,” you murmur. Then, “weird.” 

You hate how fast it all happens so soon after something so special. You feel overwhelmed and tired, like you want to scrub yourself raw under hot water, like you want to curl up in Eddie’s arms and smell like him forever. You feel like you don’t want to ever be touched again, but the thought that Eddie won’t makes your heart sore. You wish you were normal. You wish you didn’t have weird fantasies. You wish you didn’t feel guilty about what you want. 

Eddie holds you tight against him, and you let yourself feel the comfort of that. Eddie doesn’t think you’re weird, or gross, or immoral. Eddie won’t ever leave you alone to cry and scratch at your crawling skin. 

He presses his lips to your forehead, mumbles against your skin. “Gonna let me look after you?”

He keeps you with him while he runs a bath. You’re wrapped in a towel while he runs around naked, giving you mock coquettish looks over his shoulder every now and then until he gets a giggle from you. As steam starts to rise from the tub, he searches through the cabinet under the sink before emerging with a bottle filled with suspiciously bright orange liquid. “We don’t have bubble bath but, uh, this is six-in-one.” 

You try sitting in the water together, wrapped up in him, but the pins and needles come too fast, eight limbs not quite fitting as they should. You end up facing him, legs tucked up to your chest, watching the water drip from dark ends of his hair. 

“Not as romantic as I’d hoped,” he says.

“It’s okay. I like looking at you.”

His dimples show. Sweetest boy on Earth. He splashes at you a little, waiting for you to smile before talking. “Feeling better?” 

“Much,” you answer honestly. Somewhere between giggling at Eddie rushing to his bedroom to fetch towels for you both, a hair tie for you, with his hands covering the crack of his ass while leaving his dick uncovered and him quietly insisting on taking the side of the tub with the tap at his back, the grey cloud hanging over you faded. “Cause of you,” you say, splashing him back. 

Eddie smiles, resting his face against his knee. “Is there anything I can do, you know, to make it better, like, before it happens?” He reaches for your hand in the water. “Cause it hasn’t, in a while. I know that this was, like, different, but if I did something-”

“No,” you interrupt. “It wasn’t you.” Eddie lets that sit for a while, waiting for you to continue. “When it’s just me and you, it’s like-” You swallow. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being really, actually myself for the first time in my whole life.” Eddie’s eyes are so soft, looking at you now. “And I know that you won’t ever judge me for…my fantasies, or whatever. But then it’s like, it’s almost like- Like without even wanting to, I imagine what other people would say, if they knew the stuff I told you. If they saw how I am, when it’s just us. And then I just feel like, even though they’re not there, it’s ruined it.”

Eddie squeezes your hand, sighs with his whole body. “That sounds exhausting.”

Tears prick in your eyes even as you laugh without real mirth. “It is.”

“Well, you know this stuff really is always going to be just me and you. Right?” 

“I know, Eddie.”

“I wish I could fix it for you, sweet thing.”

You close your eyes tight, trying to force back the tears. You swallow the lump in your throat, thinking, me too. Instead, you sigh, remind yourself that however hard it is now, you’re sure it used to be worse. Before you had Eddie and his humour, his touch, his kindness. “You make it better, Eddie. I promise.”

He’s perfectly gentle with you the rest of the evening, curling back up with you on the couch when you’re dry to restart Theatre of Blood. You let yourself sink into his chest, playing with his rings. You are just about engrossed in the story again, watching with sick fascination as the first critic is stabbed like Julius Caesar. Then, a thought suddenly occurs.

“Did…did you say the soap was six-in-one?”

“Sure did,” Eddie answers. “Face, body, hair, laundry, pets and dishes.”

“That’s why it smells like the terrier next door.”

Eddie hums, lifts your hand to his face and sniffs. “You mean that’s why we smell like the terrier next door.”

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Don't cry. || Nikto

[MASTERLIST]

Rating: E Words: 3K~ (this one got away from me) Pairing: rogue asset!Nikto x civilian!Reader cw: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT., bad/incorrect medical care, injuries (described), being held at gunpoint, verbal and physical threats, blood and gore. other tags: you/your pronouns. fat/chubby!reader, no russian. Summary: A stranger takes you hostage in your own home and demands medical care... But you might have gotten more than you can chew. a/n: YES, Nikto’s voice actor is only 5ft10 but he’s 6ft5 in my mind, and I’m in charge sooo.

It's cold as all fucking hell in your small town. No. Not as all hell. Because you're pretty sure hell is supposed to be boiling hot.

Why did your family have to come from this small town in bum-fuck-nowhere Russia? And more importantly why did you decide to move back here after college?

Oh, yeah. The house. The little home that your grandma lived in since she was a child, that was fully paid and required no rent, and had very low property taxes due to it being ancient… And was left to you in her will. 

Well, in days like these, you can't help but despise the stupid fucking house. 

The pipes are frozen, which means you've resorted to getting water from the local firehouse every morning, as do the rest of your neighbors. Plus, it's freezing even with multiple layers of clothes and socks and scarves on. You sleep in front of the fireplace all winter and still fear you'll be dead in the morning.

Every year it's the damn same.

Maybe going to study in Moscow and then doing your master's and doctorate abroad softened you up. But you didn't remember it being so fucking cold.

Having as much meat on your bones as you do, it really shouldn't be as difficult as it is to withstand the cold. Sometimes you wonder if all those damn studies about how fat helps preserve body heat didn't apply only when people had heat to preserve.

Those are the thoughts in your head as you throw your last log in the fireplace and realize you need to get more from the woodpile outside. "Mother fucker goddamn piece of shit..." You complained.

Throwing on a winter coat over your robe, you stuff your double-socked feet into your winter boots, cover your head with a beanie and wrap yourself in a scarf.

Then you venture outside with the flashlight from your junk drawer, to illuminate the way. The wind outside is biting and the snow is tall, causing you to almost trip over your own feet.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck... cold." You grumble under your breath.

Sticking the flashlight between your teeth, you grab a few logs of firewood and slip them vertically into a black milk crate at your feet, trying to hurry so you can go back inside.

As soon as the box is stacked as full as you can carry, you bend at the knees and hurl it up by the handles, gritting your teeth against the flashlight between your teeth.

That's when you feel something hard press against the back of your head... and you hear a muffled voice. "Don't scream. Don't look back. Just move." The command chills your spine more than the -17ºC weather outside.

Your eyes shoot wide open in a panic and you have to force yourself to resist trying to look back. Instead, you nod and wobble your way along to the backdoor while carrying the heavy crate of firewood.

Once you slip inside, you set the crate down in the kitchen floor and take the opportunity to look out of the corner of your eye at the the stranger that held you hostage. 

He slams the door shut behind you and deadbolts it shut, then he rushes to the window, ripping the curtains shut.

He's wearing a flight suit and military gear but it's all in a navy color that you don't recognize… Maybe the Navy? But what would a Navy soldier being doing here alone, in the middle of the woods in your land locked town? Plus, he's clearly armed, carrying a pistol in one hand. The other wraps around his midsection and he's leaving a trail of small blood droplets on your floor.

His face is covered by a mask that looks more like a bunch of denim patched together than anything, leaving only his eyes showing. It’s even bolted to itself to not be easily removable.

“Where?” He asks you, eyes and gun trained on you as you straighten up and show your hands in innocence.

“Where… Where what?” You ask in confusion. Your body trembles all over and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to piss your pants if he keeps staring at you like that and barking vague orders at you.

“WHERE?!” He insists, raising his voice in a growl that sounds more animal than human. “WHERE. ARE. WE?” He adds, his voice boiling with anger and condescension.

“P-Provrsk!” You shout the name of your town as you flinch away from his own raised voice. Your gaze is locked onto him, taking in his mask and the blue eyes that stare at you from behind them.

You’ve never had to worry about a masked intruder in your home, ever. This is a small town, this sort of thing doesn’t happen here. Especially not one that looks like he’s deserted from the FSB.

“DATE?” He shouts at you again, making you flinch once more as your whole body tenses and curls into itself in fear. 

“8th of February… Thursday.” You reply, your eyes beginning to well up in tears. “Please… don’t hurt me…”

You’ve never been the crybaby type, in fact, you’d say you’re pretty good at staying contained in your day-to-day life, even when life is beating you down… But something about a 2 meter tall man in your kitchen shouting at you while waving a pistol around terrifies you to your very core…

With a deep breath, he leans himself back against the kitchen counter and another animalistic growling escapes him as his left leg straightens and twitches under him, his knee likely weakened. He’s still clutching his side with his hand and more blood puddles at his feet, dripping between gloved fingers.

He looks like he’s immeasurable amounts of pain and considering he seems to have walked here with an injury that’s still bleeding, you can’t help but wonder if the adrenaline isn’t starting to wear off.

The sight of him is pitiful… And for a moment he’s not some terrifyingly “You need… a doctor?” You ask him, more in a tone of affirmation than of question. He needs a doctor and you know it.

“No doctor.” He replies sharply, showing he still has all his mental faculties in place… Somewhat.

“You’re hurt.” You remark softly. “Bleeding all over my floor.” You add. You’re trying your best not to shake and cry and you’re not quite sure you’re succeeding.

“No doctor.” He insists as he shifts his weight around on his legs and hisses. "Needle, thread and alcohol." He demands of you and you’re not stupid enough to disagree with the armed man.

“In the upper cabinet behind you… The metal tin.” You instruct while barely pointing your finger at the cabinet door on his left side for fear that any more sudden movements will cause him to take you as a threat.

He sets the gun very carefully on the edge of the counter so that his free hand can reach up and over, patting at the cabinet, throwing the door open and feeling around inside for the aforementioned metal tin.

He’s been smart enough to put your small kitchen table between you either way, preventing any sudden lunging activity from you.

He never once turns his back on you, not even his face. His eyes are still locked on you, sending shivers down your body, making sure you don’t try anything… Not that you’d be stupid enough to dare.

He finally grabs the repurposed butter cookie tin and sets it next to him on the counter before grabbing the pistol once more and aiming it at you. “Metal spoon.” He demands.

“Over there… second drawer from the left…” You point discreetly at the drawer by the stove. 

“Get one.” He demands again and so you do, hands raised, taking very tentative steps across the kitchen, your heavy snow boots thudding against the floor.

Carefully, you lower your hand and pull open the drawer. Before you can even try to grab a spoon, you hear him bark at you again. “Only a spoon. Don’t try to grab a knife.” He warns you. 

Nodding very slowly, you reach inside the drawer and retrieve a metal table spoon and show it to him. “Stove.” He orders you again.

“Heat it up?” You ask softly and he grunts in what you assume is confirmation as he nods curtly at you. “I need matches.” You point at the drawer again and very slowly fetch the box of matches before closing the drawer.

Turning very carefully toward the old stove, you turn one of the knobs and strike a match, lighting the burner before extinguishing the match. “Heat the handle.” He demands and you nod in understanding as you peek at him sheepishly.

Slowly, you grip the spoon by the bowl and hold the metal handle over the flame, moving it ever so slightly to ensure an even heating up of the tip, your eyes locked on the flame and the slowly reddening type of the metal spoon.

