#was nearly murdered by her sister and just. nothing.)

[pucksandpower]

Worlds Apart

Max Verstappen x Sargeant!Reader

Summary: everyone seems to have something to say about your relationship with Max, but at the end of the day all that matters is the two of you

Warnings: Jos Verstappen

Based on a request by @butterflyexe

The sorority house is pulsing with noise — music, laughter, the clink of plastic cups. You weave through the crowd, feeling very much out of place amongst the scantily clad co-eds. Your sundress and sandals seem prudish in comparison.

“Y/N! There you are!” Chelsea, your big sister in Kappa Alpha Theta, comes barreling over with a few of her friends in tow. “We were just talking about you.”

You eye them warily. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like how you’re totally wasting your college experience pining over some old race car driver instead of playing the field.” Chelsea’s friend, Brittany, smirks as she takes a sip of her drink.

You bristle at that. “Max is not old! He’s only 26.”

“Exactly,” Chelsea says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “You’re a sophomore dating a whole ass man who’s nearly 30. It’s weird.”

“No it’s not!” You protest, shrugging off her arm. “We’ve been together over a year. I really like him.”

“Like him?” Brittany scoffs. “Wake up, Y/N. He’s an international celebrity dating a little college student. You’re just his side piece.”

The words hit like a slap to the face. “That’s not true!”

“Then why does he never post about you on social media?” Chelsea counters. “I follow him and you’re never on his accounts.”

“We just value our privacy,” you mumble, but her words have sown seeds of doubt.

Chelsea gives you a pitying look. “Honey, I’m just trying to watch out for you. There are so many great guys here on campus that would treat you right.”

Your eyes narrow at the dig. “You mean like those meathead frat bros that never shut up about their high school glory days? No thanks.”

The girls all gasp in mock offense. Brittany steps closer, using her height advantage to loom over you. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking about our men like that.”

“Yeah?” You stand your ground, hands on your hips. “Well maybe if they acted like men instead of immature little boys, I wouldn’t have to.”

A hush falls over the nearby crowd, all eyes on your confrontation. Brittany looks murderous until one of her sidekicks tugs her sleeve, murmuring “Let’s go, it’s not worth it.” She sneers at you one last time before stalking off, leaving you and Chelsea alone.

Your big sister sighs, rubbing her temples. “Why are you so hell-bent on making this hard on yourself, Y/N? Max is a world away, both physically and in terms of life experience. You could have any guy at this school eating out of the palm of your hand. Why not take advantage of that?”

Her words are salt in the wound. You blink back tears, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Because I love Max. He makes me incredibly happy. And yeah, the distance is hard and he’s older and more established in his career. But he’s kind and smart and we just … connect, you know? I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”

Chelsea shakes her head pityingly. “I’m just trying to watch out for you. I’d hate to see you get your heart broken over some long-distance fling.”

“It’s not a fling!” You’re sick of trying to convince everyone. Pushing past her, you storm out of the suffocating house and into the cool night air. Gulping it down, you sink down onto the steps, chest heaving with anger and hurt and frustration.

Alone at last, you let the tears come. You know the doubts eating at you are unfair — Max has been nothing but devoted and caring throughout your relationship, even with his insanely busy schedule. But the fears voiced by Chelsea and her crew have burrowed under your skin. Maybe you are just a naive little plaything for him. Maybe he’ll eventually get bored and move on to someone more sophisticated and on his level.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket — a FaceTime call from the man in question himself. You fumble to answer it, swiping hastily at your damp cheeks. “H-Hey you.”

“There’s my gorgeous girl!” His bright smile fills the screen, momentarily banishing your worries. “I only have a few minutes before FP1, but I couldn’t wait to see that pretty face.”

You can’t help but return his warm grin, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I miss you so much, Max.”

His brow furrows at your tone. “What’s wrong, liefje? You sound upset.”

You want to brush it off, but maybe this is your chance to finally get those nagging fears off your chest. “It’s just … things have been rough lately with the girls. They keep saying I’m wasting my time with you, that you’re going to leave me for someone else, that I’m just a naive little girl you’re using for fun.”

He’s silent for a long moment, then curses under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. That must be really hard to deal with, on top of the distance.”

“It is,” you admit, blinking back fresh tears. “And as much as I try to ignore them and have faith in us, their words have started to get to me. I mean … why don’t you ever post about me on social media? Do you not want the world to know about me?”

A shadow crosses his features. Clearly he’s heard this criticism before. “My reasons for keeping my relationships private have nothing to do with you, okay? I keep that part of my life off social media to avoid a media frenzy and protect the people I care about.” His expression softens. “But you better believe everyone important in my life knows about you — my family, my closest mates. Hell, the whole Red Bull garage is sick of hearing me go on and on about how amazing my girl is.”

You can’t help but laugh through your tears, some of the weight lifting off your chest. “Really?”

“Of course!” He chuckles. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, Y/N. No matter how far apart we are or what anyone else says, you’re the only one I want.”

Your cheeks flush at his heart-melting words. In that moment, you don’t care about your snotty sorority sisters or the distance or anything else — just being completely in love with this amazing man. “I wish you were here,” you murmur, drinking in every detail of his face. “I miss holding you so damn much.”

Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Maybe you can show me how much later tonight, when we’re all alone to video call properly?”

You giggle and smack your hand over the camera, feeling suddenly shy. “Max Verstappen, you incorrigible flirt!”

“You love it.” His voice takes on a deeper, huskier tone that sends tingles down your spine. “And you’re going to love what I have planned for your next visit even more ...”

You spend the next few giddy minutes shamelessly flirting back and forth, soaking up precious moments of intimacy through the phone line to sustain you until you can be together again. When his race engineer appears in the background, beckoning him to the track, you’re both full of regretful sighs.

“Duty calls,” Max says wistfully. “But I’ll call you later, okay? We can pick up where we left off ...” He waggles his eyebrows mischievously.

You can’t stop your face-splitting grin. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”

“Bye schatje. Love you to the moon and back.”

“Love you too!” You clutch the phone to your chest after he disconnects, completely lovestruck. All your insecurities have melted away under the heat of Max’s devoted words and that heart-stopping smile.

It’s going to be okay.

He chose you — Y/N Sargeant, sophomore student, for all your flaws and relative immaturity. And you’ve never felt luckier.

Spirits lifted, you bound back into the house and upstairs to your bedroom. You’ll ignore Chelsea and her nasty friends for the rest of the night, instead losing yourself in daydreams of the next time you’ll be wrapped in Max’s strong arms.

Your relationship may be a long-distance whirlwind, but you’re all in and you’ve never been happier. Let the other sorority girls whisper — you’ve snagged yourself a keeper.

***

Max drains the last of his water bottle as he exits the Red Bull garage, sweat still beading on his brow from the qualifying session. He stretches his arms over his head with a satisfied groan — even after all these years in Formula 1, there’s no better feeling than pushing a car to its limits on the track.

“Max! A word, if you please.”

He cringes at the familiar bark, turning to find his father bearing down on him like a storm cloud. So much for basking in the post-qualifying glow. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Jos’ mouth presses into a grim line, eyes smoldering behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “Well, for one, I saw that interview of yours from yesterday making the rounds online.”

Max fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course his old man would find something to criticize. “And? I thought it was pretty standard, nothing controversial.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean it to be controversial.” Jos sneers the word like a curse. “But dodging questions about your girlfriend and claiming you prefer to keep your private life private? It’s only going to stoke more media speculation and rumors.”

“Is that so bad?” Max counters. “I like to keep things out of the spotlight as much as I can. You know how ravenous the press is.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, son.” Jos steps closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous hiss. “I know exactly who this girl of yours is.”

Max feels his hackles rising at his dad’s dismissive tone when speaking about you. He opens his mouth to retort, but Jos barrels on.

“First it was that damn Kelly Piquet and her baggage, and now you’ve upgraded to jailbait? What is it with you and dating either old hags or naive teenagers, Max?”

“That’s enough!” Max snarls, feeling his face flush with anger. “How dare you talk about them like that, especially Y/N. She’s an incredible woman, and our age gap means nothing.”

Jos scoffs loudly. “Come off it, boy! She’s just a child, a nobody playing at being a WAG. You were born for greatness, bred to be a champion. Why on earth would you hitch your wagon to some college bimbo barely out of nappies?”

It’s like a red mist descends over Max’s vision at his father’s vile words about you. Before he can stop himself, his fist lashes out and connects squarely with Jos’ jawbone, sending the older man stumbling back.

“Don’t you ever speak about her that way again,” Max seethes, cradling his throbbing hand. “Y/N is ten times the person you’ll ever be. Smart, mature, driven as hell —she’s going to accomplish incredible things someday, whether you respect her or not.”

Jos regains his footing, clutching the blooming bruise on his cheek and glaring daggers at his son. “How dare you strike me, you ungrateful little shit! I gave you everything — the training, the opportunities, the sacrifices to get you to this level. And this is how you repay me?”

Max refuses to be baited, meeting his father’s glare with stony resolution. “Maybe if you didn’t insist on being such a hateful, miserable bastard all the time, I wouldn’t have to. All I want is for you to be civil and show some respect. Is that too much to ask?”

He huffs out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “But that’s not your way, is it? You’d rather condemn me for daring to find happiness with someone, just because she’s younger or doesn’t fit into your narrow ideas of what my life should look like. Well, I’ve got a newsflash for you. It’s my fucking life and I’ll live it however I damn well please.”

Jos opens his mouth, undoubtedly to fire off more vitriol, but Max cuts him off with a raised hand. He’s said his piece, expending the last of his energy and patience dealing with his father’s bullheadedness — at least for today. Right now, all he wants is to retreat somewhere quiet and let his thoughts drift across the ocean to you.

“Save it. I’m done arguing.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, Jos shouting insults at his retreating back.

Don’t react, don’t react. His jaw clenches almost painfully as he navigates the familiar path back to his driver’s room, typing out a quick message.

You free to chat soon, gorgeous? Need to hear your voice.

The reply comes almost instantly. For you, always. Give me 20 mins? ❤️

He can’t stop the surge of warmth at your words, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. That’s his girl — always knowing exactly what he needs, even from thousands of miles away. And isn’t that what matters most of all?

After showering and changing into casual sweats and a t-shirt, Max sinks onto the small couch placed against the wall, pillows arranged just so to prop up his aching back and shoulders. He picks up his phone and dials your number, heart rate kicking up a notch in eager anticipation.

After what feels like an eternity but is surely only a few rings, your face fills the screen. You must have just gotten back from class — your hair is tousled and loose, your makeup-free skin flushed and glowing in the South Florida sun.

“Well hey there, handsome.” Your teasing smirk dissipates as you get a better look at him. “Max? Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

“I am now,” he manages, relief already washing over him at the simple sight of you. He drinks in every last detail like a man parched. “Just had a bit of a run-in with my dad and needed an escape.”

Concern flashes in your warm eyes. “Oh no, what happened?”

So he tells you — the interview rumors, his dad ambushing him and lobbing insults, the explosive fight that caused him to lose his cool and strike the first blow. You listen with sympathy, every encouraging nod and murmured reassurance calming his frazzled nerves until the story is spent, leaving him strangely at peace.

“Thank you for sharing all that with me, babe,” you say once he’s finished. Your voice is gentle but firm. “I’m sorry Jos was so out of line, but you were totally right to stand up to him. Nobody gets to dismiss our relationship or talk about you like that.”

Max blows out a long breath, raking a hand through his shower-damp hair. “I know, I just … I hate letting him get under my skin like that, you know? No matter how much I try to rise above it, he always finds a way to trigger something deep down. It’s exhausting constantly needing to defend myself and the people I care about.”

“But that’s not your burden to bear alone, Max.” You shake your head adamantly, jaw set in that stubborn way he loves. “Let me help shoulder that weight, even if I can’t actually be there physically yet. I’m on your team, remember? We’re partners. I’ve got your back.”

Your words loosen a knot of tension he didn’t realize he was carrying. Of course you get it, you always do. He knows in that moment how lucky he is to have found his teammate, his shelter in the storm that rages on no matter how successful he becomes.

“Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” His voice comes out low, thick with emotion. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

Your radiant smile could power entire cities. “By being you, silly. And for the record, your dad is way off base. There’s nothing wrong with you wanting a mature, driven, accomplished partner — even if she happens to be younger.”

“Age shaming goes both ways, apparently.”

“Apparently,” you agree wryly. “I had my own fun today ...”

As you launch into explaining the shenanigans that occurred during your morning lecture, Max feels himself relaxing further and further into the couch, a dopey grin spreading across his face. On and on the two of you go, playfully trading stories until his father and the endless pressures of his career have fully melted away, replaced by this perfect bubble the two of you inhabit.

When you hit a lull, stifling a yawn behind your hand, Max reluctantly decides to let you go for the night. “Do you have some time before your next class? You should get some rest.”

“Aw, I’m fine!” You protest through another jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m not done talking to my favorite driver yet.”

Max chuckles fondly. This stubborn streak of yours will be the death of him someday. “We both know that’s a lie. I can practically hear your bed calling your name for a nap from here.”

“Hmph, fine.” You stick out your full bottom lip in an exaggerated pout that makes his heart skip. “I guess if you insist on being all reasonable and stuff.”

“That’s me, a real fun-sucker.” He matches your playful tone, though his eyes are serious. “But before you go … can you just say it? For me?”

You immediately soften, gazing at him through the camera with so much tenderness, it almost winds him. “I love you, Max. More than anything.”

He exhales heavily, as if your words have physically lifted a weight from his shoulders. “I love you too, Y/N. And your love, your belief in me … it’s everything. Never doubt that, okay?”

“I won’t if you don’t,” you promise with a wink. “Good luck, babe. I’ll be dreaming of you.”

“Sweet dreams, liefje.”

Even after disconnecting the call, Max sits there for several long moments, staring at the now-dark screen with a besotted grin. His chest is pleasantly warm, full to bursting with the soul-deep reassurance that only you can provide.

Screw whatever toxic nonsense his dad tries to peddle about your age gap or his career. You’re the beating heart that sustains him, the sun around which his entire universe orbits. No disapproving authority figure or rumor mill gossip could ever change that fundamental truth.