While your back is turned, you can hear some rustling and a heavy thud on the floor. You assume he’s getting rid of his heavy gear in order to patch himself up… “Hurry up.” He barks.

“I can’t speed up the fire.” You reply softly, too afraid to speak too loud. 

“Watch your tongue, or else I’ll cut it off.” He adds, his voice grunted through as you hear some more rustling. His threat was enough to send chills down your spine and sent you back into muteness. 

Another minute or so later, you can feel the heat spreading across the whole spoon and even the bowl is too hot to hold. “It’s ready.”

“Move, quick.” He demands and you turn to face him, finding him still in the same spot, across the kitchen, leaning against the wall. He’s shed his plate vest, and undone the zipper of his flight suit, removing the sleeves and leaving it to hang around his hip. That exposes his torso completely, per lack of any undershirts or other layers. You wonder how he hasn’t frozen out there in just a flight suit…

The sight of him is so shocking and… disgusting. You feel your stomach turning, the warm meal you had an hour ago threatening to come out the way it came. He’s covered in scars, his chest speckled in patches of red skin or pale, melaninless skin, something you can only assume are burn scars.

The right half of his torso is covered in dried blood, sporting a hapharzard, thick suture that you can only assume he did a few days ago considering how swollen and red the skin around it is… Infected.

And, of course, the pouring, wet, red blood that escapes from his left side… It looks like he took a gash on it… maybe a gunshot, maybe an explosion, who’s to say… But he’s definitely got a hole and he’s leaking like a faucet.

“MOVE!” He barks at you, causing you to jump, startled out of from your shock-induced trance and you quickly rush over. He grabs the spoon from you with more aggression than you expected and shoves you away with a swift elbow to your side, to force you away from him. You fall on your ass, grunting softly upon landing. 

When you were younger, kids used to joke that all your fat would serve as an airbag in the case of a car crash, but the truth is, as you landed on the floor, you ass and legs hurt… As did you side from the elbow you took to it.

Your eyes well up in tears at the soreness on your body, as well as the sound that escapes him and reverberates through your kitchen as he sticks the red-hot spoon handle onto his open wound, gritting his teeth behind his mask as he cauterizes the wound shut. The sound is terrifying, like a gurgle mixed with a shout and an animalistic growl. (find the scream inspo here) 

You don’t want to look. But he’s doing this inches away from your face. You can’t help but watch in horror.

HIs legs shake underneath him and he struggles to keep himself upright but succeeds by landing his elbow and forearm on the edge of the counter. The hand that’s holding the pistol, the left one, flexes around the handle, fingers trembling with the pain. He struggles to stay on his feet as his right hand keeps softly twisting the spoon handle in his wound before pulling it out.

He grunts as he lets the bloody spoon fall on the floor at his feet and his head falls back with a couple more grunts and huffs, resting on the upper cabinets, his right hand clutching the wound again for a moment. You’re sobbing on the floor. Something about the sight you just got broke your resolve for a moment. You’re afraid… Very much so.

Just as you’re trying to calm yourself down, crawling backward over to the table to use a table as support to stand up from the floor, the sewing supplies tin crashes onto the floor at your feet with a ruckus so loud you can’t help but squeal.

Looking up at him, you notice him glaring at you. “Suture.” He demands angrily.

“I-” You attempt to speak but you can’t. Too afraid and too choked up to succeed in more than a light stammer.

“SUTURE!” He repeats his demand, his voice loud and sending chills to the innermost part of you as he leans forward a bit to look at you.

“STOP YELLING AT ME!” You shout in return through whimpers and whines.

“Stop crying. You have no reason to cry yet.” He warns you, his voice bitter and mean.

Your whole body quakes as you sob and scramble up on all fours, to grab the tin of sewing supplies from the floor.  You pop it open with shaky hands and rummage inside, searching for your pink pin cushion and, upon finding it, you plucked out a needle.

“You’re scaring me…” You were able to get out through trembling lips as you grab a spool of black thread.

“We will do much worse than scare you if you don’t start moving faster.” He tells you. “Do not test my capacity for violence.” He adds. “Now move.”

Slowly, you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You’re so close, you can smell him… And he smells gross… He reeks of sweat and piss, which mixes with the metallic scent of his blood, and gunpowder that lingers on his flightsuit which he now wears as pants only.

Your trembling form makes you struggle to thread the needle but after a few attempts, you succeed and unfurl much more thread than you’d realistically need. While you do so, his pistol changes grips and his right hand holds it aimed right at your head.

Slowly, you push the needle through his skin, grimacing at the wet noise it makes as you drag it through and you hold back a gag and a sob as you try your best to suture him shut. 

You don’t know much about medicine… But you’re pretty sure you’re supposed to do a ladder stitch so you can pull the thread taut at the end and ensure the injury closes… So that’s what you start doing, trying your best to not tremble all the way through it.

He’s holding himself surprisingly calmly through it as you stab his skin/wound multiple times… You risk looking up at him, your eyes still teary, your lips trembling, your face red from holding back tears and a gag. 

All you find is a pair of soulless blue eyes staring down at you through the two holes of that mask. They seem as cold and unforgiving as the snow outside… They’re bloodshot and the pupils are dilated. And he seems to be looking at you with a predatory gaze that makes you feel small and insignificant.

"Who are you...?" You ask tentatively, surprising yourself at how small your voice sounded, how meek.

"Nobody." He reply  as he leaned the pistol against your temple. “Finish.” He demands. 

Gulping and nodding, you finish the stitching and pull it taut, which earns you a hiss from him. You tie off the thread and snip it off with a pair of little scissors from the sewing supply box.

Just as you’re about to pull away from him, the needle between your pointer and middle fingers and your hands raised in an act of peace, he pistol whips you across the temple.

You squeal in pain, and throw your hands on the floor to support yourself from fully falling on your side, losing the needle somewhere in the tile floor of the kitchen. Your eyes are cloudy with tears again as you whimper in pain, unaware of what caused that violence. 

Is he going to kill you? Steal from you? Make you prisoner in your own home?

“Don’t move.” He demands. “It’s not finished.” He warns you as you struggle to get back on your sore knees.

You watch in horror as he shifts position, to no longer be kneeling on his elbow on the counter, and instead straightens up. His right hand continues pointing the gun at you and, very slowly, the left inches his flight suit down some more.

Slowly, you’re exposed to the sight a large gash across his left thigh, that draws down diagonally to his left knee which is swollen red and bruised…

As well as an obvious lack of underwear and a semi-hardened cock laying against his right thigh, the hilt surrounded by bushy blonde pubes. Your eyes double in size and you have to once again contain yourself from gagging and crying in disgust.

“Get back to work.” He demands as he points at the wounds on his leg. “And don't you dare cry." He adds. "Or else I'll give you other reasons to cry about.” He warns as his hand glides over his cock.

This is fully inspired by the beautiful work written by @391780, gotta love all the nikto ficlets and all the fat!reader stuff! Also wrote this a bit as a request by @ms-rayray who asked me for fat!reader stuff, and also a shoutout to @xxshadowbabexx and her eternal love for nikto.

[gazeofseer]

What is your role in the world?

'Not everyone is born to war, nor to love but we all are born to live for both at times, but what is the role we play at the backstage ; when we take off the costume and keeping the scripts at the table..a courage to face the mirror and walking out in the street full of people what are you then? Is what today's reading is about, I do readings only if it is channeled so let your intuition guide you well ; )

Pick a Pile

1.Supporting Character/Audience

'Beautiful eyes keep longing for deep and endearing sights of act, efforts and play..you enjoy watching, observing, you can look at the sky for hours without getting tired, you have a tough job but you do it with so much compassion and professional touch that nothing stays in your mind, the novelty of you lies in the subtle nuances of picking up on details which satisfies your soul, you have always been second in your life, be it rank, position, or in personal life this affected you to become more resilient and follow the lead of someone to give you a better space of stage where at least your seen and being seen, heard, and felt makes you feel enough'

Signs : White clothes especially scarf makes or one scarf which you treasure a lot, seeing strangers crying and tearing, and smiling at them, seeing 6:16, 888 and 11:11

Career for you overall : Film Direction, Photography, Anything that needs minimal attention keeps you sane, manager, designer.

These careers can give you the sense of purpose in life as it is your role nobody can do it like you do.

_____________________________________________________________

2. Main Character

'Breathe, easy the world will go on if you rest and go on vacation for months, being at the spot can be heating at times that idea of being answerable to everyone gives you sleep paralysis and sleep talking is what your side effects of burning out results into, you need pause but everyone remembers about work as soon as you arrive even your family comes like 'hey I had to ask did you paid the bills? ' especially when you leave your room and come for fresh air, you feel being consumed all the time you want to shed, shed the way people perceive as it affects you mentally to keep in touch with the real you because there is very rare events to act yourself not any character filling the gaps in others life is like stopping between looking for the perfect mask for today and the kind of people you will meet'

Let me sigh, your future spouse has a message 'Calm down love, I was trying to connect with you when you skipped on your favourite love song, as you were busy I had lost my ear plug cover at my workplace and it was not the best day'

Advice : Leave everything aside and listen to the songs you love and sing your heart out especially when someone talks work sing a song

______________________________________________________________

3.Background Performer/Actor

'Struggling days are the best right? Nobody cares so do you..since you enjoy your two minute shadow appearance and celebrate as if you won an award for it, the cheerful optimism melts the moment everyone leaves, your role begins when you are alone, you act really very well, especially when nobody sees, maybe because you fear the judgement the lights, the shout pressure coming by the action, seeing the main lead being called out in insults walls your dreams under a illusion of having enough and asking for extra even in food makes you feel as if you are begging, guilt, trauma and ignorance seems to follow you'

Messages from Your Guardians : Leave your worries to us, we will ease the agony you carry, leave them to us and move forward we want to see you grow, grow out of yourself.

Signs : You have two opportunities at hand, make decision which has no regret attached, showcase your talent on social media, do not give up, people are noticing you do not leave !

______________________________________________________________

It was very personal I felt, I hope whoever it was meant for has got their messages it can be you if it is, let me know in the comments !

[ultfreakme]

I don't know why literally anyone following NATLA in any capacity is under the impression the Netflix EVER baited Zutara. What are you talking about? The actors look at you like you've got two heads if it's mentioned, the show runner said that Kataang is staying but is not gonna be shown in S1. The only ship anybody openly talks about is Zukka. Dallas Liu and Ian Ousley bring it up like they get paid every time it is mentioned and Kiawentiio literally went "what show are you watching??????" when someone asked about Zutara (also, Kiawentiio threw a card asking about that across a room and the rest of cast started laughing- like---).

Look, I am not hating istg, but where did anyone get the idea that this show was ever going to make Zutara canon? The scarf scene doesn't count for crap when Katara froze the man, and the mere sight of him brought up horrible memories and he tried to kill her brother (also the scarf was just to show the color and make Zuko a weirdo, like we cut right to Zuko confronting AANG and completely ignoring Katara). Like they very clearly tied her fear of Zuko to her grief surrounding her mother, which inhibited her bending. He is her antagonist, her enemy, through and through.