So let his father rage and splutter all he wants about how “inappropriate” your relationship is. Max has tasted the extraordinary, found his home and partner in the most vibrant woman he’s ever met. All those lonely, empty years without that missing piece suddenly feel like a hazy, long-forgotten dream.

As Max sips his energy drink and prepares for another demanding few hours at the track, he can’t keep the dopey smile off his face. You’re worth enduring a thousand more shouting matches with his dad, worth traversing any distance just to hear your laugh again.

Max is the luckiest bastard alive to have earned your heart, and he’ll never take that gift for granted.

***

You shoulder your backpack and push through the double doors of the lecture hall, finally free from classes for the summer. The late afternoon sun bakes the quad in a warm glow as you pause for a moment, breathing in the sweet semi-tropical air.

For two years, this campus has been your entire world. Endless cycles of classes, parties, study sessions, and chaos with your sisters from Kappa Alpha Theta. But now, as you glance around at the laughing students basking in the first days of freedom, you feel a strange sense of restlessness settle over you.

Like there’s some place — somewhere — else you’re meant to be.

Shaking it off, you start heading for the student parking lot to meet up with Chelsea. You only make it a few steps before unusually loud cheers and shouts draw your attention to a small crowd forming near the front entrance.

Rows of parked cars block your view, but the distinctive growl of a high-performance engine cuts through the commotion. Your pulse instantly kicks up a notch as your mind puts it together.

That’s no ordinary car.

That’s a multimillion dollar, 800 horsepower British rocket. Sleek, powerful, luxuriously elegant.

Just like-

“No way ...” you breathe out, books slipping from your slackened grip as the glossy green bodywork of an Aston Martin DBS Superleggera slides into view. Because draped over the driver’s side door in that achingly familiar display of casual arrogance ...

“Max!” You shout his name in disbelieving joy even as your feet are carrying you toward him at a full sprint.

His head snaps up at the sound and your heart nearly stops at the way his whole face ignites with radiant delight. That brilliant smile you’ve ached to see in person for so long now stretching those full lips in the most heart-stoppingly beautiful way.

He pushes off from the car, hands outstretched, and in the space of a single frantic heartbeat you’ve flung yourself into his arms with a breathless laugh.

“What are you doing here?” You demand giddily as Max’s strong arms engulf you, swinging your frame around in a tight circle. You’re vaguely aware of the other students going nuts, people shouting and whistles piercing the air, but you only have eyes and ears for this incredible man holding you tightly.

Max just chuckles warmly, murmuring your name with raw affection before crashing his lips to yours in a scorching kiss that leaves you dizzy. You melt into the fierce embrace, parting your lips eagerly to taste the slight sweetness of Red Bull and dark chocolate that is so distinctly Max.

“Surprise, schatje,” he rumbles against your smiling mouth between heated, openmouthed kisses. “Thought I would swing by and pick up my favorite student myself.”

“Oh my god!” You laugh delightedly, cupping his chiseled jaw to drink in every perfectly imperfect inch of his beloved face. The strong jawline, the dimpled chin, those piercing blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he beams at you.

“When did you … how did you …” You’re at a loss for words, overcome with giddy euphoria at having Max here, warm and solid and real in your arms again after so many endless months.

A fresh wave of cheers and hollers suddenly cuts through your joyful bubble as half the crowd seems to recognize the celebrity in their midst. Dozens of camera phones whip out to capture the unexpectedly intimate reunion between you and Max.

“Who is that guy?”

“No way, that’s Max freaking Verstappen!”

“Y/N, how do you know Max Verstappen?”

The shouts and questions reach a fever pitch, finally breaking through your amorous fugue. Blushing furiously, you pull back just enough to murmur against Max’s chest.

“Well, much as I’d love to keep making out with my insanely hot boyfriend in the middle of campus, maybe we should take this somewhere a bit more private?”

Max gives a deep, rich laugh at that, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you.

“You are a wise woman, liefje,” he praises in that deliciously accented baritone. He presses one last, searing kiss to your smiling lips before reluctantly disentangling himself. “Though I would have thought you might like to give all your classmates one more delightful bit of inspiration to remember you by before you depart for the summer?”

He leers at you playfully as a chorus of whoops and whistles greets his flirtatious suggestion. You can’t help but bark out a laugh, shoving his chest lightly in mock admonishment even as heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You’re impossible!”

“No, just hopelessly in love with you,” he counters easily, reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The tenderness in his voice and touch instantly gentles your teasing mood into something infinitely fonder.

This remarkable man, so genuine and caring beneath the roguish exterior cultivated for the cameras. You’re struck by a sudden lance of melancholy at the thought of how little the world really knows of the real Max Verstappen.

But then his eyes crinkle in that way that speaks of unabashed adoration just for you and the feeling passes. Because you know him better than anyone. And he sees you just the same. Two souls intertwined by a rare, precious understanding.

Max’s hand slides around to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your thundering pulse point. The tender motion instantly sets your nerves alight with renewed longing.

“So,” his voice drops to an impossibly deep bedroom octave meant only for your ears. “Shall we give the good people at the University of Miami one last show before I whisk you away for a few months of long overdue privacy?”

There’s the barest hint of a filthy promise underlying the words. You swallow thickly, unconsciously pressing closer as Max’s velvet tones wash over you like a physical caress.

“And just where will you be taking me?” You manage to tease back, forcing a bravado your hammering heart doesn’t feel.

“Well ...” He leans in until his lips brush the delicate shell of your ear. You shiver helplessly at the heated puff of air ghosting your sensitive skin.

“First,” he begins in a heated murmur, “we’re going to swing by your sorority house to gather your belongings.”

“Okay ...” You nod faintly, hyper-aware of Max’s intoxicating proximity.

“Then I’ll be driving us straight to your parents’ place in Fort Lauderdale,” he continues lowly. “Per the strict instructions of one Logan Sargeant, of course.”

You can’t help the surprised laugh that bursts forth. Trust your brother to strong-arm his way into Max’s surprise plans.

“He didn’t give you too hard a time, did he?” You ask through your giggles. “I can only imagine the threats he must have ...”

You trail off at the feeling of Max’s talented mouth blazing a trail of kisses along the slender column of your throat. Every exploratory brush of his lips and insistent swipe of tongue steals the breath from your lungs.

“Max ...” You whine out his name without conscious thought, going pliant against the solid wall of his body.

“Shhh,” he rumbles against your overwrought senses. “Let me finish first.”

There’s a maddening pause where the only sounds are the rushing waves of cheers and chaos from the delighted crowd watching your every move, hungered gazes drinking in every scorching caress Max bestows upon you. Under any other circumstances, the thought of being so shamelessly devoured by hundreds of strangers’ eyes would have you recoiling in embarrassment.

But Max’s presence, his heated touch and low, sinful voice have you spellbound, uncaring of your audience.

“After we’ve satisfied your family’s demands to see us with their own eyes,” he purrs. “We’ll be boarding my jet bright and early for someplace much more ... pleasurable.”

Your skin prickles with delicious tension as Max continues in that low, rough whisper.

“We’ll spend a few lazy days lounging on a private beach in Aruba, just the two of us.” His large hand roves provocatively down the curve of your spine to boldly grip your backside, pulling your hips flush against the insistent bulge in his designer jeans. “Catching up on all the things I’ve been dreaming about for months, schatje.”

A tremulous whimper escapes your parted lips at the blatant promise underlying Max’s words. You flatten your palms against the firm planes of his chest, feeling his powerful heartbeat thundering in time with your own.

“A-And after that?” You somehow manage in a breathy rasp, scarcely daring to hope.

Max’s only response is a low, thrumming chuckle that you feel vibrate across your heated skin. His chin dips, molten blue eyes searing into yours with naked hunger.

“After that?” He husks, stealing the breath from your lungs with a devastating grin. “Well, then I’ll finally get to introduce the world to my favorite girl.”

And neither of you can wait.

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 7

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

"I want you out of Velaris, when I have a talk with them," Azriel broached the topic a few days later. Zahra just stared at him.

"I have nowhere else to go," she said drily. 

She had the cottage and that was it. And her tries at winnowing…let’s just say she did not trust herself to winnow anywhere she didn’t know very well. 

Azriel’s face was unreadable, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his wings.

He was clearly on edge...but then, he had been for quite a while, whenever the topic of their family came up. 

Whenever she told him about her life in the cottage and later as a maid at the Archeron Estate…he had looked murderous.

"I have a small cottage by the sea you can...stay in," Azriel suggested softly.

Zahra just stared at him. "You have a cottage by the sea," she echoed, amused besides herself.

Azriel moved to stand behind her, where she was washing dishes in the sink and he pressed a kiss against her cheek.

"I am just paranoid," he promised her. "Nothing bad will happen...But I would feel better if you are out of the city, if I get into a fight with Cassian and accidentally level it."

"That's not funny," she told him drily, but bit back a smile, especially as she leaned back against his broad chest, the dishes forgotten in the soapy water in the sink.

"At the coast?" she asked him softly. The coast sounded…nice.

"Rosehall," he explained. "It's...It's where my mother lives."

"Your mother?" she echoed, surprised.

Azriel nodded, his hands resting on her hips as he leaned down and buried his face in her neck.

"I bought it for her a long time ago," he murmured as his lips brushed against her skin. "It's...right there by a little hamlet we turned into a haven for displaced Illyrians. You can stay there...just until my brothers get the stick out of their asses and come to their senses."

Zahra let out a snort of laughter. “Sure, I will just wait around until your brothers come to their senses,” she said with a little smile, turning around and reaching up to brush away the stray strands of his dark hair from his forehead. “And how long do you think that is going to take?”

"Not long," he promised her. "And then I'll get started on your sisters," he promised her, pressing a kiss against her forehead and Zahra melted.

She loved the easy attention, the sweet little forehead kisses he dished out to her so often, nearly absentmindedly. The touch of his hands on hers…

She loved the way he smiled at her...just at her.

And yet…and yet she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the mention of her sisters, even if she tried her best not to let it show.

“You are so sure of yourself,” she teased him, trying to keep her voice light as she rested her hands on his chest.

Azriel just smiled down at her, the expression in his eyes gentle, his wing shifting to wrap around her body as he pulled her against the hardness of his chest.

“We’ll get things figured out,” he murmured as one large hand moved up to run through her braid, smoothing back some of the messier strands. “You don’t need to worry.”

“You sound so confident,” she said, a smile playing on her lips despite herself as she took a moment to admire his handsome face, so close to hers.

His smile was a rare sight, his features so often schooled into a careful mask of neutrality, but as she studied his face she could see the warmth in his dark eyes, and she loved the way his lips curled up in their corners so slightly.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you are arrogant.”

He chuckled at that, and the low sound of his laughter vibrated through his chest.

“Are you calling me arrogant?” he asked, his wings shifting around them again, pulling her just a little bit closer to his body, the powerful muscles of those wings pressing against her back.

“Yes, I think I am,” she said with a smile, tilting her head up to look at him, her eyes flicking between the different shadows on his face.

His gaze held hers for a long moment, the corner of his lips still curled up, a teasing expression in his dark eyes.

“Arrogant and overconfident and insufferable,” she added jokingly and she felt the rumble of a silent laugh in his chest.

"Don't worry," he repeated. "It will be fine," he promised her evenly.

Zahra wished she only had one bit of his confidence

“And if it’s not?” she asked him quietly.

The tension was back in his shoulders, in the hands that were still resting on her hips.

His whole body grew taut in that second but his voice was even as he spoke. “This isn’t the first time we are having a heated disagreement. They’ll get over it.”

“Maybe,” she agreed grudgingly.

But something inside of her didn’t feel so sure, and her stomach was tied into knots at the thought of her sisters catching wind of what was going on between her and Azriel.

Still, if it calmed him...she filled a bag with clothing and toiletries, not that she owned much, and locked the door of her cottage after herself, just as Azriel offered her his hand...and then she dragged him to one of the flower stalls in the city, because she was not going to show up to meet his mother empty-handed.

“Flowers?” Azriel asked her, a smirk on his face as he looked at her with that amused look in his eyes.

She shot him a glare. “I am not going to pay a visit to your mother without carrying anything, and I don’t own a single bottle of wine, so flowers will have to suffice.”

He just shook his head at her, a look of exasperated fondness on his face as he let her lead him towards a stall with a colorful display and an array of wildflowers.

Flowers acquired, Zahra was ready to go to Rosehall.  

"It's going to feel different than winnowing," Azriel warned her. "Just hold onto me."

Zahra just squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fingers around his...and a second later, she could taste sea salt in the air and feel icy illyrian air on her skin.

Even when summer had already arrived in Velaris, the same couldn’t be said here. 

The icy cold air was a shock to her system as she was suddenly assaulted by the brutal cold, the sharp wind and the thick cloud cover.

Zahra stumbled on her feet as her knees nearly buckled from under her and she found herself clinging instinctively to Azriel’s arm, trying to find her footing as she took in her surroundings, blinking as the cold air was slapping against her face.

It was icy there.

She’d known that the coast was chilly, but she was not prepared for that kind of cold.

“You didn’t mention it was this cold,” Zahra said through chattering teeth.

"Let's get you inside," Azriel said quickly, pulling her from the forest where they had appeared, towards a grey stone cottage, nestled in the harsh terrain. If she stood on her tiptoes, she could just see the sea down over the cliffs...a couple more houses dotted around, as Azriel pulled her towards the one with smoke happily puffing out of the chimney.

Zahra had no chance to truly study it, before Azriel was pushing the door open wide and ushered her into the house.

The air inside was warm, a heavy sort of warmth that made it clear a fire had been lighting for a while in the stone fireplace that stood in one of the corners of the room.

Zahra was so relieved to get out of the biting chill of the air and she was about to take a look around, when a voice startled her. 

"Azriel?" A  female’s voice called, and just a moment later she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. 

For one moment Zahra was struck by how young she looked. If Zahra hadn't known better, she would have thought this was Azriel's sister and not his mother. 

The dark hair, braided and pinned to her head, the same hazel brown eyes... the planes of her face were different though. Azriel must resemble his father more than her. But she was beautiful...even with a vicious, gnarly scar that destroyed the left side of her face.

“Hello, Ma,” Azriel said warmly. 

"And you brought a guest," she said with a smile as her eyes settled on Zahra, studying her.

Zahra shifted, feeling suddenly very self-conscious and nervous, especially as the woman's eyes, so much like Azriel's, slowly appraised her from head to toe.

Azriel just stepped closer to her and placed his hand on the small of her back.

"Ma, I'd like you to meet Zahra Archeron, my Mate. Zahra, my mother Esmeray," he introduced them and a smile stretched over Esmeray's face, so bright and beautiful that her scar was forgotten. Surprised but…pleased.

​​Esmeray's eyes filled up with tears and she made a quick move forward, that nearly made Zahra flinch, but then she had already wrapped her arms around Zahra's shoulders, pulling her into a tight bear hug that nearly had Zahra stumbling from her feet again.

She got a whiff of a scent that had the same fresh and clean scent of Mist that Azriel must have inherited from her. 

"Your Mate!" Esmeray exclaimed, as she pulled back and beamed at Zahra. "I'd given up hope of him ever finding his Mate,” she told Zahra conspiratorially. “But here you are!” 

Azriel rubbed the back of his neck in that familiar nervous gesture, a slight flush in his face and a small smile on his lips.

Zahra, meanwhile, was still struck dumbfounded and all she could do was to give Esmeray a weak smile, when the female suddenly let go of her and turned to her son.

"I cannot believe it!" Esmeray said, her voice nearly a whisper, as she threw her arms around Azriel's neck.

He looked stiff for a moment, like he wasn’t quite used to being hugged, but then a smile appeared on his face and he relaxed in her embrace as he hugged her back.

She pulled back a few seconds later, still smiling up at him, her eyes wide, before she turned back to Zahra.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Zahra said quickly, as the woman's attention turned back to her.

Esmeray's smile only grew bright. "The pleasure is all mine. But look at me, I am being a terrible host," she said, before she took a step back and gestured towards the chairs around the fireplace. "Come, please sit down."

"I brought flowers," Zahra said hesitantly.

Esmeray's attention fell on the flowers and another smile appeared on her face. "How thoughtful," she said, a soft edge in her voice. "Such a sweet girl. But you didn't need to do that."

"She insisted," Azriel said drily.

That just made Esmeray chuckle, a sound that filled the room, warm and low.

“She has very good manners,” Esmeray told her son drily as she stepped to the small table to search for a vase.

Azriel just shot Zahra a little smile as he guided her to one of the chairs around the fire, and pulled out one of the chairs for her to sit down.

Zahra shot him a thankful look, even as her mind was still processing the fact that she had just met his mother. His lovely, kindhearted mother.

Zahra couldn't remember her own mother. At least not really. And Mrs. Archeron…she had hated the very air Zahra breathed. But Esmeray...

Azriel must have caught the look in her eyes, because he gave her an encouraging smile as he sat down beside her and took her hand in his.

His mother soon turned from the kitchen, the vase of wildflowers clutched in her hands as she set in on the table.

“They’ll look lovely on the windowsill,” she said as she took a seat at the table, that smile still on her face as she regarded them.

Zahra bit her lower lip. She had no idea how to handle this kind of situation. So much warmth inside this little house, so much love...she could feel the energy rolling off of Esmeray in waves.

Azriel squeezed her hand, his expression soft, as his mother observed them intently.

"So," Esmeray said a few seconds later, her eyebrows raising slightly. "You found your  Mate."

Azriel inclined his head. 

Zahra shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her stomach tying into all kinds of knots, as his mother's eyes moved between her and her son.

"You want to tell me the rest of what is going on?" Esmeray asked, her voice softer now. "I can see it on your face."

"I need to get back," Azriel said quietly. "Can Zahra stay with you for the night?"

"What happened?" Esmeray asked. "And of course, she can stay with me. What kind of question is that?" She said with a snort. “She’s your mate, she’s always welcome here.”

"We have a few...family problems," Azriel said drily. "I imagine that Rhysand will be ill-pleased with the mating bond snapping and her sisters are...being...difficult."

That was the understatement of the century.

Zahra sat there, shifting awkwardly in her seat as he spoke, but his mother’s attention remained on Azriel.

“Rhysand will get over himself, you know that,” Esmeray said with a shrug, as though waving away a minor inconvenience. "He always does, and he’s smart in many ways."

Azriel smiled at that, but the shadows in his eyes told a different story.

“And the sisters?” Esmeray asked.

There was a pause, then Azriel shifted uncomfortably. "They’re...adjusting," he said, his voice carefully level, his fingers tightening around Zahra’s.

"I am only their half sister," Zahra said carefully. "I am their father's bastard daughter."

Esmeray mustered her with dark eyes. "You do not need to say more," she said drily. “I can imagine the rest.”

It was strange how a feeling of acceptance washed over her at Esmeray’s words and Zahra stared at the female, speechless for a second before she got her bearings.

“You are not bothered by that?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could think about them, her voice shaking. 

Esmeray let out a little scoff. “Of course not. Why would I be?”

The female picked up a cup of the table and took a sip of from it, those dark eyes studying Zahra with a sort of intensity to them. "I gave birth to a bastard myself," Esmeray said, her voice even. "I can probably imagine better than most what exactly your mother went through...what you went through. I would hope that you were treated better than my son, but if your sisters are being difficult about a mating bond for you...I imagine that hope is without reason."

Zahra swallowed, hard. Her throat felt dry all of a sudden, as an aching sort of feeling settled over her at Esmeray's words. The same sort of aching that appeared whenever she thought of her own mother.

She didn't want to think about the past, about any of that, especially not here, in this house filled with warmth and welcome and an overwhelming sense of acceptance.

Esmeray must have sensed her turmoil, because a soft smile appeared on her face. “You are safe here, Zahra,” she said quietly. “I would never judge you for the failings of your parents. Or for what you yourself may have done in a bid to simply survive.”

Zahra just swallowed. There was a lump in her throat and all she could do was to nod, not trusting her voice. Somehow she felt...strangely stripped down. Like Esmeray could see straight through every mask she put up. She wondered how much she had simple picked up on by meeting her for a few minutes.

It was too much, and she had to look away, because she didn't feel like she could handle the kindness in Esmeray's words.

"But enough of that," Esmeray said after a moment's pause. "Do you like cooking? I was going to make some beef jerky."

"I do like cooking," Zahra agreed with a smile.

“Then come into the kitchen when you have seen Azriel off,” Esmeray said simply. 

She got up gracefully and made her way to the kitchen and Zahra was left staring at her in awe for a few seconds before she felt Azriel's hand squeeze hers again.

He met her gaze and her heart gave a lurch at the shadows in those eyes and the look on his face. "Are you going to be okay here?" he asked softly.

"Please be careful," she blurted out.

Azriel just smiled at her, the look in his eyes turning soft at her words as he pulled her a little closer. "I will be," he said softly. "And I will be back as soon as I can. I promise."

He leaned towards her and pressed his lips against her forehead, lingering for a few seconds, his hand curling over the side of her face. He inhaled, taking in the scent of her hair, and Zahra leaned into the touch.

She wanted...no...she...she needed...she caught his face in her hand, gently stroking his cheek, and then tipped up her chin.

If...If gods forbid...if...She wanted to feel this. At least once. She wanted....

Azriel froze underneath her touch for half a second, then he seemed to realize what she was going to do and a smile appeared on his face.

He chuckled, the sound a soft thing that made her heart flutter, before he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

Zahra let her eyes flutter shut at the feel of his lips against hers, the kiss gentle and soft as he ran his thumb along the curve of her jaw, still holding her steady. For just a moment, all that existed was Azriel.

He gently cupped her face in his hands like she was something fragile and breakable, and then he pulled back, gently pressing his forehead against hers and taking a deep breath.

Gods, Zahra wanted nothing more than just...stay. Right there at his side.

"Nothing will happen," he promised her. "I swear."

"I know," she breathed, opening her eyes to look at him.

He swallowed at the look in her eyes, then he smiled softly. "I will see you soon," Azriel said, the words a promise and a vow all at once.

***​​

Feyre couldn’t get her mind of it.

She couldn’t.

The idea was running through her head on constant repeat.

Over and over, the thoughts just kept circling her mind.

As she lay in bed with Rhys, as she went about her day, as the sun rose and then set, over and over, she just couldn’t seem to get her mind off…off one simple question.

Had Zarah actually had an affair with a married man…or had it been something far worse than that?

She couldn’t get that question out of her head. And so she twisted and turned that night as well, until she finally turned to face Rhys.

He still slept, blissfully unaware of her tossing and turning, of the heavy feeling in her chest. Slowly, she ran her fingers over his features, watching the way he slept. Peaceful and relaxed, a sight that usually made something clench in her chest.

He was everything she had ever wanted. She wished Zahra would have the same one day.

But right now….the sight only made the thoughts in her head whirl faster.

This was her mate, the male she was completely and utterly in love with. And she knew, without a doubt, that he would never…he would never force himself on a female. Would never touch a female for any other reason than mutual consent and desire.

But there were other males out there…males who…who didn’t share the same feelings as Rhys. Males who would see a female trapped in a situation th ast had been…dire like Zahra’s, and see it as nothing more than….than an opportunity.

She thought back to these years trapped in the cottage. Thought back to Zahra cooking and cleaning…

Thought about the long hours spent in the kitchen, mending and cooking…

Thought about the bony and skinny girl with the messy dark braid…these green eyes, the way she stayed quiet and in the corner, never raising her voice, never drawing attention to herself.

Feyre had never seen her disappear but then Feyre had often been off in the forest.

She wouldn’t have really noticed the times Zahra snuck off. She’d been so tired after her hunts, too focused on staying alive and keeping her family alive to pay attention to the things going on around her. Had her sister…had she…had she been meeting someone?

Had she snuck out to meet with…with a male?

Had her sister…had Zahra had an affair with that apothecary?

She tired to remember him…tried to remember the long suffering wife of his…her ash blond hair pulled back from her face, their gaggle of three kids…all of them wide eyed and quiet.

He was one of the richer man in the village…with beady eyes and hair struck through with grey…

She remembered the way he’d leer at females who came into his shop for supplies, the way he would look at them as if they were a piece of meat to be bought.

She could remember the way he'd sneer at poor female who'd come in, bartering and scrounging for every copper coin they had, and the way he'd look so smug when he charged them for every little thing…

Zahra had had an affair with him?

There was nothing attractive about him.

Feyre had always hated the way he’d leered at her. The way he'd looked at her as if she was a piece of meat.

There was nothing about him that was appealing in any way.

He was old, cold, calculating and cruel. And to think that a young, pretty female like Zahra…who, despite the way she tried to dress to blend in, was still gorgeous, would have anything to do with him…

Rhys stirred, his face scrunching up in a frown and his eyes slowly blinked open.

Violet eyes met hers, and Feyre forced herself to push her worries aside.

“What’s wrong?” Rhys’s voice was heavy with sleep, his words slow and mumbled.

Feyre let out a shaky breath, running her fingers through his black hair, trying to calm her thoughts.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Go back to sleep.”

Rhys grumbled, shifting his head to bury his face into her neck, making a sound of disagreement from deep in his throat.

His arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her tightly against his side.

“Something’s on your mind, Feyre Darling,” he mumbled against her neck, planting a kiss on the skin there. “I can tell.”

“Did you ever…did you ever get anything from Zahra’s mind about…” Feyre trailed off.

A beat of silence fell, and Rhys’s breath against her neck paused, his body stilling against hers.

A long moment passed, before Rhys inhaled, pulling his head back to look at her. “No,” he finally said. “But then…I never even tried to get into her head. She’s as bad as Nesta. Even trying to look at her shields is like staring at a brick wall.”

“But you’ve never looked?” Feyre pushed on, looking into his eyes. Searching for something, anything, any hint of deception.

Rhys’s face softened, a small smile on his face. “The only thing I ever got from Zahra, as a human,  was protectiveness about you, Darling,” he said drily.

A small exhale left Feyre at his words, and she fell back against the pillows.

Rhys shifted, rolling over to lie half on top of her, propping his head on his folded arms that he rested on her stomach. A soft smile on his face. “Is that what’s keeping you up?” he wondered aloud. “Worries about Zahra?”

“I…I need to know if…why she did it,” Feyre said weakly. “I can’t…Zahra would have never taken the risk of having a bastard born child herself, Rhys. Not when she knew exactly how…how that life was. Living in two worlds and belonging to neither,” Feyre said with a grimace.

Rhys’s eyes softened at that, and his fingers ghosted over her stomach, tracing small, gentle patterns. “You’re worried that it wasn’t a choice,” he filled in.

“I don’t know,” Feyre whispered. “I can’t see her…I can’t see her do it willingly but I am wrecking my head and I can’t…if he hurt her…she hid it so well.”

Rhys’s face darkened at her words. It wasn’t hard to see the same thoughts circling in his mind, the same anger and disgust.

“You think the apothecary might have forced himself on her?” he asked quietly, a hard look on his face.

Feyre felt a pit in her stomach at the question. Felt nausea creeping up, bile rising in the back of her throat. The idea of something so…so vile happening to a young, innocent girl…it filled her with horror and sickened her.

“I…I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I can’t… I just can’t see her… taking that risk willingly. She’s too smart for that.”

"Maybe you should try to talk to her," Rhys said carefully. "But Feyre...if she...if she didn't do it willingly...if she had a reason for it, be it she was forced or she did it in exchange for something...she may not want to talk about it," he warned her.

She could see it on his face...could see the memories that she had…

“I…I know,” Feyre said softly. “If…if it’s true, she might not want to talk about it. But…I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to know. And if it’s true...I can’t just sit back and do nothing."

Rhys was quiet for a moment, his fingers still tracing small patterns on her stomach.

His face was taut, “And if she truly has had an affair with him…willingly?” he asked quietly.

Feyre let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes. The thought of that being true…it just didn’t seem possible.

She just couldn’t see Zahra doing something like that. Not when she was so well aware of what would happen if she made such a mistake.

It just didn’t seem right.

Could she have really seen something in the apothecary, enough to want an affair with him, at the risk of being saddled with a bastard child?

"She must have had some reason," Feyre said quietly. "Even when it was just...wanting comfort of some kind."

Rhys was quiet, his dark eyes searching her face.

Slowly, a soft sigh escaped him, and he pulled himself up, pulling Feyre into his arms as he sat back against the headboard of the bed.

Feyre buried her face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his familiar, comforting scent.

His fingers combed through her hair, the touch soothing her frazzled nerves.