[cornley-amateur-drama-society]

✨✒️🪶Fic Masterlist🪶✒️✨

Hello! Here is my masterlist of finished works I've done for Cornley, most of which at the time of writing (20241201) have been for various writing challenges! If you're looking for something specific that I've posted that isn't on here, send me an ask or DM me, and I'll help you find it. >^-^<

Challenges I've Done: Fictober22, Fictober24, Whumptober24, Cornley Christmas Chaos24, 76 Kisses to Valentine's Day

Up-to-Date as of 20241212

🎃👻🕸~ Fictober22~ 🎃👻🕸

Other Prompt Fills || ao3 link

Day Thirteen: “I don't want you to do that.” — Annie + Vanessa + Trevor + William, one-sided!Vanessa x Max, Max x Sandra, Lucy + Max + Sandra + Dennis; part of this peace is fragile || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Fifteen: “What are you doing?” — Chris x Vanessa, Dennis x Vanessa; post-improv masterclass || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Sixteen: “You're looking, but you don't see.” — Dennis x Vanessa, Cornley Fam; est. relationship, cast finds out || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Seventeen: “Are you serious?” — Chris + Trevor, Trevor + Cornley Techs; Chris being the perfectionist director he is, and the Techs are not being paid enough for this. || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Two: “Who said this was a good idea?” — Cornley Fam, Trevor + Cornley Techs; backstage during Harper's Locket after Trevor falls from the ceiling || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Four: “Is this safe?” — Vanessa + Cornley Fam, Vanessa x Chris; during rehearsals for The Spirit of Christmas, Vanessa has concerns about the snowman's scarf length || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Seven: “That's not why we're doing this.” — Chris x Trevor, Chris + Trevor + Cornley Techs; secret relationship that's still pretty new, and the Techs help Chris and Trev keep it on the down low || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

🎃👻🕸~ Fictober24~ 🎃👻🕸

Other Prompt Fills || ao3 link

Day Four: “No, we're not doing that.” — Chris + Cornley Fam, Cornley Fam + Cornley Techs; just an average cast and crew meeting || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Ten: “Is this normal?” — Max + Annie + Vanessa, Dennis + Trevor + William; part of this peace is fragile, Max and culture shock in his new home || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Thirteen: “That's not the point.” — Chris + Cornley Fam, Cornley Fam + Cornley Techs; another cast and crew meeting, Chris is ever beleaguered by the cast, the Techs just like to watch || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Eighteen: “You always have a plan.” — Trevor + Cornley Techs; behind-the-scenes of a play going wrong || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Nineteen: “This is getting ridiculous.” — Cornley Fam; behind-the-scenes of a play going wrong || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty: “I saw your eyes light up.” — Robert x Vanessa; est. relationship, telling each other when they fell for the other || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Two: “Why are we doing this again?” — Genevieve + Seren, Max x Sandra, background Vanessa + her Household, unrequited!Genevieve x Vanessa; part of this peace is fragile, Vanessa's household spies on her behalf without her knowing || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Four: “You didn't do anything wrong.” — Robert + Max, background Max x Sandra, background Chris + Robert; part of this peace is fragile || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Six: “You were the first.” — Vanessa x Annie; Vanessa thinking about her jump from BBC receptionist to Cornley Tech to Cornley Actor || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Thirty: “I won't let you down.” — Vanessa + Chris, Vanessa + Trevor + Annie + William, background pre-one-sided Vanessa x Max; part of this peace is fragile || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

🆘⚠️🎭🕯️Whumptober24🕯️️🎭⚠️🆘

Bolded parts of the prompt mean that they, specifically, were taken into account whilst writing. || Other Prompt Fills || ao3 link

Day Three: SET UP FOR FAILURE / Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | “I warned you.” — Chris + Robert || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Six: NOT REALIZING THEY'RE INJURED / Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | “It's not my blood.” — Vanessa + Cornley Fam; fantasy au, quest au, connected to Day 19 and Day 22 || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Nineteen: BLOOD TRAIL / Abandoned Cabin | One Way Out | “Is there anybody alive out there?” — Vanessa + Cornley Fam; fantasy au, quest au, connected to Day 6 and Day 22 || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty: EMOTIONAL ANGST / Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | “It's not your fault.” — Max + Robert, unrequited Max x Sandra, background Sandra x Jonathan; during PPGW pre-filmed show, some time during/after The Recordings happened || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Two: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES / Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | “Oh, that's not good.” — Vanessa + Cornley Fam; fantasy au, quest au, connected to Day 6 and Day 19 || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Three: FORCED CHOICE / Public Display | Broken Pedestal | “I'm doing this for you.” — one-sided Vanessa x Max, Max x Sandra, Vanessa + Chris, Vanessa + Trevor + William + Annie + Genevieve, Max + Robert + Lucy, Max + Lucy + Sandra + Dennis, Robert + Chris; the main narrative behind this peace is fragile || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Four: FINDING OLD MESSAGES / Secrets Revealed | Regret | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” — Max + Vanessa, Max x Sandra, one-sided Vanessa x Max, Lucy + Sandra; part of this peace is fragile || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

🌟🎄🎭💥Cornley Christmas Chaos24��🎭🎄🌟

Link to Collection

Day One: Snowed In — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Two: Hanging Tinsel — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Three: Wish Lists — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Four: Gift Wrapping Mishaps — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Five: Sledding Adventures — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Six: Christmas Crackers — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Seven: Mistletoe Moments — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Eight: Traditions — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Nine: Decorating the Tree — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Ten: Candy Canes — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Eleven: Snow Angels — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Twelve: Christmas Movie Marathon — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

Day Thirteen: “My buttons are made of biscuits.” — [redacted] || STATUS: [REDACTED] || ao3 link

💖💟💞✨76 Kisses to Valentine’s Day Masterlist ✨💞💟💖

Full Prompt List || C-Drama/J-Drama/K-Pop/C-Pop Prompt List || ao3 link

Day Three: Drunk/Sloppy Kiss — Dennis x Trevor; est. relationship, Dennis gets caught up in post-show festivities || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Four: Awkward Kiss — Chris x Dennis, Chris + Max + Dennis, Robert + Jonathan, Vanessa + Cornley Fam; improv gone wrong || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Five: Angry Kiss — Robert x Chris, Robert + Sandra + Chris; uni au, they keep pissing each other off and eventually kiss about it || STATUS: POSTED || ao3 link

Day Eight: Seductive Kiss — The Goes Wrong Show || Chris Bean + Entity, Chris Bean + Bean Fam, Chris Bean + Cornley Fam; angst, supernatural exists, emotional manipulation, the perfect universe is too perfect au || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Ten: Goodbye Kiss — Sandra x Annie; playing lovers in a play, period drama || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Eleven: “I Almost Lost You” Kiss — Robert x Annie; est. relationship, post-Peter Pan at A&E || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Thirteen: Kiss on the Ear — Annie x Dennis; cast as lovers in a show and by god they can never get their timing right || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Fourteen: Kiss on the Neck — Sandra x Vanessa; once again playing lovers in a show, show of support || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Fifteen: Kiss on the Back — Annie + Trevor, background Annie + Trevor + Vanessa; long-standing tradition between Annie and Trevor, X + 1 Things style || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Sixteen: New Year's Kiss — Max x Sandra; est. relationship, post-ACC, NYE party with the Cast || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty: Surprised Kiss — Vanessa x Chris; hybrid au, magic is real au || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-One: Kiss on a Dare — Chris + Sandra, Vanessa x Chris if you squint; Cornley Fam cast party nonsense || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Three: Exhausted Parents Kiss — Annie + Chris; forehead kiss between the exhausted parents of the Drama Society || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Twenty-Seven: Giggly Kiss — Max x Dennis; lads get a little giggly after a few rounds whilst hanging out || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Thirty-Three: Kiss in a Dream — Chris x Vanessa; feelings realization, “Oh, oh no.” || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Thirty-Nine: Spin the Bottle Kiss — Robert x Trevor; once again, more cast party nonsense || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Forty-Four: Tender Kiss — Robert x Vanessa; first dates, friends to lovers || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Forty-Five: Passionate Kiss — Robert x Vanessa; Summer, Once Again au where Nessa is Robert's fiancée in the play || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Fifty: In Secret Kiss — Chris x Trevor; est. relationship, behind-the-scenes kisses during a show, semi-secret relationship || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Sixty-Four: Being Unable to Open Their Eyes for a Few Moments Afterwards — Vanessa x Dennis; first kiss, Dennis is a sap, good thing Nessa's into that sort of thing || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Sixty-Six: Staring at the Other's Lips, Trying Not to Kiss Them, Before Giving In — Max x Trevor; Max is so smitten with the new Stage Manager, so he decides to kiss him about it || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Sixty-Seven: When One Stops the Kiss to Whisper, “I'm Sorry, Are You-” & They Answer by Kissing Them More — Max x Vanessa, past-Sandra x Max; Nessa doesn't want to be a rebound || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Seventy-Two: When One Person's Face is Scrunched Up, & the Other One Kisses Their Lips/Nose/Forehead — Chris x Max; Chris is frowning and going on about something that went wrong in rehearsals and, well, Max has to kiss him about it || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Seventy-Four: Kisses Where One Person is Sitting in the Other's Lap — Robert + Sandra, Sandra x Max; have to kiss because of the script and Max is trying so hard not to laugh at them on-stage || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

Day Seventy-Five: Kisses Meant to Distract the Other Person From Whatever it Was That They Were Intently Doing — Vanessa x Trevor; est. relationship, Trev's working on some set plans and Nessa is trying to get him to leave the theatre because it's rather late || STATUS: NOT POSTED || ao3 link

[pathbend-blog]

Episode 1: "The Last Diva Dance"

@olympictrivia

@bbc6music-blog

@mitsky$######

Does not Star

For My 🫂 🥼

That was almost the Finalé of the "Fishhook From My I"

I started with that Fraudster Vance Men's Group Psychologist in Oakland

Trying to save my Parent's Marriage became that One. Duh is also th last yuck and then it just does away, like the Stomach Flue you don't remember having had every summer again.

They really want them CoCo Caxxed before this Rape, was the other Intel th Enemy gave me.

The place you make your Avatar in The Military, is almost where you go to watch you and the patient or class.

I just Finished using that to write our Good Story.

Before Portland 2020

BBC Radio 1

Washington Post

Chuck Palahniuk

bandcampoakland

If Anthony is House

But Who he Paid House to Jungian Cosplay Mitsky

Teaches him he isn't mean at all, being used by Cutty to laundry Money

Duh.

I am Mean House, Here, Meaner than The Blade of a Scalpel you haven't held either really for years

Hobo Johnson

I Already Have My Maker's Mark Harry Potter Scarf

Dr. House.