"I just want you to think about...if you do pull on that thread, you don't know what you are going to unravel," Rhys said carefully. "You need to be prepared that you maybe won't get the answer you think you will."

A shuddery breath left Feyre, and she closed her eyes.

She didn’t even know what she wanted to hear. Both options were horrible in their own way. 

"I know," she said softly. "But I...but I have to try."

And so the next morning...she sat out to find her sister's apartment. She had never gone there before. There had been no reason for it. Even when Zahra had moved out of the townhouse and into her apartment, she had still showed up for Solstice and for Starfall, had still come to dinner. Zahra seemed to have made the best out of her life in Velaris. Had found herself a job and an apartment...just as Feyre walked the streets she realised that...she knew nothing about her sister's life but these two facts.

The realisation hit her hard, and a wave of guilt crashed over her, making her nauseous as she walked down the street.

It had never occurred to her before...but now she realised that she knew almost nothing about her sister’s life now. Nothing about the people in her life, or her dreams, or any hobbies...nothing except the fact that she had an apartment and a job, and that she still came to dinners.

Feyre didn't know about her sister's friends, didn't know about any hobbies she may had taken up...because whenever Zahra had come over, seemingly all they had talked about was whatever went on in Feyre's life. Feyre's worries, Feyre's problems. Zahra's problems hadn't ever been a topic of conversation. And Feyre also weakly admitted herself that the fact that Nesta and Elain wanted to spent time with her now...it was such a rare treat that...that maybe she had forgotten the older sister that had always been there for her for that.

She had been so elated that her sisters were spending time with her, and she had soaked up the attention like a dry sponge.

But now, with the sickening realisation that she hadn’t asked about Zahra’s life hit, a wave of guilt hit her.

Had her sister felt neglected by her? Had Zahra ever felt like a forgotten afterthought?

Feyre felt nauseous, and her steps slowed as she approached the building where Zahra lived.

The realisation that...that while she had been so happy to hang out with her elder sisters, she hadn’t even asked Zahra about her life...she didn’t even know what kind of apartment she lived in, what her home was like…

And apparently it wasn't an apartment at all.

Feyre blinked twice at the cottage in front of her.

A cottage?

The word echoed in her head, over and over, while she stared at the small building before her.

Zahra lived in a cottage.

A cottage that had clearly seen better days.

The exterior of the house was badly in need of a new coat of paint.

A pang of worry hit Feyre as she looked at the home, an anxiety filling her stomach.

How could Zahra possibly be living in such a place…?!

Though it was obvious that Zahra had put time and money into making it her home. It was clean, the windows were sparkling...the door had been painted bright blue.

She had done some work.

And the small garden in the front had clearly been tended and cared for meticulously.

But it was clear that her sister had a limited budget.

The paint job only really covered the worst of the blemishes rather than giving the home an actual makeover, and the windows sparkled, but they still looked old and worn.

It was a tiny cottage, barely more than a two-room house, but it was in the outskirts of Velaris and the next neighbours clearly were far away.

"Seems like I wasn't the only one who had this idea," drawled a voice behind her.

Feyre almost jumped, nearly letting out a shriek as a voice suddenly spoke up from behind her. A voice that she recognized far too well.

She didn't even need to turn around to know who had spoken.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, turning around to face Cassian.

Cassian didn't look the slightest bit guilty.

Instead, a broad smirk was on his face, his wings folded neatly behind him and his arms crossed in front of his armoured chest.

"The same thing you are, clearly," he drawled as he looked at the cottage in front of them.

"You want to speak to Zahra as well," Feyre said more as a statement rather than a question.

Cassian didn't deny it, simply shrugged.

"Why?" she demanded.

Cassian sighed, unfolding his arms and letting his hands fall loosely to his sides. "I need some answers," he said shortly. "Answers, because I am pretty sure that Nesta is wrong about her having just an affair. And if she is wrong..." Cassian grimaced. "The fallout is not going to be pretty."

"And if she’s right? If Zahra did a stupid, young mistake? Then what?" Feyre asked.

Cassian shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face.

"It's not like I haven't done the same," he said drily. "Or worse at that matter. She'll not get judgment from me."

Feyre felt a flicker of surprise at his words.

Cassian was…far more blunt and straightforward than Rhys…but, she thought as she studied his face, he actually didn’t look entirely comfortable.

His features were schooled into a look of nonchalance, but there was a tension in his face and body that hinted that the situation had him on edge, as well.

Still, Feyre walked up the step of the porch that had seen better days and knocked at the door. "Zahra?" she called loudly.

"She isn't here," Cassian said helpfully. "I can't hear a heartbeat. It's empty.”

Feyre’s heart sank at the words, and a curse fell from her lips.

She’d come all the way here…and Zahra wasn’t even home.

“Then where is she?” Feyre bit out.

"Probably at work, I'd guess," Cassian said, a small shrug on his shoulders.

He eyed the house, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I’m going to look inside," he said then, making a step towards the door.

"You can’t-" Feyre hissed at him, but Cassian cut her off.

"If you have a better idea, I’m open to suggestions," he said, looking back at her. "But if we’re here already, I want to see if there is anything inside that will give us a clue. Something, anything."

Feyre held his gaze for a long moment.

She knew he had a point, and she knew she wouldn’t win this argument.

"Fine," she gritted out. "But you leave everything as it is. No messing with anything."

Cassian shot her a smirk, before he grabbed the door handle and with a sharp twist, he had opened the door.

Without pause, he stalked into the house, leaving Feyre to follow him.

"You'll better fix this before we leave," Feyre snapped at him, following behind, into her sister's living room.

It was clean...tidy. A couch that had seen better days...and an absolute monstrous plaid chair that looked like it was made for wings. Feyre wasn't the only one who stared at that.

Cassian did too.

A long moment passed.

Cassian, the Lord of Bloodshed, a hulking, tall, intimidating figure, stood in the small living room and stared at the chair as if he was struck mute.

Just staring.

A long moment passed, before he let a shudder run down his spine. "That thing is an abomination," he said gruffly.

​​Feyre watched as Cassian’s nostrils flared, and his eyes widened, like a cat scenting something in the air.

A frown appeared on his face, and he took a quick, short sniff again.

"What is it?" Feyre demanded.

"Az was here," Cassian said, surprise colouring his voice. "More than once."

Feyre’s eyes widened at that, and she sniffed the air.

Cassian was right.

A familiar scent was lingering in the air. So subtle that she wouldn’t have sensed it if it wasn’t pointed out to her, but it was there.

Azriel’s mist and cedar scent, lingering in the room.

"Why was Az here?" Feyre wondered.

Cassian just shook his head as he continued to sniff.

"Not just here," he said, making a step into the kitchen. "In there, as well. And in the bedroom. "

Feyre wasn’t even surprised to find that he was right.

Azriel’s scent was all over the small house, lingering in the air in every single room.

Even in the bathroom.

"What in the Cauldron...?" Feyre breathed as she followed Cassian into the bedroom.

The scent was even stronger in the small room, clearly having clung to the bedding and lingered on the furniture.

"Azriel has clearly been frequenting this place," Cassian said slowly, an intense look on his face as he glanced around the bedroom. "And more than once. It's all over the house."

"He wouldn't...right?" Feyre asked. Had her sister and Azriel been...together?

"I...I don't know," Cassian said slowly.

A pensive look was on his face, his gaze sharp as he looked at the matress.

"We all know how...discreet Azriel is about these things," he said, a grimace on his face. "But Azriel...and Zahra...?"

Cassian shook his head, his nostrils flaring again, clearly trying to scent the room.

"They...I mean, it doesn't smell like sex. But that doesn't mean anything," he said with a shrug. "Maybe they haven't had sex in a few days. Maybe they just have friendly sleep overs and nothing else," he suggested and Feyre snorted.

"Sure, Azriel just uses my sister as his own personal teddy bear and nothing else," she said darkly. "I am going to have words with both of them when they come over for dinner. What in the cauldron is going on?!"

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[sl-ut]

too sweet

pairing: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!targ bastard!reader

description: y/n heritage was plain as day–she was a targaryen bastard forced to work in the brothels just to scrape by, so when the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms calls for her illegitimate kin to join her in dragonstone, it is nearly impossible to ignore.

warnings: hotd typical warnings, reader’s appearance slightly described (hair colour and its mentioned that she had lost weight due to malnutrition but that's it), slight smut like literally just the beginning, slight reference to rhaenyra as mommy but not really she’s just a mother with maternal instincts and im horny mbmb

words: 4.2K

date posted: 05/09/24

The lower streets of King’s Landing had quickly dwindled into a dangerous cesspool of violence, hatred, and poverty in the months following the death of King Viserys II. The line of succession had been a heavily debated topic across the nation ever since Queen Aemma lost her first boy, even among the common folk, and especially after the Hightowers usurped the throne in favour of Prince Aegon before Rhaenyra could even attempt to lay her claim.

In truth, Y/n felt no loyalty to either side of this war. She was, afterall, one of the many Targaryen offspring left to rot in the streets of Flea Bottom, and though she felt morally tied to Rhaenyra solely through her sex, she also knew that the world was designed for men and men alone, so there was no possible way that Rhaenyra Targaryen could ascend the throne without some sort of political pushback. Her loyalty, at this point, was something to be earned from either side, but now with Prince Aemond acting as Regent, it was almost impossible to feel any sort of loyalty towards the Greens with how poorly the common folk were being treated, and though Rhaenyra’s attempts to share food among the masses in King’s Landing was most certainly nothing more than a ploy to earn their fealty, it was working. 

Y/n had lost a considerable amount of weight in the few weeks since rations had been cut back even further, and many of her regular customers had complained that her curves and plush thighs had thinned out, and anyone who gripped her tight enough could easily feel the grooves of her bones beneath the once pillow-soft flesh. Her silver-white hair appeared to be dull in colour, and her skin was more tender than ever before–not only was she more susceptible to bruising due to her malnutrition, but her clients were also rougher when they came to her; men were could hardly afford her services anymore, so they were taking her as they pleased whenever they could. Despite the neglect to her physical form, she still needed to perform her duties at the brothel each night, and had to hold her tongue in disgust each time any member or affiliate of the royal family requested her services. Y/n knew that, if she were to remain in King’s Landing for much longer, she would end up starving to death, so long as she was not brutally murdered first. 

So, when she overheard two of her clients whispering about Rhaenyra’s call for all Targaryen bastards to flee to Dragonstone, she only hesitated for a brief moment before packing the few belongings she had into a moth-eaten sack and fleeing to the shore along with many of her brothers and sisters. On the journey, they shared their stories–who they were, who they may have descended from, why they had answered the Queen’s call… Each and every one of them were there out of sheer desperation, and many of them could not even be certain that they had any Targaryen blood, they were there based on rumours and hope of escaping starvation, even if it meant that they were going to be eaten alive by one of the largest dragons in the world. 

Y/n had always been complimented for her Valyrian features, silver hair and purplish eyes, but nothing had prepared her for the unearthly beauty of Queen Rhaenyra. She was the pinnacle of how a Targaryen should appear in physicality and in presence. The moment she set foot in the regal library of Dragonstone, she commanded the attention of everyone inside, and as she argued with the dragon keepers in High Valyrian, Y/n could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. Her mere existence made Y/n nervous, similarly to how one might feel in the presence of a god, the woman watching in awe as the Queen commanded a dragon to serve her, reaching out to lay her hand upon his snout and close her eyes, feeling the energy transfer between them. 

Her awe was quickly broken, though, as Vermax rejected the first man who stepped forward to claim him, then turning to spray fire at the remaining group rather than offer any acceptance. In truth, Y/n could not be surprised; she had willingly walked into the dragon pit in hopes of claiming a wild dragon, something that was rarely done by those with the purest of Valyrian bloodlines, let alone by someone who would never be recognized as a true Targaryen. She was only glad that she was able to flee and hide herself behind a large broken piece of stone before the dragon could swallow her whole. She could not remember how long she had been cowering behind the stone before she could feel the dragon’s presence behind her, feeling the force of his exhale around the stone. She finally pushed herself up on shaky legs, turning to find herself staring into the open jaws of Vermithor as he stared down at her. She trembled at his sheer size, her entire body scarcely comparable to the size of one of his long, sharp claws. Closing her eyes, she accepted her fate–this could not be any worse than the slow death of starvation she would have faced had she not left King’s Landing to begin with. This way, the pain would be worse, but her death would be instant, and her bones would not be left to rot in the streets. She let out a shaky breath, waiting for the heat of his fire, but it never came.

Instead, she felt her body fall back, landing against the jagged stone of the dragon pit from the force of his snout meeting her chest. Her eyes cracked open, peering up at him fearfully, only to be met by his curious stare. His jaws had closed, no long seeming to be interested in harming her as he laid his head down onto the ground, grumbling impatiently as he waited for her attention. 

She turned her gaze upwards, finding the queen staring down at her amidst the chaos and smoke. She wore a small smirk on her face, appearing proud that someone was finally able to claim the wild dragon. Y/n felt a warmth in her belly at her attention, chest heaving as Rhaenyra nodded at her, as if giving her permission to finally lay claim to the dragon that had chosen her to ride him. His nose was scaly beneath her touch, but his flesh provided her with a comforting warmth that was so different to the uncomfortable heat of the still-burning flames all around her. She carefully pressed against him, resting her head against his nose, feeling the connection form between them–she could feel his emotions, how he was quickly calming from her touch, and she wondered if he could feel her heartbeat slowly decreasing from its rapid pace. He nudged her to climb up his wing, slowly raising her to step back up onto the platform and meet the queen face-to-face. 

“What is your name?” Rhaenyra spoke, her tone firm but welcoming.

Y/n lowered her head, dropping into a poorly attempted curtsy, “Y/n, Your Grace.”

The queen nodded, “I must admit, I am surprised that you have been able to claim a dragon at all, let alone one such as Vermithor, but I cannot describe the relief you have given me today. You should be proud, having claimed the second largest, and arguably the fiercest dragon in the world.”

“I-I cannot tell you how this feels, Your Grace. I am but a common girl from Flea Bottom–this is my first time even leaving King’s Landing.”

“And now you are a dragon rider. How you have risen.” Rhaenyra smirked, dragging her violet gaze down the length of her body, “Come, you must be tired and hungry from your journey. I will have my ladies prepare you a bath and bring you new clothes. I need you strong, if you are to ride a dragon.”