I don't have your Bull Paid Yet.

Universal Medicine Dependent On The Mood of a Physician

BBC Radio 1

Washington Post

Royal Marines

*

University of Oxford

United States Space Force

There isn't a Trick To It House

My Fallanges and Some Good Will Hunting! Yay an op for an Eemjee 🍏 💜

🎹

St James Infirmary is a Chunnel from the PFC and your note yet to write for ever and for.

Money. House. Do you even like being called that or just her pretty blues?

💙 To Motor Strips and Opium Psychosis Then House.

Auntie Emmy calls

John Mulaney

Anyway, "Dr. House Was Fine"

Back to my wargames that's the Hour

I hope it was worth a decent Rollings Steins ticket at least. The Drugs I Suggested, Email Me Back If You think it's a good strategy. The Book and Film list isn't an insult to British intelligence.

Oh My Wargames? Well this one is me meanly writing about The Clone Matrix Saga, which Consider Canon

Again to the Detriment of the Enemy's not getting The Matrix as a basic concept yet.

Eventually I say As Real Neo Possessing this Coppertop being made to think it's even Original Clone Neo, who doesn't say that, thinks it's reductive and Mean. "The Waiting Free" or "The Sleeping" gives it a non Anti-Buddhist flair

Sorry I'll get to the IT.

Eventually like in that Agent Smith as his Daddy IRL he learned, the Actor, And Morpheus Rescue Scene

That's The MAPS one that is occurring further Litigation for mean people and my ExWife.

They All Eventually become the Squally lines on the Left

Despite like their Bursting into Flames Things covered by the literal Girl Form Hereditary, Parks and Rec and Hey don't eat my Cornuts B Word.

That's a lot of Money and Drugs onto even the most unfit basic Bagel

,,,, House.

Which can Hold Every Quark on Earth

BBC Radio 1

It's a Lawnmower Man Omegaz it is nice thanks, ⌚?

Scenario

Hobo Johnson

Washington Post

Royal Marines

*∆6 ❄️

It's The End Then House ⌛

Two Weeks then 4 maybe

bandcampoakland

Mercedes-Benz

Mine©®™

Phoebe Bridgers

Anyway, you can't ever really get past horrid about to be 18 and have all that Family Trust that matters for a very brief period of any Human Life, but especially The Enemy's

And Also of All Of History Watched by all

Cosplaying a Woman Or NonBinary is fine, Being a Man in their world. Because those aren't People Either they have ever known

Me that is just The Discraced Doctors Girlfriend for a moment

You can't be a Liar in that Job at all

FBIJobs

They are out of Money and can't get you tonight House, Just.

It's in your HIPAA contract I didn't sign for MensRightGuy IRL or us that Therapist and because of my lack of Plausible deniability in that Situation

None was expected.

In Silicon, Way Way Past the 4th Wall because get out of my whole building here and go home and rest?

Humble Bundle

Mercedes-Benz

BBC Radio 6 Music

Phoebe Bridgers

Hobo Johnson

BBC Radio 6 Music

Donald J. Trump

The Truth Today or More Charges?

💙 Same as I asked every day.

Donald Glover

FBIJobs

DER SPIEGEL

That's like when KXT got cut off

Yo'll should Hear it Arowaves Live

Anyway

2 to one is easy

Just Fall in Love and Listening to The Birds and Don't Infect the Bee's Hives with Special Fungus

Washington Post

BBC Radio 1

Most Basically for the Aspirant to Medical School or College or don't want to school is fine, a trade of some kind, how will you eat?

Your Leader feeding you won't some day child.

They have Magic tricks that harm you that Taylor means when she sings "Crisis"

Their Prisons and Psychiatric Facilities are the Product, not the People working in them.

They can only shove food in mouths and be violent as they knew as children

And accrue Liability like Telehealth

That someone, a Good Law Person, is going to help them Collect

Globally but my Concern by Law is in Two American States

Your Answer in this Debate Then

Stranger to Me as a Living Man

Kamala Harris

Washington Post

Fox News

KCRW

KQED News

DER SPIEGEL

Zoom

[rosetintedgunman]

LIAM JACKSON

One thing I've always been transparent about is this: the Wilford that's on this blog wasn't supposed to exist in his timeline. William was supposed to die.

For the sake of good manners, I'm putting everything under a read-more.

-

Everything would play out as intended, until William and Abe first confront one another. It's tense, but Abe shoots first. He was aiming for the shoulder to try and disarm William. Knowing the soldier would be able to kill him instantly, he pulled the trigger too fast... and hit William in the neck instead.

William died almost instantly.

Celine wasn't supposed to be there. She was never meant to interrupt the confrontation and distract from the intended scenario. Her arrival meant that others were killed or gravely injured, while the one who was supposed to die survived.

But in this timeline...? William dies. There's another argument, but the Manor's influence has subsided.... And everyone else walks out the front door and into the safety of the external grounds. Alive. Safe. Traumatised, but they survived.

There's no Attorney stuck in the mirror. No Dark. No one driven mad from ten hours of mourning and watching death undo itself. Nothing. Just the missing corpse of the actor, and a dead soldier.

William's body is left alone while the others wait outside for the authorities. A brief investigation is undertaken to confirm what was said was true. But before the body can be taken away, it too vanishes.

The Actor sneaks out stage right in the stolen corpse.

As for William? Well... He was stuck alone in the Void. There's no looping hellscape here. No need for it. Instead, he's stuck in the same space as Mark's corpse. He can leave whenever he wants! Gosh, if only he had the magical skills to do that. But he doesn't! And he has to wait. For months. Until he absorbs enough of the Manor's energy to amplify his own abilities, ultimately claim and reshape the corpse, and push himself back into the world of the living.

His trust is gone. He paid that price to get out (I'll explain that properly for Dante another time). He's a soldier, completing his tasks on his own, getting revenge on those that wronged him - starting with setting the Manor on fire.

This... Is Liam.

He looks a little worse for wear. The bullet went into the side of his neck and out the other side. Though the entry and exit wounds are covered over now, the damage is done. The nerves related to the brachial plexus were damaged, essentially leaving his left arm paralysed and permanently drooped. However, he CAN move it, however wonky the movements might be, and this is solely through using his powers to manipulate his limb to bypass the use of the nerves. He won't tell anyone this unless he learns how to trust another again and let hkmself be vulnerable. Because of this, the only presence of a red glow is in the area from the left side of his neck to his left hand.

He also has no pupils visible. There's no reason for this. They're unharmed, but lacking them makes it harder to read his expression. If they do appear, they're simply black dots. His skin is pale grey, the eyes are essentially dark grey, and the pupils would be black, so there wouldn't be too much overlap there.

His scarf was taken off during the initial examination of the body and was removed from the site. His glasses, however, were dropped by mistake when he was burning the Manor.

The jacket is ripped. Some parts, like the left collar, were torn to try and lessen his pain when he first woke back up. The ends were pulled off when it got snagged. All medals have been ripped off, but he still wears the dog tags.

Liam spent a long time in the Void alone, and then longer after that on his own. Because of this, he doesn't talk a whole lot. If he does, it's to the point. His voice sounds a little hoarse from lack of use.

That's all I can think of for now, and I'm very tired. I'll leave you with this second sketch I quickly finished when I got home a little earlier.

Finally: why "Liam"?

Simply put, it's an alternate way to shorten the name "William", and it's one that no one used in life. People who knew him would be less likely to join the dots if they heard the name "Liam" in passing.

[coffee-with-mint-syrup]

So it is a shameful shipbaiting then. Well, fuck.

I still think that they don't know what they gonna do yet because, you know, netflix didn't even confirm the second season. I'm sure they will, the show surely got its hype and semi-good ratings. Even despite the loud "it was not like the original series!" crowd. It's just they haven't said anything officially yet so, you know, anything could happen.

And even if they will go for kataang endgame - they are gonna have a handful of problems.

First of all, the main point of my previous post was "they know what they are doing with zutara" and it's just cruel at this point. The second time in a row? What for? To attract these few percents of the audience that watched natla only after discovering the scarf scene? (Well, netflix IS kinda evil, it's not like they are not able to do such thing).

But, you know, it's not like they JUST filmed that scene and let it flow, no, they are promoting it on their official account ("meanwhile in Omashu" post on twitter). Not to mention the tremendous load of photos of Dallas Liu and Kiawentiio together I've seen without even trying that hard. If it's just for shipbaiting zutara - the lengths they're going are crazy.

While Kataang - well, it's nice that they count the "I need you" line as foreshadowing but...how do I put it? You see, I've always believed that the bond Katara and Aang shared is much more then him being in love with her and getting the girl in the end. The show actually made a point of it and made her explain it to the audience (like they do with every little thing, just explain it in words and dialogues). For god's sake, she called him a family a few seconds before "I need you" line! I'm not saying that it means nothing - but I'd argue that could mean literally anything, not just the, you know, quite definite romance foreshadowing like in the animated series. Kataang fans went on their posts like "See? See? Kataang is happening, you filthy Zutarians, so lose all hope!" - only after that information from the creators dropped. It doesn't seem they paid it much attention before that. So I don't know man. If it's a foreshadowing - it doesn't do the foreshadowing thingy much.

Secondly - the age problem. Yes, one of the most favourite arguments Kataang usually use - Katara is two years older than Aang, it's the same age difference for Zutara too, what is the difference then? (Let's pretend for a second that I really do think there is no difference while romance between two teenagers of 14 and 16 is socially pretty much acceptable when romance between a 14 y.o. and a literal child of 12 is...well...have you seen 12 y.o. boys? Also while a mental development of 16 y.o. is kinda comparable to a mature 14 y.o. girl, I can't say the same for a 12 y.o. boy. Once again - have they even seen a preteen boy before?)

So in the animated series both Katara and Aang are drawn pretty much in a similar way, the only difference is their height. You look at them and see two children of approximately same age, so it kinda works if you don't think of it very hard. In the live-action version - yes, the cast is slightly older then their animated counterparts, but Kiawentiio is 17 going on 18 (her birthday is in april). In the next season she will be pretty much a legal adult. Gordon is 14. He looks like a baby. Yeah, he will look like an older teenager in later seasons but he will still remain a teenager. Can you imagine a bunch of Kataang videoedits with some romantic pop songs showing a young woman and this baby face from the first season? Well, it's internet, it's wild there, but let's not pretend that it won't be bothering anyone. It'll be hard to promote, you know.

I think netflix understands this too that's why the best foreshadowing they could do is "I need you!" line. But - what the hell? They do understand that this problem won't just go away a year or two later? They do, riiight? It's alright to have such age difference when it's adult actors, not when a literal teenager is involved.

And even then, they took away too much of Kataang's foundation. There is no "they're meant to be" basis they had in the animated series. They didn't have to do any kind of romance tones to lightly foreshadow it directly in the context of a show. Also Katara was kinda Aang's goal, his inner "want" from the very beginning in the original - so narratively it made sense for his arc to end up with either achieving that "want" or letting it go. So they took away this arc - and it robbed Aang ending up with Katara of any narrative purpose.

Compare this lack of establishment to all the Zutara heavily canonical stuff there still is that they will have trouble to get rid of (at least the events from "the crossroads of destiny" which are vital to both of their arcs and the ending fight with Azula) and all the ways the Kataang was not-so-great in the 3rd season. Of course they can change it, they probably will if they are still going for Kataang, but then what's even the point? To achieve the "original" ending that would be even less developed and robbed of any purpose? That's just stupid.

Point is, I really hope they won't go for it. I was alright with Zutara not happening before seeing the scarf scene, I will be alright after some shameful shipbaiting. Kataang however...This just won't look good, visually or narratively, I'm sorry.

It seems in the end we ought to repeat history. On the one hand we'll have hella underdeveloped canon pairing because the creators will still be uncomfortable to put them in any romantic setting and on the other - heavily implied and shipbaited non-canon Zutara. It's gonna suck for both sides. Nobody's winning.

I'm sorry for ranting under you post, it seems that I have troubles to keep it short. This whole situation is just so fucked up. I'm so frustrated.

P.S. By the way, I actually couldn't find the source of this information to fact-check. I've seen people talking about it on kataang tag, but there were no direct link or description of the source, just vague words. Not saying anything just...

EDIT: okay, found it, apparently was not looking for it very diligently. The exact quote is "we are obviously aware of where it goes in the original series, but it's more of a future issue and a future storyline to be dealt with". All he's saying is - we planted a hint, we know the canon, don't know what we're gonna do with it.

In reply to you 'zutara bait might not be bait' post. One of the Natla creators confirmed that katanga is happening and that Kataras 'I need you' in the final episode is foreshadowing is the start of their build up :(

I'd have loved zutara though

Well that's a crying shame. However. Delusion dies last and must I remind us all that there was probably a point during the original run of the show where the writers room was divided on whether Zutara or Kataang will become canon? Things like that are subject to change and I think that theorizing is fair game until the show ends.

But if they DO do this, then I just know that nobody will be happy because so much of their scenes and original build-up have been taken out. Which means they'd need to make up new ones and the sooner the better because s2 will run a tight schedule and s3 will almost certainly have to cut huge amounts of vital content.

It is genuinely, at this point, in their best interest to not go with Kataang. And I don't say this as a Zutara shipper but as a fellow writer. I'd rather have Katara end up with no one than tank the story by forcing Kataang to happen.

[psalm22-6]

[1] An optimistic candidate, some anxiety, awaiting the decision [2] The art of the eyebrows [3] Will she be photogenic when she’s wearing makeup?, Raymond Bernard has her strike the pose [4] Fantine is going to die on her pallet, the fateful moment

Source: Image Magazine, 1933

In Search of Miserable People 

For a reporter, the race to find headlines is luckily open all year long. Nose to the wind, he constantly trawls on the paths of adventure, equipped with a permit to hunt, which allows him to cut to the front of the line. It’s certainly not prey that is missing because if the occasion to hone his professional curiosity doesn’t present itself spontaneously, he always has the resources to provoke it. 

That path brought me of late to the doors of the Pathé-Natan studios at Joinville. It was nice out and as a director had kingly invited me to have lunch at the “restaurant of the artists,” I had as much appetite as I did good humor.  At the doorstep of the vast village which is the modern movie studio (the Americans do not hesitate to call theirs a city), I found myself stopped by a doorman in uniform, tasseled like a sergeant major, the collar of his pea-jacket embroidered with aggressive little roosters, who was struggling with a dozen difficult to handle visitors. There were men and there were women, and all agreed to talk at the same time. 

“Enter here…M. Fernand Lefèvre will see you shortly.” 

They had settled in, finally, without any apparent pleasure, on the moleskin benches of the waiting room when, informed of my presence, the severe doorman came to see me. 

“Sir, you wish to see…?” 

In a calm voice, I named the director who was my host.

“So it’s for Les Misérables then,” he said, “Wait with the others. They’ll see you in two hours.” 

And, having gently pushed me into the waiting room, the doorman disappeared. 

I was, evidently, the victim of a misunderstanding and I was going to intervene when the idea came to me to profit from the doorman’s mistake. 

I was losing, to be sure, an enjoyable lunch, but the joy of having been taken for an actor in search of engagement minimized my stomach cramps to bearable proportions. 

So I sat myself next to a young woman, artificially blonde, who was speaking of “cinema” with a gleaming and brylcreemed young man. I learned from listening to them the reason why I was being asked to wait in the anti-chamber of the studio. M. Raymond Bernard was going to be filming, in a few weeks, Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. He was currently trying out actors for the numerous roles he had to give out. And competition flowed, naturally. 

“Les Misérables, have you read it?...It’s a smashing story! It seems that Harry Baur will play Jean Valjean, you know, the role of the convict…”

“I haven’t read that book…but I already saw a film that had a name like that.” 

The candidate actors, anxious would-be movie stars, ready to give it all to succeed, spoke among themselves. Some recounted, with abundance, their exploits on the screen, and others named their connections, all calculating their chances of landing an engagement that would lift, momentarily, the worries of everyday existence. 

“I think that this film here will take many months!” 

“It’ll be a whole affair!” 

Nothing is more grueling to put up with than the ambiance of a waiting room. But there the oppression was greater than everywhere else because for all the people present, their material life depended on the result of the visit with the director. All hoped with all the strength that he had, that only a few would be chosen. 

“I have a little girl,” explained a little skinny woman with gray skin, “and I haven’t paid the nanny for three months…”

What misery! 

She was pale. Her hands, nervously clutching the scarf on her knee, were trembling. Would she land the engagement that would liberate her of her creditors and which would permit her little girl to stay in the countryside? Certainly superstitious, she didn’t dare to voice her desire. And yet everything about her, from her little threadbare suit to her stained shoes dripped with misery. Was it possible that in Les Misérables, she would find no part? 

Long and gloomy hours dragged our boredom on. Outside, the sun was shinning on the hairdresser. Our brows were covered in pearls of sweat, but I guess that the sweat had to be frozen to the skin of those who had come to try and win their livelihood. 

Finally, the gilded doorman reappeared. 

“Would you kindly follow me,” he said to the head of our little company. I left last. 

**

My companions and I appear before a méridional studio manager who collectes the summons. 

“Who are you, monsieur?” 

I give my name. But my name tells him nothing of value and as I did not receive any summons, he takes me for a desperate type. 

“We’re not concerning ourselves with extras yet,” he tell me. “You’ll have to come back.” 

“But…”

The manager is a busy man. He doesn’t care about my explanations, he leaves me and brings the “summoned ones” towards the costume department. To each he distributes the rags that could be suitable for eventual use in Les Misérables. Naturally, none are destined for the employ of stars, but in the movies, auditions happen a bit like in the theater.  A debutant must act in the part, a leading role, in order to show his measure, though he’ll probably never have the occasion to play the role thereafter. It’s there that the difficulty of these tests lies. And because the manager knows the names of Hugo’s characters better than those of the actors, he calls out: “Monseigneur Myriel, Thénardier, Cosette, Fantine, Enjolras.” I don’t get any outfit, naturally, and while the others disappear to the dressing rooms to prepare, I only have the ability to wait while smoking a cigarette. 

The first, a delicious Cosette, dressed in an ample pink dress garnished with lace, emerges from the dressing room. The manager quickly gathers her to conduct her to the make-up artist. 

“I’m afraid,” she murmurs. She is holding in her hand a typed page that she is reading quickly, her heart pounding, and which she then repeats from memory, her eyes half closed. 

“Do you know the scene?” 

“A little, monsieur…it’s difficult.” 

The make-up artist is sat in front of her, and like a painter, with brushes dipped in pots of paint, he polishes her face meticulously, while a hair-stylist improvises a chignon a la 1830. 

The others, in their time, descended from the dressing rooms and one by one take the place of the blonde Cosette, finally ready, at the make-up artist’s chair. 

That Cosette, still guided by the manager, crossed many studios plunged into shadows and finally came to the try-out stage. 

Faithfully I followed her. She pleased me, that little one! And M. Raymond Bernard greeted me, to the great amazement of the manager. 

“You came at this hour?” 

I explained quickly the reasons for my lateness and everyone laughed. 

“I really took you for a ‘miserable,’” the manager confessed to me. 

The studio lights up. Near him on a bench, M. Raymond Bernard sets up the actress trying out for the coveted role of Cosette and asks her to repeat her part. Twenty times, the young woman re-plays the same scene, often restarted by the director. She is already sweating and terribly troubled when M. Bernard commands: “We are going to film.” 

In the studio, everyone is at his post. The sunlamp project an explosion of lights.  The ear of the microphone is descended on a pole. Standing, more dead than alive, between all the incandescent projectors that imprison her in a semi-circle of fire, in front of the terrible apparatus of the camera who casts its mysterious eye through its lens, and with the terrible microphone like a sword of Damocles suspended above her head, the young Cosette, blinded, deafened,  her throat tight, repeats her lines for a last time. M. Raymond Bernard follows the young artist’s acting attentively. 

“Silence!...Is the sound ready?” 

The doors of the studio close. Everywhere, red lamps are lit. No one has the right any more to pronounce a single word or to make the least bit of sound. In this terribly impressive atmosphere, the voice of the manager is heard announcing solemnly: “Beginning of sound.”  

The sound of the clapperboard rings out and on the sign of the director, the scene begins…

***

You have to be a great actor and long accustomed to the rituals of the camera in order to hold up with poise, in the view of the camera. 

Nothing could be more terrible to endure than this try-out. And to think that so many people aspire to submit to this “torture.” 

“That’s good, mademoiselle, I thank you.” 

Cosette stammers some excuses…she made a mistake...she had been afraid…she can do much better. 

“You understand,” she explains to the manager, her voice full of regret, “on this attempt my whole life depends…How was I?” 

Already, M. Raymond Bernard is occupied with another young woman, in rags this one. 

“This will be her second attempt, this one is very difficult…She’s a character, she’s still very inexperienced…” the great director told me. She repeated her scene in a low voice, then she is laid down on cushions, in the field. Once again, the blinding lights stream onto her, a halo of fire. Her eyes water. Her makeup runs. Fantine is going to die on her pallet. 

“Silence!...”

The camera operator has inclined his heavy apparatus just centimeters from her face. The microphone is practically in her mouth. The play of the lights signals that the sound is ready. The clap of of the clapperboard…The future of this poor girl is a game. Alea jacta est [The die is cast]…She is a wreck, picked up by the manager, the test finished, the wreck is agonized, sweating, blinded, tortured by doubt and by dread. 

M. Raymond Bernard smiles at her: “I think that that will work well,” he tells her. She goes away, not quite convinced. Despite her makeup, I recognize her…Perhaps her little girl will be able to stay with her nanny!

The try-outs give way to other try-outs. With exemplary patience, Raymond Bernard gives each person their best chance. It’s now night…and the “miserable candidates” are still in line.