Her night in Dragonstone had not felt real. For the first time since she was a small child, she had others taking care of her. The ladies were gentle as they massaged soap into her silver hair and dull skin, pressing rose-scented oil into her skin and braiding her hair into a style she had never had the pleasure of wearing–she typically could not afford proper hair care, as her clients tended to tug and rip at her silver curls while seeking pleasure, making it pointless to wear anything more than one simple braid. Her dress was simple, but still the finest quality she’d ever worn. It was black, with red stitching along the hem, almost as if Rhaenyra was claiming her as a member of the Blacks, which she supposed she likely was. Her mouth watered at the sight of the food, forgoing the utensils on the table and instead ripping pieces of meat apart with her bare hands, moaning at the taste and savouring every last lick of flavour, washing it all down with the sweetest red wine she had ever tasted. 

She was on her second plate when Rhaenyra came to her chambers, silently slipping through the secret passage and motioning for the handmaidens to leave the room. 

“I hope it is up to your standard,” She spoke, smirking as the girl flinched in surprise at the queen’s voice, “I’m afraid we have had to give up some luxuries in order to prepare for the coming war, but I figured that you would be wanting for a proper meal.” 

“My queen,” Y/n spoke, wine dribbling down the corner of her mouth, “I cannot even remember the last time I have been able to taste meat at all, and I’m sure I’ve never been afforded something such as this.”

“I’m glad,” Rhaenyra took the seat across from her at the small round table, “I understand that you are tired and wish to retire soon, but I could not deny my curiosity. Tell me, do you know of your heritage?”

Y/n shrunk in her seat, unsure of whether her lineage may cause the queen any upset, “I cannot be certain, Your Grace, but I am told I come from either of two Targaryen men.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, “Your mother could not be certain?”

Y/n pursed her lips, “I did not know my mother. She died in her labours, I’m afraid, but her employer took in and put me to work as soon as I was old enough.”

Rhaenyra nodded, the solemn look in her eyes making her understanding clear, “I am sorry to hear that. I can understand the pain of losing a mother, though I was fortunate enough to know her for a while before she was taken from us.”

Y/n bowed her head, “I was only a young child when Queen Aemma died, but I remember my household mourning her greatly. I’m told she was the finest of ladies.” 

“Thank you, she was.” Rhaenyra gulped down the lump in her throat, “Enough about me, tell me of your lineage.”

Y/n nodded, “Some tell me that my mother was the bastard daughter of Prince Baelon, your grandsire. I’m told her hair was light in colour, not so much as mine, but her own mother was dark of hair. Others tell me that my father may have been…Prince Daemon.” She watched as the queen raised her brow, “I’m told he was a regular customer of my mother’s before she fell pregnant, though I cannot be certain where my Valyrian blood comes from.”

Rhaenyra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I am aware of my husband’s indiscretions, but do not fear. We cannot be to blame for the misdoings of our parents.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Y/n smiled at her softly, “Forgive me for asking, but I was under the impression that Prince Daemon was here with you, I had assumed that he would be more present in the claiming of the dragons.”

Rhaenyra frowned, “Daemon has claimed Harrenhal in my name, or so I’m told. In truth, I was so determined to find riders for my remaining dragons because I am not certain whether he fights for my claim or his own. I fear he still resents me for my father replacing him as his successor, and the last time we spoke he did not seem to be very pleased with me or the way that I wish to conduct this war.” 

“I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace.” Y/n frowned, “My apologies, I never should have asked.”

“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra swiped a singular tear from her cheek, “You are one of my dragonriders now, blood of the dragon. You are privy to the internal quarrels of my council if you are to risk your life for my cause.”

Y/n nodded, unsure of what else to say. She opened her mouth, uncertain of what was about to come out when Rhaenyra stood, staring down at her with sharp violet eyes. 

“My apologies for keeping you, my lady. I shall let you rest now, I need you at your best to begin your lessons in the morn.” She hesitated for a moment before finally rounding the table and pressing a firm kiss to the crown of her head, then finally fleeing through the secret passage that she had arrived through, leaving the girl stunned at the affection she had just received from the Queen. 

In the following weeks, Y/n’s bond with Vermithor had grown more than she could have possibly imagined. She was far from fluent in High Valyrian and still had much to learn in the art of dragon riding, but she was now able to use basic commands with her mount and was growing more confident while flying. 

She had also found herself acting as a confidant for the queen, at first mostly for political matters–Mysaria had been very helpful in the beginning when it came to pulling the commoners to her side, but Y/n had lived through the cruelty forced upon the masses by the Greens, she was able to give Rhaenyra a first-hand perspective. Then, she began coming to her for other matters, even just to talk, though Y/n understood how lonely she must feel among her counsel of men, especially now that she was forced to deal with the icy attitude of her own son, who had been entirely against the recruitment of the Targaryen bastards and now seemed to be punishing his mother for giving not one, but three fully grown dragons to those who had no rightful claim to them. 

Y/n found comfort in the three other bastards that had joined Rhaenyra’s team. Hugh was a gentle soul in a tough vessel, always prepared to fight and protect those he cared about. He had quickly become quite close with the younger woman, viewing her almost as a younger sister (which they very well could be, for all they know). Ulf was, well, Ulf. He was rough around the edges, exactly the type you would expect to find in the lowest and poorest areas of Flea Bottom, the type to hang around brothels and bars for the majority of his life, spending the only coin to his name on booze and only the cheapest of whores. Addam was quieter than the other two when dealing with the queen and their newfound duties, but seemed to be the most endlessly confident man that Y/n had ever met. He was loyal to his core at the very least, but like the rest of them, he was nothing more than a commoner whose fate lay in the hands of those born into power, though he certainly had much more faith in Rhaenyra than the other two, mainly because of her greater amount of trust in him considering that he was able to claim a dragon without any help or even any effort–while the others had all come to Dragonstone to bond with a dragon, Seasmoke had chosen Addam on his own without prompt. Though, as much as he seemed to be the queen’s favourite amongst her new “army of bastards,” none were aware of the fact that Rhaenyra made nightly visits to Y/n’s chambers and would now consider her to be one of her closest confidants. 

Rhaenyra had found herself being quite clingy when it came to Y/n. Every night after she crept through the secret passageway, she would sit and talk for hours with Y/n regardless of what state the young woman may have been in. She sat with her while she studied High Valyrian, while she bathed, even while she slept sometimes, silently stroking her silver-white locks as her breathing slowed and deepened, perhaps overstaying her welcome for an hour or two before leaving through the same passage in which she had come. 

Y/n was among the few who could understand her frustrations. Everyone around her were men, none of whom considered her intelligent enough to lead their forces to victory; Daemon refused to correspond with her, despite the fact that he had travelled to Harrenhal in her name; her son resented her for bringing in these bastards and allowing them to claim dragons; her council rejected her ideas and undermined her rule as much as they possibly could. Y/n, however, was able to understand the sheer anger that she was feeling–to be ignored and criticised simply due to her gender. Rhaenyra knew fully well that everyone there would gladly turn their shields to Daemon should he press for his own claim to the throne, all except for her sweet Y/n.

The silver-haired queen could not be certain exactly when her affection for the young woman had grown past the point of decency. During their usual evenings together, Rhaenyra found herself reaching for her, laying a hand over her own or to scratch gently at her scalp or to stroke her cheek affectionately. It was something that Y/n had grown accustomed to, feeling Rhaenyra’s weight next to her in her feather-plush bed, her nimble fingertips soothing over her skin until she fell asleep. So much so, that the one evening that Rhaenyra did not come to her chambers, she found herself lying awake late into the night, waiting to feel the comforting, almost maternal presence of the silver queen. 

This longing for the woman’s wandering of the halls of Dragonstone, thanking the gods for the many lit torches lining the walls–otherwise, she would be left to wander a labyrinth of blackness with no hope of finding the queen. Rhaenyra had been spending a large majority of her time in the castle’s vast library, which is exactly where the new dragonrider found her, slouched over dozens of large, dusty books that had likely gone untouched for the last century.

The silver haired woman paid no mind to the new presence in the room, instead continuing to rake her eyes across the page mindlessly.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered up at the sound of the young woman’s voice, “You did not join us for supper.”

The queen sat back in her chair, rolling her neck to remove some of the kinks out, “My appetite did not find me this evening, I’m afraid.”

“And you did not come to my chambers,” This caused her eyebrows to perk up, her violet eyes drawing down her robe-clad body. Y/n shifted her weight from leg-to-leg, heat rising to her cheeks as her next admittance fell from her lips, “I admit, I found it difficult to find sleep without your presence.”

A small chuckle fell from Rhaenyra’s lips as a tired smile crossed her features, “My apologies, my sweet. How thoughtless of me to neglect you so.”

“Neglect,” Y/n muses, rounding the edge of the desk to lean against the lip just next to Rhaenyra’s seat. “I fear the only one of us that is facing neglect at your hand, Your Grace, is you.” Her fingers reached for the queen’s pale cheek, ghosting over the soft skin and admiring the pink that grew beneath her touch, “You look tired, and you have not eaten since breakfast–and do not even try to argue, I asked your handmaiden.”

“My sweet keeper,” Rhaenyra smirked, “I fear comfort is something I cannot afford at the moment, not until this war is won and I take back my rightful inheritance.”

“A war will not be won tired and hungry,” She retorted, “You must take care of yourself–or at least, allow others to care for you.”

This caused Rhaenyra to scoff, “I’m certain that my council would not care for me, even if they had to. In fact, I may be doing them a favour by allowing myself to waste away as such.” 

“Then allow me to care for you.”

Rhaenyra’s purple eyes widened in surprise, then settled into the familiar affectionate stare that she so often wore when dealing with the young woman, “Sweet girl, I fear you may be far too kind for this world. Or, for me, at the very least.”

“For the world, mayhaps, but I do not feel there is enough kindness in the world to treat you as you deserve, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra stood from her chair abruptly, her own hands coming to settle over the young woman’s cheeks. A glaze of tears appeared in her eyes as she stuttered for a moment, mulling over her words to ensure that her point was as clear as possible.

[persevereforahappyending]

No Man's Land |12|

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x Reader

Summary: Sam can’t help but be drawn to the cute stranger from her gym, even if everything about them makes them the perfect suspect, just when Ghostface has returned.

Warnings: Talks of Killing, Talks of Murder

Word Count: 2.5k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Tara ran off almost instantly after Mindy said the shrine would be the killers lair, then pointed out this wasn’t a normal Stab movie. Sam moved to go after her sister, despite trying to play everything as normal and as if the attack last year changed nothing, she knew Tara was struggling. Kirby waved her off though and said she’d check on Tara herself. Sam frowned but she knew it was probably better if Kirby went, she had been through this before and every time Sam tried to talk to Tara it almost always ended in an argument.

Sam turned back to the display case that contained the cloak of Billy Loomis. Her eyes trailed from the white mask down to the blood knife at the bottom. So, many lives were ruined just by Billy putting on a stupid costume. She wasn’t sure who could possibly be after them this time, though she didn’t expect her boyfriend to be the bad guy last time either. Whoever was coming after them did their research though, they had everything from each of the Ghostface attacks, going back all the way to the very beginning. She noticed there was even a small display about Sidney’s mom, the murder that started it all.

Sam didn’t know how to protect everyone. Two random kids were killed, which Sam couldn’t care too much about because they were apparently planning to kill her and her sister, but then she was attacked at the gym, she only survived because of you. Since then, the attack at the bodega and then the attack at the apartment, everyone had only survived because of you. She didn’t know where they’d be without you, who else would be dead. She knew she still had to be cautious around you, but you were proving more and more that you were trustworthy and nothing like Richie.

The floor creaked behind her, and she froze. She slowly lifted her head to see you through the glass, standing behind her. You hadn’t said a word, you hadn’t pressed her for answers too hard, answers you rightly deserved. She owed you an explanation about everything, who she was and why this was all happening. You knew who she was, but Sam owed it to you to tell you everything from her own mouth.

“Are you okay?” You asked, finally breaking the silence.

Sam turned around and saw you looking at her with nothing but concern. She wasn’t sure how you could see all of this, see this mess that went all the way back to her birth father and not flinch. There was still no judgement in your eyes, you were looking at Sam with the same kindness you always had. Your first question since seeing all this wasn’t to demand an explanation or ask who any of these people were, you just asked if she was okay, you truly were too good for her.

“Why are you still here?” Sam asked as she spun around. “You’ve been cut and stabbed,” she gestured at you. “Shot at, almost died three times all for some stranger who goes to your gym.” She shrugged, you might have been too good for her, but you also seemed to be crazy.

You only smiled at her words, making her furrow her brow. Maybe you really were her type, you were definitely crazy. “I assure you; this is nothing compared to what I’ve been through,” you said. “And you’re not just some girl from my gym anymore, I think I know you well enough to not want you to get murdered.”

Sam shook her head. You were military, special forces at that, you had definitely seen some things. With the way you handled yourself, first with the knife, then the gun, and then even in the apartment you used your surroundings to your advantage, nearly choking Ghostface out with a curtain. You could more than handle yourself, Sam could only imagine what you would do with the right equipment and an actual plan instead of getting caught off guard. But this wasn’t some war zone, you were at home, you shouldn’t be fighting for your life like this.

“You don’t know me,” Sam mumbled. “Not really, but if you insist on sticking around you should probably know what you’re getting into.” Sam walked across the stage and took a seat, letting her legs hang off the edge. You slightly followed after her, taking a seat right next to her but leaving enough space so the two of you weren’t touching.

Sam stared across the theater, Ethan was walking around, his hands shoved in his pockets as he looked around, Bailey stared at a few of the displays, furrowing his brow at the sight of some things. She looked to the side to see Gale staring longingly at one of the displays, Sam could only assume it had something to do with Dewey. Then there was Mindy, crouched down as she tried to comfort Anika off to the far end, with Chad standing a couple feet away, his arms crossed as his own eyes scanned over the group.

Sam clenched her hands into fists. She had heard a bunch of crap about her life and her family ever since that world learned the truth. She had known the truth since she was a teenager, she had spoken the words more than once. For some reason just opening her mouth to tell you seemed impossible. You could go online right now and find several articles talking about what she was about to tell you, saying the words out loud shouldn’t be a big deal.