Several moments ago, a man had entered the studio and was watching with great attention the laborious repetitions of one debutant. It’s Harry Baur. Under his arm he is holding a packet of manuscripts: his role. The manager is preparing for him the clothing which Jean Valjean will wear on the screen, the make-up artist studies the head which he’ll have to make up. Raymond Bernard continues, with his operators and his electricians, to search for his “miserables.” At the end, he calls to me: 

“Your turn.” 

“Me?” 

“I should really make you try out, to punish you.” 

I did not dare accept. 

Really, once you see the stars of the cinema, you tell yourself “How easy that must be, that art is within reach of everyone.” But there, in the room with the cameras, I assure you, it’s no longer the same and you’ll admire the courage of all the candidates. 

The “try-outs” leave, agony in their bellies. In a few days, their fates will be fixed. 

Before having been a part of--without having wanted to--the try-outs for Les Misérables, if I had felt called to the cinema, I think that this day would have been enough to cure me. And yet, I know well, it’s with all that suffering, all those tears, and hopes often disappointed, that directors like Raymond Bernard are able to realize great works of art….

…because all of them, hear me well, all of them have faith. 

Will I have it one day?

[glitchedgoalie]

"well yeah," ty said bluntly. "i did some research before agreeing to do this. but that one was one of my favorites when i was younger." he couldn't help but enjoy movies where it seemed like the cast was having a good time making it. he had seen some interviews after the fact and knew carter and the rest of the cast had a blast doing it, whatever they felt about it now. he did a couple of crossovers to dodge a few kids using those learn-to-skate walkers. "and yes, i'd love to hear all about that. it's like when they mic us up during practice. people love that." learning a little bit about the players was right up fans' alley. he guessed it would be similar for actors.

ty ran into a bunch of teenagers playing crack the whip and had to decide between taking the long way around or ducking underneath the whip. he decided on speed and paid for it when one of the teens' skates clipped his back one and he tumbled forward, palms scraping against the ice as he caught himself. he rolled back to his skates a little colder than before and looked around, cursing as he caught carter's scarf whipping along a few yards in front of him. he put his head down and skated. "just admit it!" he panted, trying to catch up with her. "you paid off those kids to get in my way, right?"

"a professional like you? you'd be fine i'm sure." carter had never broken a bone but she had sprained them enough to know the recovery can be a long process. that's the last thing someone in a career like ty's would want.

"you want all the behind the scenes details? the scenes that took forever to film, who hated who, the starbucks cup that wasn't noticed in post-production?" she laughed. she didn't think anyone liked watching her own movies with her because she kept going on about filming and the little details she noticed. "oh no you've already seen it?" carter looked down to hide her blush of embarrassment.

"you are a professional hockey player so don't even try to use that excuse on me." she yelled at him as she zig-zagged through the crowds to catch up to him.

[what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me]

The Haunting of Thomas Sanders 

> Part 1 < Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: Nico was beginning to think his new boyfriend was haunted by ghosts. He never planned to bring it up until the ghosts themselves came to him asking for help.

[AO3]

CW: food mention, alcohol mention, past breakup

Notes: Based off this text post I made. 

.

Nico had come to the mall for inspiration.

Anything to get out of his office would help him at this point, really. The meetings he had to go to were stifling any new ideas and the nosey, pompous co-workers were worse. The writer did not know what he was looking for, but what else brought people to malls? Maybe a new outfit would uncover confidence , maybe indulging in greasy food would be that final click he seemed to lack, maybe people-watching would offer the right story. Nico's bets were not on the last one.

The mall was not as busy as it once had been. When he was still a teen it was a lively place bustling with a constant traffic of people. Walking through shops offered hours of new stimulation and the hallways were towering, intricate skylights the crowning jewel. As time went on Nico got older and things changed. Online shopping is easier than anything and a fair few of the shops were closed down for good.

Nevertheless it was his favorite place to write if he had to choose. The buzz of energy helped him focus on work. Nico found peculiar security in being an irrelevant face in a crowd of hundreds, and knowing that each person had a life he could never even imagine opened floodgates of inspiration. The 'What if's?' and 'Why's?" he asked himself when people-watching could get the ball rolling.

Now there were less faces, less stories. Nico did not appreciate the way this shift reflected in his work. The difference was noticeable, and he struggled more with deadlines, but he worked with what he had.

He learned to pay attention to individuals more. However, currently what he had was waiting for his food, because at this point he might have more luck finding inspiration in eating then in others. There had only been a toddler throwing a tantrum, a teen scrolling on their phone, and a man who sat down across from him at the food court-

Oh hello, inspiration.

If Nico was staring, the only reason he got away with it was his laptop blocking his line of sight. He saw all he needed out of the corner of his eye. The floral shirt was extremely flattering, and if he wasn't mistaken he could see the outline of muscles. That brown hair looked fluffy, and what he would give to run his fingers through it while- Okay, Nico, you might be gay but that thought isn't for a stranger .

He could not even see his eye color. And the man in the floral shirt was eating, interrupting his meal would be rude. Maybe there was a way to make this still work? As his waitress got to his table and dropped off his food, he subtly turned his pinned-covered backpack in the direction of the stranger. If Mr. Handsome did not answer his silent plea then he would move on.

He tossed a fry into his mouth instead of letting himself think.

Maybe he had got his hopes up when the guy came in his direction, only to walk up to a Karrot King line. When the writer saw the man in the floral shirt inspect the plant, he wondered if he liked botany. Finally the same useless hope happened again when they made admittedly awkward eye contact for a few seconds. So he has brown eyes. The guy turned away rather fast so Nico dropped it. Maybe showing a pride pin made the guy uncomfortable and it was to good to be true.

Only when he heard a CRASH and saw somebody fall into a garbage can, did he finally get an idea about what to write. That was a metaphor he could spin into a story. Certainly it was not at all because he felt trashy for a missed opportunity. Nor was it due to that cute guy having disappeared, leaving his food uneaten.

Wait . You can still make this work, Flores.

He scarfed down the rest of his food and discarded the trash. Nico's fast pace to get to the table with the food turned a few heads, but he ignored it. Greasy bag in hand, he browsed the crowd for that familiar pattern. Every person wearing a floral shirt was either an older lady or a child. Nico swayed on the balls of his feet as he contemplated what to do next, but then he saw him coming out of the restroom.

Bingo!

None of what happened after went as planned. Serves him right for letting his overactive imagination create unrealistic expectations.

He should have known trying to do small talk with strangers would only backfire. After Nico had called out after him to return the food, he had tried to ask what made him leave in a rush to forget his food. Then the guy asked what was wrong with him and Nico dropped it. He gave the stranger his well-wishers and left afterwards. He would honestly rather head back to work then be here right now.  

No matter if he was admittedly cute, Nico Flores probably would have been mad at the man if he did not look like he was on the verge of a public anxiety attack. He was probably starving, too, if he had forgotten his lunch.

The man in the floral shirt hesitated behind him, running after Nico.

When they actually sat down to talk together, the man in the floral shirt - Mr. Sanders, Thomas - was quite charming. And funny. And intelligent. Oh, when he had called Thomas an inspiration earlier he had meant it. He just met a singer and an actor, is there a more perfect match to a writer and poet?

Leave it to his imagination to think of a man he just met reciting the poems and lovingly singing songs he writes.

The two had talked for over two hours without noticing. They had bounced ideas off of each other and Nico made an impressive amount of progress. He felt so giddy with just this one interaction! Nico was sad that they had to leave; Thomas seemed just as reluctant to part.

"Well you didn't get to eat much today at lunch right?"

Thomas fiddled with his fingers, "Yeah…"

Nico did not let himself second guess himself , he offered, "Then let me buy you dinner tonight!"

As a breath caught in Thomas' throat, Nico was self conscious that he might have said something wrong, but the heavy blush across the other man's face was not of offence or horror at all. Thomas was smiling at him again.

Finding ways to make Thomas go speechless was going to be his new favorite pastime… if Thomas would give him a chance, he decided. Just that alone lit a fire inside him, and later when he finished with writing for work, he would write some more. All he would be writing about would be this, a collection of poems to free these butterflies in his stomach. Thomas seemed to look around for approval from anybody else and nodded quickly

"I'd love to go with you, Nico! Maybe we can uh- get to know each other better?" Oh man, it was flattering to have somebody so cute get so nervous at him of all people.  

"Only if I could get to know the digits on your phone number better," he confirmed with a playful grin. It might have been cheesy, certainly. But he was also the person who told Thomas that they would not waste this opportunity. Pretending he was not corny now would be a lie.

Thomas taking his cliché advances in stride only made him more hopeful.

.

.

They both later met at a local bar and grill close to the beach. A salty sea breeze tousled his hair and the palm leaves. The hour was close to sunset, too hot for the mosquitoes to bug them but not too hot for the two of them to eat outside.

"I'm looking for a table for two? RSVP'd under the name 'Flores'?" He asked. The waitress nodded, sat him down with a menu. Thomas was not there, and a part of him wonders if he is getting stood up. Nico, not particularly interested in looking at food yet, fiddled with his laptop. He sighed because even If that was the case, Nico would try to make the most of the night.

The waitress brought Thomas to the table a few minutes later. The writer's heart soared before worry took root. Thomas was wearing that same expression from earlier that day on his face. He anxiously explained. "I'm so, so sorry for being late. And i totally get if you don't want me here and would prefer to just call this all off. I didn't mean to show up late, but then as I was about to leave my apartment I- my keys just-"

Nico grabbed one of Thomas' hands and smiled reassuringly. "Hey, I'm not angry you got here late."

Thomas really did look cute flustered, but he did not let go of the hand. Instead he ran his thumbs along his knuckles. "I'm happy you're here with me. Wanna order a drink and maybe share an appetizer with me?"

They both chatted about foods they disliked while waiting. Thomas hated carrots with a passion as it turned out, and he made a mental note to tease him about going to a Karrot King. Nico in turn talked about his dislike for most seafood and mushrooms because of the slimy texture. The waitress came and both agreed on a sampler platter to share.

"Mimosas at sunset?" He inquired.

Thomas smiled nervously. "I usually save them for brunches, with friends. All the other options I like are too much if I want to drive home tonight."

Nico nodded, understanding.

Just like in the food court, Talking with Thomas made time go past without him even noticing. They tried out food together, talked about music, and that led Nico into telling a story about a Highschool band. Thomas was red in the face and giggling uncontrollably by the time they paid for the check and had to leave.

They left the building together when Thomas stopped him. "There's a park around the corner. We can feed the ducks some leftovers."

If Nico noticed that Thomas was not ready to say bye just yet, he did not say it. The last of the sun was behind the horizon by the time they went through a breadstick. Watching Thomas interact with the ducks gave him the idea that this man loved animals. They were cute, he would admit, but nature found other ways to ruin his mood.

Nico laughed at himself, pulling his arms closer into his body. "I almost wish I dressed up a bit more. I didn't expect the mosquitoes to be this bad."

"I know it's warm out, but I can lend you a jacket?"

Nico did a double take at what Thomas was holding up. It was black with plaid sleeves, already oversized so it wouldn't have a problem fitting Nico. It honestly looked very comfortable, and it would keep him from being bit, but comfort wasn't what he was caught up on.

"Being warm beats being eaten alive."

When the fuck did Thomas have an extra jacket on him? Did he really not notice it?

He hesitated, and then asked a whole entirety different question. "Are you sure I can take this? I won't be able to return it to you tonight."

Thomas insisted, "Please, I don't mind- I don't need it. And you can keep it for tonight, or until we see each other again?"

Nico put the jacket on and it was soft. And it smelled like the cologne Thomas was wearing. Oh this was nice. "When will that be, Thomas?"

Thomas let his eyes linger on Nico in his jacket. "Saturday I'm free, I think. We could have brunch together, even."

He smiled. "Saturday sounds wonderful."

.

.

When they first had met, being infatuated was easy. It came to the pair more natural than breathing.

Nico originally did not know if his relationship with Thomas Sanders would go anywhere. But the first meeting had been so promising. And then they had a brunch date at Thomas' place, then a second and a third. Maybe… maybe Nico was moving too fast. Things kept going well nonetheless.

Four, five, six, seven. They kept on hanging out. Going out. They wanted to see more and more of each other. Quickly they were amassing a horde of good memories together. During nights away, they loved to text and call each other. They never put a label on what they did, which was starting to bother him. It felt more intimate than friendship. Were these dates?

According to his family, yes. They had noticed his change in mood and lack of free time quickly and demanded explanation. He kept it vague, but got advice anyways. Mama Flores said it was ridiculous that he had not brought Thomas by to meet the famila. Hid Papa was more doubtful. Even though it has been years since Nico's last major failed relationship, his father was still worried.

Papa Flores was a proud man, so it left a bad taste in his mouth when he requested Nico to take more time before giving his heart away. He had to oblige. Nico was over it, he healed, but some of his family was not. Nico's ex was like a second son to Papa, and everybody was hurt by him.

Call him cliché, but Thomas was different.

Even when Nico was past the stage of infatuation, Thomas took his breath away.

Could you be infatuated by somebody you have not actually kissed yet? It felt like it. Sure, when they had met at that food court, he had his breath taken away, and that feeling intensified when they saw each other more. He knew infatuation could feel like love, but these feelings passed the test of time and matured into something deeper. With more meaning. He did not like just the idea of Thomas and what their future might look like, he liked Thomas for his presence and as a person.

Suddenly his worries that they were moving too fast turned into frustrations they were moving too slow. They were more intimate than regular friends, but they never got far enough to be considered partners. It was frustrating to figure out. Nico was ready for a relationship, he was certain. The three months he spent getting to know Thomas were blissful, and calling their dates only "hangouts" had begun to feel forced.

So they talked about it.

Thomas said he was also ready but his actions seemed more… hesitant. He mentioned somebody from his past, who he moved on from but never could forget. Nico wanted to ask, to find out what happened to his heart for him to be so afraid. He knew what it felt like to have scars that still hurt, he wanted to be there for Thomas as he healed.

But that was not the time for the conversation. Not when Nico was nearly on Thomas' lap and his arms hung around his neck. Not when Thomas met his eyes and Nico stared at them for too long. It could have been him trying to figure out what emotions they held, maybe Thomas' eyes were that beautiful. His friend -- boyfriend? -- got so anxious and trapped in his head easily, but Thomas seemed in control of his more scary thoughts in that moment. It brought a smile to his face, unnoticed between the way they were slowly moving closer.

Still, cautious and vulnerable, eager and loving, Thomas had let Nico kiss him. Finally getting to show Thomas just how much he wanted to cherish him was amazing. And receiving that same passion in return was intoxicating.

Getting an answer never felt so good.

Nico's more-than-friendly feelings were not the only thing that was starting to add up in regards to Thomas either. There were strange happenings, though were so minuscule he had nothing tangible to go off of.

Thomas might be really good at sneaking things past Nico's eyes, common sense would say. Intuition told himself not to doubt what he saw. Thomas did not have that spare jacket on their first date originally. It literally had to of appeared from thin air. And when Thomas invited him for brunch, he noticed that two of the mimosas Thomas had prepared with brunch had vanished. Sometimes he experiences ghost touches when staying the night. The hands were gentle and comforting, calluses on the fingertips just like Thomas, but when he opened his eyes nobody was there.

That was the most noticeable of things. Though he could list off a dozen smaller happenings. He had no proof for them, as they could be explained, but Nico listened to his gut here.

And Nico has no idea what he would want to do with this information anyways. Thomas seemed to have some supernatural force that followed him around. What a fantastic conclusion to jump to! It would be weird to bring up, especially after Thomas had denied anything when Nico subtly brought it up. And the ghosts - for lack of better term - did nothing to harm Thomas.

The information that Thomas was haunted by ghosts was, for all intents and purposes, useless.

(Except it was not. It was fantastic material to write from. When he first called Thomas inspiration, his first impression never proved to be wrong.)

(And if Nico had started a personal project dedicated to a story based on it, nobody needed to know,)

The difference between Nico's feelings for Thomas and his feelings about his ghosts is that one actually got addressed.

He would be content to let Thomas have that secret to himself.

NEXT PART >>

[green-ann]

Valery Legasov’s Moscow

Part 2

3. A. I. Burnazyan Federal Biophysical Medical Center

Address: Marshal Novikov street, 23

After having a nice 20-minute walk on Schukinsky district and we see a large brick building.

The former Hospital No. 6, it was here that all the firefighters and station workers were taken after the accident. The famous Angelina Gus’kova, who also treated Academician Legasov, worked here.

4. Novodevichy Cemetery

Address: Luzhnetsky proezd, 2

The place where a lot of eminent people of the USSR and Russia are buried. Actors, politicians, heroes, writers, poets, composers and scientists…

This is the place where V.A. Legasov is buried.

We laid down the flowers and paid tribute to his memory. Thank you for telling the truth.

The statue on his grave is called «Grieving Russia» by sculptor Selivanov.

Not far away, in the next row is Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina’s grave.

Tears welled up only in the metro on the way from the cemetery.

@elenatria @litttlesilkworm @owlboxes @borislegasov @the-jewish-marxist @art-is-a-malady @gwinny3k @kylos-scarf @kaiserrr19 @lastnightfanfictionsavedmylife @natasharedfox @johnlockismyreligion @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @alyeen1 @cinemaocd @odense @bewareofdragon

[bubmyg]

scarecrow - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: vampire!yoongi, fluff, couple blood mentions, death mention (brief), bit of protective yoongi, those previous three warnings sound a lot more dramatic than they actually are, non-chronological with the rest of my vampire yoongi series, this hints at some of the angst for future parts but only if you squint

word count: 1,612

summary: you’re going to keep telling yourself (and yoongi) that the maze is targeted towards literal children or the one where yoongi growls at a fake scarecrow. 

“Whose idea was this?”

You contained your laugh by shoving your chin further into the pile of scarf fabric tucked around your neck and anchoring down on Yoongi’s clammy hand in yours. 

“Uh, yours, babe.”

There was an acute chatter around your huddled figures, laughter too, and the faintest of startled screams coming from the dying corn stalks that clattered against each other in the late evening breeze. You, however, were only aware of the leaves crunching beneath Yoongi’s boots as he shifted next to you, arm occasionally brushing yours, tiny shoulder bag clacking against your hip. 

“We can go home,” You reminded gently, casting a gaze behind you past the line that had quickly gathered behind you. “I think they’re selling cider near the entrance—”

“No,” Yoongi said quickly. Too quickly. Quick enough for a sheepish smile to form on his lips as he glanced at you. “I’m fine. C’mon, we’re next.”

You regarded the costumed attendants at the gate to the haunted corn maze with a muted giggle, squeezing Yoongi’s hand when the more bloodied of the two seemed to zero in on him with their pointed warning of, “Have fun…”

The group in front of you appeared as nothing more than some fuzzy shadows, disappearing as quickly as you thought you’d made them out until a small scream emitted from that general direction. You laughed again when Yoongi tensed, tugging him along through the beginning weave of the maze by means of threading your free hand around his elbow. 

“What if we get lost in here?” He wondered out loud, seeming to calm when the first dozen yards weren’t lined with haunted jump scares. 

“We can cheat the maze. Corn is planted in rows, we can just shimmy through them. The field has to end eventually...”

Yoongi was staring at you with a strange mingle of confused fascination. “Why do you know that?”

You saw the outline of a giant felt spider dangling at eye level before he did, letting your grin grow when the next succession of steps forward had him walking directly into it. There was a surprised yelp that came from his lips, higher pitched that anything you were accustomed to from your soft spoken, ancient boyfriend. 

“Not funny,” Yoongi complained with a clear pout even in the haze of the evening, unlacing your fingers to drag his perspiration lain palm over the front of his jacket. The wrinkle at the bridge of his nose only worsened when you used your grip on his elbow to surge forward and peck his nose. 

“Kind of funny,” You pointed out, regaining possession of his fingers in yours. “Haven’t you, like, killed people before?”

He groaned, dragging you past an actor’s arm that darted out from the corn in an attempt to snatch your heel. “Have I told you before that you’re ridiculously morbid?”

“You’re a two hundred year old vampire that just got scared by a fake spider made of styrofoam in a haunted corn maze marketed towards human children,” You cocked an eyebrow at him, “and I’m the ridiculous one?”

You didn’t need proper lighting to hear his cheeks pinkening. “I wasn’t scared…”

If there was anything about Yoongi you’d had to accustom yourself with, it was his consistent ability to be alert. Whether it was his inner survival instinct, his heightened senses, or simply a byproduct of his curiosity to understand the human world as it evolved around him, you weren’t sure. In fact, you began to hypothesize it was a combination of all three. Long ago had you stopped being startled when his nostrils flared at the sound of a loose dog two neighborhoods over, when his eyes flicked to a leaf rustling and breaking apart from its steam one hundred feet up in a one hundred and fifty year old oak tree. 

Everything about Halloween themed amusements were meant to simulate a similar thing, pricking your ears to every movement, every scream up ahead, every rustle in the dirt part below the soles of your shoes. Somehow, the opposite effect had trilled through Yoongi, relaxing him when he began to anticipate the miniscule jump scares, progressively becoming less and less infatuated with anticipating them so as to mask his reaction. He’d started focusing more on you instead, calming only when he began to register the roar of your heartbeat in his ears was good, fear consented to rather than something he needed to try to curb for your safety. 

You weren’t that scared by the scarecrow that catapulted from between the corn. There was an automated voice to the mechanism too, warning something about staying far away from it’s crop, encouraging you to run in some eerie monotone. You were near the end of the maze, anyway. You could see the lights of the festival at the end approaching over the stalks. 

But in the moment, you jumped. It was unexpected, genuinely, as it was intended. Your shoulder blades bumped into Yoongi’s chest, your hand immediately coming up to cover the thrum of your heart underneath the layers of sweaters and jackets. The laughter of disbelief at your own actions fizzled when you heard a sound you’d only heard Yoongi make a handful of times. 