“Whatever you say,” you said, interrupting her spiraling thoughts. “I promise you; it won’t change anything.”

Sam glanced at you and saw nothing but patience and understanding in your eyes. No one could really say nothing would change until they knew whatever it was, but you truly believed what you were saying. Sam knew she shouldn’t doubt you, you knew the rumors, you knew the basics, and you still stuck around. Everyone who learned the truth though ran and when they didn’t run it was usually because they had an ulterior motive, or they betrayed her.

“When I was younger, I learned my father wasn’t who I thought he was,” Sam let out a shaky breath as she got started. “My real father is Billy Loomis.” She could hear you suck in a breath at the name. “He’s the one who inspired all this,” she gestured around the room. “A year ago, my sister was attacked, by her best friend.” Sam shook her head, there were times she still couldn’t believe last year happened. Amber had never liked her growing up, but she always just figured Amber was an angry kid, she never imagined the girl would be a serial killer.

“Turns out it was all a ploy to lure me back home,” Sam let out humorless chuckle. “My now ex,” she wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t believe she had fallen for Richie, he had been so sweet and charming, that should have been the first indicator that something was wrong with him. “Set it up. He manipulated me, pretended to love me, then he tried to kill me,” she shook her head. “Oh, and he was apparently cheating on me the whole time with Amber.”

“Your ex, that was-”

“Richie,” Sam cut you off. “He tracked me down, became my co-worker, then friend, and then…”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“And it was all to make a stupid movie,” she scoffed. “He’s dead. I made sure of that. So, is Amber.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam looked at you with a furrowed brow, after everything she just said she wasn’t expecting another, I’m sorry’. “He might have been an asshole and a psychopath.” Sam couldn’t help but chuckle at your bluntness. “But whatever you felt for him was real, that doesn’t just automatically end because of what he did. It’s okay to be hurt or even feel bad about it.”

Sam nodded, no one had ever told her that before, well her therapist did but she dismissed it at the time. “But I don’t feel bad,” Sam whispered. “I don’t feel bad one bit,” Sam let out a humorless chuckle. “It felt good to kill him after what he did to me.”

Sam rested her head in her hand as she looked at you. You were looking down at the ground with your eyebrow scrunched up in concentration. “Someone started rumors about me online,” Sam said, making you look up, your brow still scrunched together. “Saying I set the whole thing up last year, that I killed my boyfriend, and he was actually the hero.” Sam shook her head, despite Sidney being there, despite all the police statements, the world seemed to believe some random reddit user over the facts.

“The world sees me as just another killer,” Sam shrugged. “Just like my father.” Sam ran a hand through her hair. “Now you know what a mess my life is,” she scoffed. “Why it would be a terrible idea to get involved with me.”

She thought back to the kiss the two of you shared just the other day. She had stopped it; she said she couldn’t. She told herself it was because she couldn’t fully trust you, she didn’t want to risk getting involved with someone else. The truth was she didn’t want to bring someone into her life, it was such a mess, she didn’t want someone else having to deal with the looks and the comments. You certainly didn’t deserve to be with someone like that, you were too good for all that, you deserved to have someone normal, someone who wouldn’t potentially get you stabbed every other day.

You had been silent most of the time and when Sam looked at you, she saw you nodding along. “Your life is a mess,” you finally said. Sam couldn’t help but smile, you were still as blunt as ever, she found she kind of liked that about you.

“About a year ago I was shot,” you said, your voice becoming distant as if you were going back to the memory. Sam furrowed her brow, she had seen the scars all over your body, she knew you had been shot before, she never imagined one of those injuries was so recent though. “Centimeters from my heart.” You kept touching a spot over your heart, Sam could only assume it was where you were shot. “It’s why I’m in town.”

“But you seem fine,” Sam said. Kirby said it was odd you were in town for longer than usual, that you were stationed in North Carolina. Kirby also said you were still active duty, if you had been injured enough to be discharged then that would be one thing but if you were healed and still active duty it didn’t make sense for you to be home for so long.

“Physically I am,” you rasped out. You were looking across the theater, but it was clear your mind was somewhere else. “But up here,” you tapped your head. “Haven’t been cleared,” you clenched your jaw.

“You seem pretty sane to me,” Sam offered. You were the most stable person she had met, which maybe she wasn’t the best judge in that department knowing her track record.

You huffed out a laugh at that. “Well, not according to my therapist. She won’t clear me until I talk about what happened.” Sam thought back to when you had told her you had a therapy appointment, you had said it was mandatory, that meant you were ordered to see your therapist, it wasn’t something you willingly went to like she did.

“You don’t have to talk about it.” If you had been seeing your therapist this long and it still didn’t seem like you were any closer to getting clear that meant you probably hadn’t talked about whatever it was yet. Sam might have been comfortable seeing a therapist and wanted to talk about her issues, but she knew that wasn’t the case for everyone, her sister in particular refused to see a therapist or talk about what happened in any meaningful way.

“No,” you shook your head. “It’s been long enough.” Sam remained silent as she nodded, she would give you as much time as you needed. “We had been deployed for a few months, it was supposed to just be a peacekeeping mission,” you shook your head. “Had done plenty of them before, meant to help build relations, and make connections. But then…”

You blinked away tears that had begun to fill your eyes, but you never let them fall. “A local militia attacked, we were caught off guard, we’re meant to always be prepared but it had been months without incident,” you continued. You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice as unwavering as possible. “My whole team was killed, my brothers,” you buried your head in your hands.

Sam sucked in a breath; out of everything she was expecting you to say it certainly wasn’t that. She couldn’t imagine the guilt you must be living with being the only survivor of something like that. The only reason she was as okay as she was was because of her sister and Chad and Mindy, without them she couldn’t imagine what she’d be like. They might not have liked to talk about what happened, but they relied on each other, they leaned on each other when one was struggling, and they celebrated together when something good happened.

“I was meant to die that day,” you whispered. “I should have,” you shook your head. You pressed your palm against your eyes before finally lifting your head again. “Somehow the bullet missed my heart, and the rescue team got to me just before I bled out.”

Sam opened and closed her mouth a few times. She wasn’t even sure where to begin with something like this, she was pretty sure there was nothing she could say to comfort you.

“See?” you said, giving her a tired smile. “I got just as much baggage as you.” Sam gave you a sad smile. “But I promise you, I’m much more screwed up, you don’t want any of this,” you gestured at yourself. “Coming into your life. Trust me,” you whispered. “It’s you who’s better off not getting involved with me.”

Sam opened and closed her hand. She wanted nothing more than to reach for you, to try and comfort you. She didn’t believe you; she was definitely not better off without you. You didn’t deserve anything that had happened to you, you weren’t to blame for your team dying. Ever since Sam had met you, all you had done was prove how good you were, you protected her, you joined the group to help protect everyone when you didn’t even know them. You told her your story as if you were warning her to stay away but it only proved to her that you truly were one of the good ones.

Taglist: @thatshyboy1998 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @acutenobody @godamnityess

@luvwanda @rqizzu @riyaexee @bella423 @rayisaknight

@assgradiangod @canyonyodeler @marsyay78

[theamberfist]

One Blind Mouse | Uncle Alastor + Reader

Familial! Alastor is Reader's Uncle

Description: One day after an overlord meeting, Alastor stumbles upon a giant demonic mouse that he soon realizes is his relative from life.

(Notes: CW Alastor, death, violence) (gender neutral reader) (Reader is Alastor's niece/nephew/whatever term you prefer) (Reader is blind) (Reader is a mouse sinner) (Pretend Alastor had a sister for the sake of this oneshot)

Words: 2,940

Alastor's ears perked at the familiar sound of screams that always seemed to accompany the streets of hell. He'd just stepped out of a surprisingly entertaining overlord meeting and now his high spirits lead him to take a walk down the road. 

This part of the city, being Carmilla Carmine's territory, was significantly less of a disaster compared to most of hell, and although he didn't enjoy the area nearly as much as some others- such as Rosie's Cannibal Town- it was still a pleasurable enough experience. As he walked, he calmly held his microphone-cane behind his back and took in all the sights.

Most of it was nothing out of the ordinary; sinners running in fear at the mere sight of him, remnants of bloody fights and brawls, as well as a few trashed buildings and alleyways the overlord expected Carmilla to be very unhappy about. 

Alastor sighed. If there was one thing he both loved and hated about hell it was that every day tended to be just the same. Territory disputes, murders that were ultimately never permanent, and newly-killed human souls ending up fearful and disoriented as they randomly appeared throughout hell were all nothing he hadn't seen before. In his time living down here, he'd come to place great value on entertainment and breaks from normality. At the very least, they made afterlife in hell a little more fun.

It was because of this he considered summoning Husk or even Nifty to liven things up. That was what he normally did when he lacked any other form of entertainment, but before he could even decide which to rip from their normal lives, a new sound reached his ears that suddenly caught his attention.

It was almost akin to a roar; something he would have expected to hear from a lion or even a dinosaur if they were more common forms for sinners to take on. Glancing up, he now realized the sound had come from just a few blocks away, where a giant figure towered over some of the nearby buildings. 

It looked like a huge...rat? That was the best way Alastor could describe the entity; with glowing grey eyes, demonic markings, and surprisingly sharp claws and teeth. The rat was ripping apart the nearby buildings as sinners screamed and tried to run away, which made the Radio Demon's ever-present smile widen. It seemed he'd found some entertainment at last. 

So of course, he made his way towards where the rat was towering over buildings; realizing it was right on the edge of Carmilla's territory; approaching that of the V's. He hadn't even realized he'd been so close to their space but it hardly mattered now. While he'd at first assumed the rat's goal to be complete destruction simply for the sake of discussion, that didn't seem to be the case now that he observed them. 

They were ignoring most of the frightened sinners around them; aside from a few that happened to scream extra loud as they ran. Instead, their focus was more towards the nearest building; a TV store in which every single piece of merchandise had a different channel playing at once that made for quite an obnoxious display of sound. Even Alastor wanted to cover his ears, not stopping the giant rat sinner as they tore the place apart sloppily. 

He continued watching the scene for a few more moments until a car finally showed up nearby and a tech-related sinner stepped out with a frightened look on her face. Alastor recognized her as one of Vox's employees from back when they'd still been friends, though he was surprised the TV producer hadn't fired her yet with his poor track record of employees. 

Once out of the car, she approached the giant rat cautiously; as if unsure of how to handle the situation. 

"E-excuse me?" The sinner called, though the rat ignored her, "I demand you stop! This store is property of Vox Tech and you're going to have to pay for any damages you cause!" Alastor's smile only widened now, curious to see whether this seemingly out-of-control sinner would even acknowledge the tech demon or if they'd just continue to go about their destruction. If his employee couldn't handle things, perhaps Vox would even come all the way down here himself, and wouldn't that be a treat to watch? 

As expected, the rat ignored her as they crushed another giant flat-screen TV between their claws. The Vox Tech employee seemed almost offended as she came closer to them. 

"How dare you?!" She exclaimed louder now; taking on a more demonic form that was indicative of her anger, "Have you no respect for the art of television?!" This seemed to finally get the rat's attention because they paused, dropping the shattered TV and turning to face her as they gazed down.

"Art?" They repeated, their voice coated with that demonic tone one became accustomed to hearing while in hell. Alastor raised an eyebrow at the realization that this was not their regular form, wondering what they could have originally looked like but not saying anything just yet. "You call this art?!"

The rat grabbed another TV and threw it at the tech demon, nearly crushing her under its weight if she hadn't gotten out of the way in time. "This is pathetic!" 

Alastor had to agree there. Television had always been a lesser form of media to him, and it seemed this other sinner understood that too. Perhaps when they calmed down the two of them would get along.

Though, there was another part of him that took note of how familiar this particular was...

The rat grabbed two more TV screens and crushed them in either hand now; snarling. "Don't pretend to know anything about art if you support him!" Alastor knew without needing to ask that they were referring to Vox, which made his smile widen even more. It seemed he really would get along with this rat. Though, the more he listened to them speak, the more it felt like he should recognize that voice.

"Don't make me tell you again! Unhand our property!" The tech demon tried, though she was shaking as the giant rat stared her down. 

"No." The rat replied before tossing another TV at her. This time, it managed to hit her and she was knocked back into the nearby wall. It seemed the impact was enough to kill her, too, because her body finally went limp. Alastor knew she wouldn't be dead for long before regenerating but it had done the job for now, anyway. 

It seemed the only one that didn't realize that was the rat because they reached for another blaring TV and tossed it in the direction of the now-dead sinner again. Then they grabbed another and did the same before repeating the act again and again until every last screen had been destroyed. 

It was only then that the Radio Demon realized what was going on as he watched the giant rat feel around the destroyed store for any more Vox Tech Products; they were blind. 

They couldn't actually see the tech demon when she'd shown up; they'd only known where to throw the TV based on where they'd heard her voice. They'd been sloppily feeling around and grabbing TV's earlier because they could hear the obnoxious sounds coming from them, and they'd only killed the extra loud sinners because they could hear where they were.

How interesting, Alastor thought as he watched the rat's shoulders rise and fall as they caught their breath. They were far from the first blind person he'd met but they were the first one he'd run into in hell thus far. Based on the display he'd just witnessed though, they were doing just fine down here despite not having sight. He was about to step forward and introduce himself when a peculiar sight stopped him.

The rat, which had been giant just a moment ago, was now shrinking in size before his very eyes. They went from being taller than the nearby building to becoming so small he couldn't even see them from where he stood anymore. 

Curious, he stepped forward, realizing they'd shrunk to the size of a mouse. And, in fact, it seemed that that was exactly what they were; not a rat, like he'd presumed earlier. Like most sinners in hell, they still possessed human qualities, but the big mouse ears on their head and the tail made it apparent which animal they were meant to resemble. 

Amusement shined in the Radio Demon's eyes now as he continued observing the little creature. This tiny mouse had done all that damage just moments ago; leaving one of Vox's stores in complete ruin. He never would have expected them to possess that kind of strength based on how they looked, but it made him all the more curious of their motive as he now approached them.

"Well, hell there!" He called. Immediately, the mouse jumped in surprise and reached for their ears as if they were in pain. "My, that was quite a display!" He went on, ignoring their clear shock, "May I ask what might have prompted it?"

There was a long pause as the tiny sinner regarded him, now bent at the waist so that his face was a little closer to their eye level. For a second he wondered if they really were capable of speaking or if he'd simply imagined it earlier, but then they shouted.

"Uncle Al?!" Their voice, which had lost its demonic edge and returned to normal now, suddenly sounded so familiar that it felt as if the Radio Demon had been hit by a truck. How had he not recognized you before? What other little demon could have casually caused so much destruction to a TV store than his own niece/nephew/etc? 

"Why, is that you, my little mouse?" He asked with a grin so wide it nearly hurt. You nodded eagerly, immediately running up to hug him. You were so small, though, that you could really only latch onto his ankle. 

"It is, Uncle!" You replied, only now realizing how ironic his old nickname for you had turned out to be. You'd known the second you'd heard his voice that it was your favorite family member and finding him again like this couldn't have made you happier. Alastor chuckled, kneeling and placing a hand beside your little body on the ground. Once you felt it beside you, you immediately climbed on and then he carefully held you up so that you were closer to his eye-level. 

"And here I'd thought you ended up in heaven!" He told you, though his tone only held amusement. Your presence had always been enjoyable to him; ever since you were a baby. When he'd died, he'd been surprised to find he actually missed the nights when he used to have to come over and babysit you for his dear little sister's sake. 

"Nope," you told him, "But I'm pretty sure mama is there! I've been alone down here for years." The Radio Demon nodded at that. Like their mother, he'd had no doubt his sister had gone to heaven. Your presence in hell was a surprise, but with how mischievous you'd been as a child, it made some sense, even if he hadn't gotten to see how you turned out when you grew up. 

"It must have been quite lonely being by yourself." He replied as he brought you to his coat pocket now. You felt around the area before seemingly deciding it was acceptable and getting comfortable within the fabric. 

"And loud." You nodded. Alastor didn't doubt that; you'd had great hearing even when you were alive, so he imagined those big mouse ears made it even more amplified now. "I hate television."

"I agree with you there!" Alastor replied as he began walking back down the street with you safely tucked into his pocket now. "Especially since the whole point of it is to see the pictures, isn't it?" You nodded, crossing your arms in disdain. "At least radio is tasteful." In life, you'd always loved tuning into your uncle's nightly broadcasts. No matter what you and your mother had been doing at the time, you'd always made her take you home to hear them. Alastor nodded in amusement now. 

"Uncle Al, where are we going anyway?" You asked suddenly.

"Well, I do still have a broadcast to run!" The Radio Demon replied, "I'm sure the citizens of hell will want to hear about that giant mouse causing so much destruction earlier." You giggled and got a little more comfortable in the demon's pocket. "Now, while we talk, do tell me more about those demonic powers of yours?" The fact that you possessed the ability to grow and shrink between more and less terrifying forms just like he did was certainly not lost on him, and nor was the possibility of capitalizing on those powers with the potential of you two taking over hell as family. 

♡ After that you're almost always found in Alastor's pocket whenever he goes anywhere

♡ Sometimes you like to hide in his pocket and then pop up at random times, which he used to scare some of the hotel guests after the first found you

♡ You go into your demon form whenever you get angry, which usually happens when you're surrounded by way too many loud noises at once and get overwhelmed

♡ Alastor thought it was entertaining at first but after the third time you broke his coat pocket by transforming while he was literally carrying you around, he invested in some cute little earmuffs to prevent it

♡ Everybody at the hotel thought you were adorable once they got past the initial shock of A) Alastor having a niece/nephew/etc and B) the fact that you'd popped out of his pocket and startled them

♡ Vaggie lets you ride on her hair bow sometimes and Charlie absolutely loves to pet your mouse ears (she's very gentle but sometimes gets too excited and Alastor has to pull you away from her)

♡ You were terrified of Husk at first because he's a cat and Alastor, always looking for entertainment, did nothing to help with that fear

♡ So for a while every time you would be near Husk he would have to be super careful not to scare you and make you go into demon form

♡ That was until you realized who you really had to be afraid of; Nifty

♡ She associates mice with uncleanliness so she tried to stab you many times at first. Alastor never let her actually succeed but he did enjoy watching her chase you around the hotel for the first week

♡ That was how you got over your fear of Husk because he would sometimes let you hide behind the bar in between the bottles of wine. He even fed you a piece of cheese once and you were sold on him after that

♡ Eventually though, a solution was reached with Nifty when Charlie suggested they dress you in nice clothes (A red striped suit like Alastor's or a dress version of his outfit, fitted for your tiny self) in order to give the cyclops a visibly difference between you and the actual vermin she was supposed to kill 

♡ That worked well but you're still too scared to go near Nifty most of the time

♡ Sir Pentious dubbed you an honorary egg because you were close to them in size and he thought you were just so cute. He got you a little hat like the ones they wear and would even let you ride atop his hat (kind of like Alice with the Mad Hatter in the live action Alice in Wonderland)

 ♡ Angel Dust also loves you and one of the first things he did was introduce you to Fat Nuggets, whom you adored

♡ Sometimes you ride Nuggets around the hotel like a horse since you're the perfect size for it and Angel has many photos on his phone of the two of you being absolutely adorable

♡ Despite how he may seem, Alastor can be a very protective uncle. Since you've come to the hotel, he makes sure everyone keeps their volume down most of the time so as not to bother your sensitive ears. If anyone so much as raises their voice in your presence they're met with his sadistic expression and radio dial eyes as a warning

♡ No one is allowed to watch TV when you're around either; he doesn't care that English Descriptive Audio exists he just doesn't want you to feel sad that you can't have a normal experience like everyone else because that used to get to really you when you were a kid 

♡ Since you're always in his pocket, you've met most of the other overlords at meetings and things

♡ Rosie adores you and every time she meets with Alastor she brings along a new mouse-sized outfit she sewed for you as a gift. You have a whole wardrobe of tasteful clothes made by her now

♡ Zestial and Carmilla think you're cute but won't ever admit it. They just smile whenever you pop out of Alastor's pocket during a meeting; wanting to see what they're all talking about

♡ You did meet Vox once because Alastor ran into him on the street

♡ That went about as well as expected and you turned into your demon form due to his loudness and the fact that he insulted your uncle

♡ You and Alastor took turns beating Vox up that day 

..........

Headcannons related to this concept: Cursed-Cat and Mouse

[inkskinned]

we really didn't get violent enough about roe v wade being overturned. but and also - you're one person. you donated money. you went to the protest. you did what you could, which felt like doing basically nothing.

recently some big paper published an op ed (why did you even read it? you knew you'd get upset) about how it's gross that men can't find a partner because women don't want to suffer bad dates - they'd rather go to yoga class. you actually laughed - well, yeah! and it was funny until it wasn't, because something about it made your stomach churn. this is the thing, you want to say, but you don't have the words for what the thing is. just that men being bad at dating is your fault.

the thing is also on instagram. you don't know if it's a setting or algorithm thing, but these days, the most hurtful comments always seem to skim the top. simple reaction is don't read the comments but - you're human, so you're curious. you want to respond to every weird, sanctimonious one with replaying something a million times to find evidence they're lying about their gender is literally sexual harassment you shouldn't be proud of this or maybe get a fucking life you absolute dickhead but you've gotten into enough of these battles as a kid. nothing ever resolves. it just makes you upset.

your father was radicalized. the thing is - you go to therapy about it and yet never find the words for exactly the way that one hurts.

the other day your sister predicted that a commercial that aired during the superbowl was going to cause trouble. you wanted her to be wrong about that. this morning, while scrolling, you saw someone post exactly that - he got so angry i had to leave. it was terrifying. it reminds you, however bleakly: there are entire swathes of people who do not worry about domestic violence. who have no idea why you would put keys into your fist. who do not understand "it's better to be rude than dead." who have never googled am i being gaslit.

the other day you found out there's a bill that would make it so if you have a uterus and are braindead, you could fulfil your cattle purpose and carry a fetus to term. you think about the fact that the leading cause of death for pregnant people is murder. you think about ongoing and informed consent. you think about how, out of fear, if your ex boyfriend had pressured you, you absolutely would have said yes to it. in the comments, you write there is no way that these documents wouldn't be immediately forged. this is going to be misused. and then just delete it, sighing. get up and go to work.

the other day they overturned roe v wade. we weren't nearly violent enough about it. somewhere, a clock is ticking. it's been ticking a long time. you want to say it's time, but it's been time for a while, hasn't it.

[romanoffsbish]

Carved With Love

Natasha Romanoff x Wife!R

Yelena Belova x Fem!R (The true love story 🥹)

Yelena’s in town for the holiday season, and who would she be if not wreaking havoc? | WC: 1,986

Warnings: Mentions of Neglectful Past | Siblings

Yelena was a menace; you knew that from the insight your wife gave you before she introduced you to her.

“Y/N, she literally blew herself up and said it was fun,” your wife had reiterated her stance, that being: Yelena was a complete and total maniac. “Sounds like she’d fit right in with you and your band of superheroes,” was all you’d said back while adding pasta to your cart.

The two of you had been together for nearly a decade when they found each other again, and though the blonde was wary of a meeting she quickly agreed after hearing that the two of you were married with kids.

——

You couldn't really blame her for wanting to meet them more, especially your daughter, the eldest, who shared a name with her. They clicked instantly. Then there were your sons that you carried back to back, Andrei and Aleksander, who were bonded like twins. It was like they gained a triplet with their aunt. Then there’s the latest, Flora, who was just turning six months old and who was absolutely in love with the blonde.

The group were nothing but trouble, you adored that.

When you met her, your heart had doubled in size as you realized she was just trying to forget, to be a kid. Something you knew she never got to be, so just like with your own children, you let her get away with it all.

Natasha didn't much appreciate that, well, truthfully she adored just how much you already loved her sister. But, she was a bit jealous that you were so lenient with her, even if she knew you weren’t with her because she needed the structure and redirection you provided her.

As of right now, she thought you were also insane, "Detka, I don't think you thought this through..." Natasha mumbled against your temple from behind, where she stood with you securely in her arms, and you shook your head and softly chuckled. "It's fine baby."

Natasha currently feared for everyone's safety as her sister held one of those little orange carving knives.

"Oh my gosh, Y/N Romanoff, look!" Yelena shrieked, and your wife sighed when she felt your body relax. There was no hope left, you were at her sister's mercy. Yelena held up a stencil and you smiled. "It's cute."

"No, it is badass!" Yelena corrected, only to be met with a glare from her sister. "Watch your language."

"Natasha," you scolded instantaneously, "Lighten up."

"But she —," Natasha went to defend her decisions but quickly cut herself off when you turned with a glare.

Everyone got away with murder, except Natasha. (Well, in this symbolic context that is…)

Yelena smiled smugly at her sister, she even stuck her tongue out to mock her as you weren't looking. The redhead flipped her off, and your daughter gasped. "Mama! That's the bad finger!" Your eyes widened. "Natasha! What are you now? Some sort of hypocrite?"

"Predateli'," Natasha grumbled, making your daughter laugh alongside her aunt who was taping the ghost cat on a zombie dog's head stencil to her large pumpkin.

(Traitors)

"You all behave," you scolded the entire room before leaving to the kitchen to collect the cookies. Natasha tried to follow you, like a hurt puppy, but you made her stay behind to make sure nobody had a carving crisis. 

Which was in vain because when you came back in the room you found Yelena had upgraded to your sharp carving knife, and you nearly dropped your plate.

"Yelena honey, that's too dangerous," you practically shrieked, but not really to avoid her hand slipping. Not that you didn't have faith in her trained hands, but you knew accidents could happen regardless of skillsets. The blonde pouted up at you, and Natasha watched you once again melt into her little sister's charm.

"I can't use the little orange one," she pleaded for your understanding, "It is too tiny and ineffective."

"Okay," you folded instantly and your wife's eyes widened with flashes of shock and betrayal. The one time Natasha had done the same thing years back, before your kids, you'd given her a safety lesson.

“This isn’t fair,” she grumbled to herself, but she also let it go when she saw you sitting with her sister, eyes focused in on the way she carved the pumpkin and mouth at the ready to give her advice or a light scold.

Natasha let her festering resentments go, and shortly after joined you all at the table so that the youngest member of the house could play with the guts. It was a perfect moment of domesticated bliss, and the redhead couldn’t help but to feel at peace in current company.

Then the following morning came, and you learned a few things. Yelena had a new favorite holiday, and in turn a hobby, carving, which piggybacked right off of her other, bugging her older sister as if it was her job.

"Natasha," you tried to calm her, your hands on her tense shoulder as you kept her from lunging at the blonde. "You need to calm down my love, I can..."

"No!" Natasha cut you off, "She will do it, not you."

"She's our guest," you reminder her, but she merely rolled her eyes—something she never did towards you. "More like a pest, Y/N/N, make her leave before I do."

Your eyes narrowed fast, and your wife cowered at the sheer intensity. "Apologize to her, right now Natalia."

The redhead held back a scoff. Yelena had carved a face only a mother could love into her favorite fall leather jacket, yet she was the one who had to apologize here.

"I'm sorry, parshivets," she begrudgingly spat at the grinning blonde across the room. "I accept, cyka."

(Brat / Bitch)

You sighed, and regretfully turned to face the smug blonde. This was partially your fault too for having let the girl get away with murder up until this point.

"Yelena, now it's your turn." Yelena frowned, but then she nodded and relaxed her features. "Sorry sestra," her tone was genuine, "I will buy you another one."

"No, you don't have to," you let the girl off the hook. "Yes she does." Natasha rebuked your words in a flash, then she intelligently rephrased, "No you don't."

You smirked and rewarded her with a kiss that she tried to melt into, but once again Yelena interrupted with a rumbling stomach. "Can we make pancakes?"

Natasha's hands harshly gripped your hips, and you smiled at her in understanding, she missed you. "How about you go get the kids up while we make breakfast?"

The redhead reluctantly let you go with a nod, but before she got too far you pulled her in for another kiss. "I'll be all yours soon, just have some patience."

Yelena was leaving after the holiday's event, and the kids were going to Wanda's for a spooky sleepover. You'd planned accordingly, and your wife smirked at the reminder, chastely pecked your lips then ran up the stairs with a reinvigorated pep in her once glum step.