A strong arm secured around your waist, heightening the growl that reverberated against your back, effectively pulling your stature backward until you were stationed firmly behind Yoongi’s bristling figure. 

“Hey—” You touched Yoongi’s waist first, then his arm, using the tiniest budge you managed to get on his strength to touch his cheek, turning his gaze to yours. The shade of gentle brown in his warm irises had darkened red and, as you expected, the point of his fangs extended beyond his bottom lip, “—it’s okay. I’m fine.”

He blinked, an action that only softened the shade of his eyes but didn’t calm the rigidity of his stature, not as his gaze whipped to where the scarecrows animatronic had already retracted itself back into the corn. Gently, you took his hand, willing your heart to stop beating so fast so you could, with the utmost trust, settle his palm against the side of your neck where your pulse thrummed the loudest. “See,” You coaxed, triumphant when his thumb stroked under your jaw and his eyes swirled caramel, “I’m okay. Promise.”

Yoongi’s shoulders slumped, dragging his gaze away from yours but his hand remained on you, standing there huddled in a corner and dangerously close to a stray husk of corn that was dangling off one of the nearby stalks. You paid no mind, not when his hand traveled up from your neck to your cheek, brown eyes returning to you despite his fangs that still pressed small indentations into the plush of his, now pouting, bottom lip. 

For a half second, you thought you were the one with the keen hearing when you heard him murmur, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” You demanded, the laughter that started the whole incident bubbling back through the slight, genuine, fear that had settled high in your chest. 

“Sorry,” He tried again. His arm curled around your waist, pressing you close enough to lay his lips to your forehead. 

You couldn’t resist. “No, thank you, actually. You protected me from the big scary scarecrow.”

It was a whine that left Yoongi’s throat this time, “I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I—”

“I’m kidding,” You laughed, rubbing a soothing palm over his stomach until he glanced at you again. “Hey—”

“I ruin everything,” Yoongi grumbled and even if he looked almost comical with the pointed tip of his retracting fangs still poking out from between his lips, you sensed he was at least halfway serious about the statement. 

“Hey,” The firmness in your tone made his eyes widen. “I love you. I love being with you. You were caught off guard, no big deal.” His eyelids lowered in solace, nodding a couple of times, mostly to himself.

“Besides,” You took to pinching his hip, “Would Jimin have growled at a fake scarecrow for me? No.” 

At the mention of your human coworker and best friend who harbored a not so subtle yet mostly joking crush on you, Yoongi locked his grip around your fingers again and began marching off toward the exit of the maze. 

“Wait,” You tugged on his hand, only to have narrowed eyes assess you seriously when he stopped walking. “Do not go girl who cried wolf on me,” Yoongi deadpanned, “I just got my fangs to calm down. That includes mentions of that human.”

You grinned, rolling on your toes to cup your hand around his ear, even if he could have picked out your voice among a million others if you were halfway across the world from him. 

“There’s a real life human waiting at the end of this maze to scare us. I think they’re dressed as a scarecrow,” You whispered, locking him in place when his features scrunched and he tried to lean away from you, “I’m telling you now that I’m not scared of them. In fact, I’m sacrificing you to them. As an offering.”

“You’re infuriating,” Yoongi told you when you dropped away from him, still rocking your hands at a gentle sway between your bodies, “You know that?”

“I love you?” You tried again.

Yoongi’s entire being softened, tiny flecks in his eyes now mirroring the stars shadowed by the thinnest layer of clouds racing across the night sky above you. 

“I love you, my angel.”

Then, a look of determination crossed his features as he began shuffling backward. “Let’s get out of here, I want a caramel apple.”

“...wait, you do?”

[raspberrybesitos]

and you know damn well i’m gonna belt The Winner Takes It All, the scarf was a paid actor in that number fr

going to a mamma mia screening this weekend and we’re doing karaoke on the big screen after, this is my moment guys

[justthehiddleswrites]

Forever Hold Your Peace | Tom Hiddleston x Cumberbatch!Reader  | Chapter 5 | The Aftermath

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Cumberbatch!Reader

Summary:  Tom Hiddleston dated Benedict's little sister (reader) back at Cambridge, after a bad breakup Tom and Benedict are now friends. The reader is now engaged to an American who Benedict does not trust. Ben turns to his good friend Tom to help break up the wedding and win back the girl he never truly got over.

This Chapter:   Six months after the wedding not to be, you are still licking your wounds and hiding out. But an unexpected visitor may change all of that.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, slapping, cursing.

-

Six Months Later

“How’s work?” Benedict asked as you pushed your food around the plate.

“Fine.” you mumbled as you took a bite.

“Are you going to see Mum and Dad this weekend?” he prodded as he stared at you from across the table.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Maybe.” you responded listlessly.

This was the routine these days. Benedict asking mundane questions while you pretended to be interested and pushed food around your plate. Then rinse and repeat.

“Tom’s back from filming…” Ben muttered, glancing up to gauge your reaction.

Your fork rattled as you dropped it onto the plate. Benedict stifled a laugh.

“Oh, oh. That’s nice.” You responded in a calm voice, but your stomach somersaulted.

“He asked about you.”

You leaned in. “Really?” You caught yourself. “Not that I care.” you scoffed.

“That’s what I told him.” You almost spit your water across the table.

“Why in the hell would you do that?!”

“I beg your pardon. Were you not the one who told me ‘no more men’?”

“Yes, I was.” You sunk back into the chair.

Benedict paid for the meal and the two of you walked out of the restaurant.

“Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?” you asked as you wrapped your coat around you.

“I can’t.”

“What, you got a big date?”

Ben blushed as he adjusted his scarf.

Your eyes widened as you punched him in the shoulder. “You have a date?!? Who is it? Sophie?”

“No comment.” His blush deepened.

“It is!” You danced on the sidewalk. “I knew it!!”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” He pulled you into a hug. “Love you sis.”

“Love you too, brother. Don’t fuck it up, Sophie’s a keeper.” you joked with him.

You headed off back to work, while Benedict headed the other direction, back to his home. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Today’s the day. She should be at work for the rest of the day. Good luck! Stay out of her swing range.

It was only a moment for Tom’s response to pop back up.

Thanks, Ben. I will. Talk to you later.

-

The minutes ticked down before the end of the workday. Your mind wandered to the leftover Chinese food in the fridge along with the ice cream in the freezer.

“Another night with the TV.” you muttered to yourself.

“There is a gentleman out in the gallery asking for you.” Your assistant commented as she entered her office.

“Have someone else handle it, Claire.” you waved her off.

As she turned to exit, the receptionist collided with Claire.

“Tom Hiddleston is asking for you!” she squealed.

“What?” You looked at Claire, who nodded. “You should have started with that!”

You smoothed out your skirt and fluffed your hair as you hustled out of the office.

Tom stood in front of a large canvas hanging on the wall.

“You cut your hair.” you commented, your voice echoed in the cavernous room.

Tom smiled as he turned to face you. “So did you. It looks good.”

Your head dropped out of embarrassment. “You flatter me.” Your stomach jumped into your throat.

You noticed Tom stayed about an arm’s length away. “I don’t bite you know.”

“You just punch. Hard. I’m uncertain my poor nose can handle another signature Cumberbatch blow.”

You giggled. “Sorry about that. I can find out the price of that piece, if you like.”

He tugged on the bottom of his pinstripe jacket, tailored to accentuate his slim figure. “I’m not here for the art.”

You swallowed. “Then why are you at an art auction house?”

“To ask if you will accompany me to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I can’t tomorrow, I’m going to dinner with… shit!” You remembered Benedict cancelled. “I just can’t.”

“May I ask why not?” He stepped closer. Your heart beat faster.

“I think you know why, Tom. My heart can’t handle being broken again.” Your face hurt, and tears welled in your eyes.

“I have no intention of breaking your heart. I love you.”

“I’ve heard those words before. From you and William. And yet I still ended up in tears.”

Tom sighed. “I was a bastard and young and foolish. I treated love as something common and plain rather the precious commodity it is.”

You shuffled your feet. “You’re right about the bastard part.”

Tom chuckled. He moved closer to clasp your hands in his. “Then let me show you my love. I realize I hurt you and it scares you. I love you but I will wait until you are ready. But please don’t shut me out.” he pleaded.

His thumbs ran across your knuckles in a soothing motion. You glanced up to see his eyes brimming with tears as well. “Tom…” you started.

“Please… It’s dinner, not forever. You pick the restaurant. You pick the pace. Just say yes.” His voice a whisper but rang loud in your heart. He gripped your hands tight. “Please... say yes.”

You bit your lip as you thought about everything. Tom was not the same person he was in college. Neither were you. Six months had passed. People questioned when you would socialize again. Meet someone. You wanted someone willing to do anything for you. Even take a punch.

Tom sighed as he pulled away from you. “I’ll—” You grabbed his wrist tight.

“—pick me up at 6?” you finished for him.

His face lit up in the biggest grin, and he pulled into the tightest hug.

“Thank you.” he whispered as he kissed our cheek.

“Don’t make me regret this, Hiddleston.”

“Never, darling.”

Six Months After That

“Stop fiddling with your tie, Tom.” Benedict scolded as he reached to straighten the tie.

“I will... if you stop choking me with it.” Tom swatted Benedict’s hand away from his throat.

“And you call our family a bunch of drama queens.” Ben scoffed.

“Well, except for your sister, you are all actors.”

“Exactly. You’ll blend right in.”

The two walked made their way to the front of the church. Tom’s palms sweated. He spied Sophie in the first few rows. Benedict threw her a wink and smile.

“Speaking of your family, when are finally going to propose to Sophie? What has been ten years on and off?”

“No comment.” Benedict sniped back but he gave a knowing smile.

“No surprises, right?” Tom raised an eyebrow at his friend as he looked out into the congregation, looking for anything out of place.

Benedict laughed. “No surprises. Wow, you are nervous.”

“It didn’t go so well the last time I attended a wedding with your family.”

Benedict opened his mouth to protest but then the Wedding March flitted through the air. Tom and Ben turned to the back of the church. The doors opened, and you stepped through beaming.

“She looks beautiful.” Benedict leaned to whisper to Tom.

Tom didn’t hear him as he focused on the sight of you walking down the aisle in your wedding dress. His eyes brimmed with tears of joy.

“You are perfect.” he commented as he took your hand and led you up the stairs.

“You too.” you choked back.

The ceremony flew by and before long, the vicar called out, “If there should be anyone who objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The church fell into an awkward silence as Tom and Benedict narrowed their eyes at everyone. Tom and you let out a sigh of relief and gave each other a little giggle.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Tom beamed as he lifted your veil and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you close. He kissed you with all the passion and love of a first kiss.

“We did it, Mrs. Hiddleston.” Tom muttered against your lips.

You giggled. “Yes we did, Mr. Hiddleston.” You pecked his lips.

You both turned to smile at your families as they clapped. You walked down the aisle hand in hand. Benedict gave Sophie’s hand a quick squeeze on the way down.