"Get the chocolate chips," you instructed your sous chef, and she did so with a smile. Yelena was learning to cook from you, you never outright said it, but you worried about her eating habits. All she could make was mac and cheese and that was artery clogging if not met with a balance of other things besides takeout.

Yelena appreciated your concern, it was clear to her that you were the perfect match for Natasha, because you were an even better platonic match for her. The way you let her just be who she was, who she was discovering herself to be with her newfound freedom, meant the absolute world to her. You were a light that she found comfort in, and would never let go of.

Once you showed Yelena how to make the batter you let her ladle it onto the griddle. "Don't flip it yet," you instructed, your back was turned but you were aware of her piqued curiosity and she was enamored by your spy like skills. "You're like a super mom or something."

"It's nice to see my skillset is appreciated," you teased the younger girl as you returned to her side and gently bumped her hip. "I appreciate all of you, sestra."

It took you a second to reel in your emotions, you'd only been hoping that she wouldn't hate you, but it turned out that she actually liked you, and you didn't want to cry and make her reevaluate that judgement.

Instead you settled on hugging her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake as you showed her the indicators for flipping before finally letting her flip the pancake.

Just as you settled a pancake on the plate you heard an obnoxious scraping on the glass. "What the—." There before you was a focused blonde, the tip of her tongue rested on her lower lip as she carved your perfectly round pancake into a ghost cat. You shook your head with a fond smile, "You really love knives, don't you?" Yelena mirrored your expression and nodded as she now carved an eye into a pumpkin. "They are so cool."

"Natasha loves her guns the same." Yelena flinched, "Guns are too rigid, and loud. Knives are fun, you can do flip tricks with them and they're just as lethal."

You noted her clear discomfort with firearms, and filed it away in your mind as a later topic of discussion, and fortunately the kids came barreling into the kitchen. Yelena dropped the knife and, just like every morning, she greeted the little boys with the tickle monster.

Then came your daughter’s greeting, “Yelena Belova!"

Yelena then followed her lead, “Yelena Romanoff!"

You shook your head at their antics, then you returned to your task at hand, and began to set the table. You placed the blondes masterpieces in their designated spots, a pumpkin for each boy, the cat for her parrot, and the torn to bits pieces went to the toothless baby.

You were gifted two perfectly sized hearts, topped with fruit and whipped cream. Natasha got zero change to the shape, but instead, she was gifted icing words.

“I’m not eating that,” Natasha growled, and you bit back a laugh as you saw the script. “What’s it say?”

Natasha shook her head at you, and glared in her sister’s direction as you attempted to read the Russian out loud, “Tvoya zhena lyubit menya bol'she.”

(Your wife loves me more)

“Damn right,” Yelena teased as she sat in front of her own pancake, “Don’t worry sestra, she loves you too.”

“You two, knock it off and eat your breakfast,” your mom voice came out, and everyone was suddenly sat. You nibbled on your food while making sure your baby didn’t choke on hers as she gobbled it down like a cat (Liho and Bob) being fed at the normal time everyday.

Once breakfast was finished you sent the kids to the living room with their aunt to watch cartoons while you and your wife cleaned up the mess left behind.

As you were packing up the fruit you felt two arms snake around your waist, and a kiss placed on your neck that you instantly melted into. You felt her smirk but ignored her smugness as you lazily cleaned up.

"You're spoiling her," Natasha groaned, you shrugged and turned around to face her with a genuine smile. "I'm just giving her the same chances I did you."

Natasha frowned, "I hope it's not exactly the same."

"That’s disgusting!" Yelena groaned from the couch and you giggled into your wife's shoulder. Avoiding the question in your kids eyes, and leaving Natasha to answer it. The redhead smirked, throwing her sister a wink before she completely pulled you out of the room.

Two could play at this game…

—

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (IV)

summary: a proposal

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, past suicide, misogyny, allusions to murder, dark themes, canon typical violence, smut in future chapters

word count: 2k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

“The spitting image of your mother,” you hear more than once. Anger radiates from your father every time, yet he says nothing. He cannot in front of so many. How could he explain that the ghost of your mother fills him with such rage?

It’s a day spent in a stadium watching physical feats. It’s not all that entertaining in itself, but the guests are plied with drinks and food enough to not care. They place bets amongst themselves and you’re sure a few of them will end their visit here without a solari to their name. You want nothing more than to steal Irulan for the day, but duty kept her bound to the subjects who desired her attention. 

You weave through the crowd and let yourself be distracted by conversation with the lower houses. He watches. You can feel the weight of his gaze every time you smile or laugh or speak or breathe. 

“Looks like you’ve got someone’s attention,” one of the daughters giggles loudly. Others turn their heads. You brush it off and continue the conversation you’d been having about the next day's entertainment—an ancient play written before the Jihad.

The whispers of his attention follow you like his eyes. When it becomes overbearing you avoid it all and focus on the events in the arena. Men striking the ground with long poles to launch themselves over raised bars to see how far they land. The tightness in your shoulders eases when Feyd-Rautha finally breaks from the shadows. His looming figure shields you from the rays of the setting sun and the sight of intruding eyes as he stands beside you. “What uses would such a skill have?” he ponders. 

“Perhaps none,” you say. “But the strength they must build is noteworthy. These men train with swords and spears just as much as their poles.”

He hums in response as one of the men clears the bar. He lands the furthest you’ve seen, but his footing is poor. He doesn’t shout, though from his limp as walks away it’s evident the attempt injured him. “Perhaps they should train more on how they land.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Yes, perhaps.”

Together you watch in silence as the event rolls into the next.

“I must admit my surprise at your appearance today, my lady. I had thought you preferred a more subdued look.”

A man runs with a spear in hand. Inches from a line they’d drawn in the grass he throws it. “That is my father’s preference.” The tip embeds itself in the ground yards away. “Is it yours as well?”

He does not answer. He cannot. Paul invades the space between you. “Giedi Prime is a desolate place, my lady. Color and beauty do not survive under their black sun.” He is wrong. Beauty raised under that sun stands beside him. “You would be at place in Caladan. The sunset would envy your beauty.” That has nothing to do with what you had asked.

“I had not realized you were a poet,” Feyd-Rautha taunts and a smile nearly bends your lips.

“How could one not be in the presence of such a divine creature?”

“You are too kind.” You step away from him, wishing he’d have kept his distance. Had his stares not been enough? Would he not get the opportunity to humiliate you once again in a few hours? “If you’ll excuse me.” That’s all you leave them with. You can bear him no longer.

Fandral keeps a better eye on you. You’re barely down a flight of stairs before he is at your side. It’s a silent return to the castle. He has something to say, you see it in the way his mouth twitches every so often as he sits across from you in the vehicle, but he lets you enjoy the peace for a bit longer.

You have no choice in your evening attire. A dress that’s a sister to the ones the other women will wear. Makeup that will be seen from afar. It’s the only thing you don’t mind for the performance.

Despite your early departure, you’re late to the small room off the Great Hall. Fandral doesn’t question the delay. You suspect he knows the reason well enough now. Disapproval colors his cheeks. 

Your tardiness is unnecessary. Paul has not arrived yet. Still, the swordmaster reprimands you for it. You tune it out until you’re free. It’s a small comfort to see the woman with your swords again. She offers encouragement with them before retreating with the others. Enviously you watch. How you wish Irulan were here with you.

Paul arrives only minutes before your set to perform. He doesn’t receive the same scolding you had. He only has time to don his own swords while you and the others begin to file out. A small blessing.

You let your eyes unfocus as you step into the crowded hall. It’s better to not see the faces. Or his. Each pluck of a string and swirl of a skirt brings you closer to the end. As the clang echos when your swords meet for the first time, you think of how easy it would be to stab at his skin. The blade is dull, but with enough speed and force it wouldn’t be of much consequence. He didn’t have his shield.  

The thought ends as the sword once more slips out of your hand. His hand locks around yours and pulls. His chest presses against your back in a mockery of an embrace. Your eyes burn as they come back in focus. Or perhaps it’s the green fire in his as they bore into you from above.

The music wans and the applause rises. You try to escape his arms, but he holds firm. It’s a quick dip of his gaze that signals his intent. Your face moves an inch in time for his lips to brush against your cheek. Whistles echo in the deafening noise.

Feyd-Rautha watches from his seat at the head table. He’s too far to make out his face, but he’s impossible to not recognize. The degradation weighs heavy in your throat. A day ago he’d seen you as a worthy opponent. How must he see you now?

You’re freed from the cage of his arms. You bow with the others but do not stay. You cannot soak in the humiliation a moment longer.

Paul calls for you. You do not stop. Your name bounces off the walls of the corridor as you hope he’ll end his pursuit. But he does not allow such a reprieve. A hand grips your upper arm.

“Let me go,” you hiss, trying to pull free. He does not.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He rounds on you, confusion written in the lines of his face. “I was caught up in the moment. I’m sorry.” He means it. You do not care. “Return with me, please. It’s your celebration.”

“I cannot. I must return to my room.”

“Please. Irulan wishes to see you.”

Disgust sours your tongue. How poorly his father had raised him. “I am sure the princess would prefer you to return to her alone. She has had enough humiliation tonight, I think.”

His hand falls away. “Humiliation?” 

You scoff. “I understand it may be hard for you to understand, but no woman wants to see her future husband kiss another. Especially not in front of so many people.”

The bastard laughs. When he sees the unimpressed look on your face, he asks, “Have I not made my intentions obvious?” He smiles. “The dance is an old engagement tradition on Caladan.” He chuckles, shakes his head, and adds, “Well a condensed version. The old one was much longer.”

Time. That is what you tell him you need. And it is. To reverse it. To retract the knowledge of his impending proposal. To revoke the invitation extended to the Atreides. To undo his very conception. Time is all you need.

He misunderstands your shock for one of pleasure and allows you to return to your room unaccompanied. Fandral waits by the closed door. "Did you know?"

"The young lord mentioned his desire for a marriage yesterday. He asked I not tell you."

"And since when did you serve House Atreides?"

"It is a good match, my lady. You would be safe under his protection."

You push the door open. "You may return to your normal post, Fandral. I require a personal guard no longer."

Sleep comes only briefly. The wake in the dark, the image of an achromatic silhouette contrasted against the warm hues of sunrise embedded in your vision. You dress quickly and slip through the corridors. The sounds of the party still linger. It's too easy to go unnoticed and begin the hour-long hike. Every step springs forward a new emotion. Frustration. Despair. Disgust. Terror. Fury.

Solace as you hear a rock skitter across the path behind you. You continue on without looking back or calling to him. He knows you know. Nothing more needs to be said yet. You reach the same spot you'd picniced days before in that blissful silence. Only when the sky begins to color does he finally speak. "The sunrise on Geidi Prime is not so colorful."

"Like its people."

He grins that wide, black grin. "Yes, like its people."

The sun begins to crest over the horizon when you guide him to the canoe still tied to the end of the dock. He does not question as the oars break through the still surface. Even as the overgrown and greying marble pavilion comes into view. He eases the canoe onto the shore and gives his hand to help you disembark. How wonderful it is to touch him again. How dreadful to let it go again.

“My father had this built for my mother when they married.” You take the steps up the once grand gift. “He was so infatuated with her in the beginning. At least that’s what she told me.” You rest your hands against the railings and stare over the water. The marble is cool and coated with a layer of damp. “And then she gave birth to me.”

His warmth soaks into your back, hands resting on the rails beside yours. “He’d been promised a son.”

“One who would marry the emperor’s first born daughter and one day ascend the throne.”

His breath fans across your ear. “Your father was displeased.”

“He drove my mother to try again and again. But nothing. It drove her into madness. Tied rocks to her feet and walked into the water.” She hadn’t tied them well. They found her floating only a day after she went missing. “All for nothing. My father is the one incapable. All he has and will ever have is me.”

“More than he deserves.”

You turn in the small space he’s left between him and the railing. There is no more than an inch that separates your chests. The warmth of the sun makes you sweat. Or perhaps that is from his closeness. It would be a simple thing. A small tilt of your head, a gentle push forward. Lips pressing together. Your heart skips at the thought. The wind rustles through the leaves of the trees and breaks the trance.

"Paul Atriedes is going to ask for my hand."

"And it displeases you."

"Has he not taken enough? And now he wants to tie me to him for the remainder of my days? To submit to him and birth his own heir? How could that not displease me?"

"Deny him."

"My father will not allow that."

"Perhaps we needn’t worry what your father thinks. He enjoys his drink, yes? It is rather miraculous he has not had an accident yet."

Your smile, bright and wide, reflects on his face. How easy he is to manipulate. You hadn’t needed to suggest anything, the violence embedded in his blood coming to the conclusion on its own. “He does indeed. I fear his luck may not last much longer.”

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[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 18. I'm Trying (Garrick)

Summary: A certain someone's opinion has started to change, but despite his efforts nothing has changed. And one night someones friendship has him seeing red. A/N: Little bit of a filler chapter, but couldn't resist these three having a moment like this. Probably the first of many. Also next week we might get a certain someone's signet reveal.....

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist

The last few weeks had been driving me crazy. Ever since Threshing I couldn’t get her off my damn mind. She plagued my thoughts constantly, and suddenly I was aware of her anytime I was in the same room as her. Aware of every glare she sent my way. How she would constantly ignore my presence whenever I was around. I’d even tried to be nice to her on a few occasions after Xaden had suggested it and she’d thrown it back in my face, shutting me down instantly. Great idea that was.

Her laughter carries down to me from where I sit with Xaden. A sound I’d only heard come from her recently. Before now I’d only seen her smirk or smile a little bit here and there. But in the last few weeks Bodhi had managed to coax a laugh out of her. The sound even startling Dain who had been nearby when it happened. I’d often caught him starting at his sister as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. As if he’d never seen her act this way, or as if he was reliving a past memory. Something that had definitely made me curious about the two of them. And also proving further I had probably jumped to my conclusion on her a little too soon.

”Geez, you look like you’re about to murder someone.” Bodhi teases as he slots into the empty space beside Xaden.

I don’t even spare him a glance as I stand and storm off towards the exit. Scraping and rushed foot steps follow me, and I don’t have to turn around to know they’ve both followed me. As the cold air of the fast approaching winter hits I can’t help but relax a little. The coolness relieving some of the pent up anger I’d been bottling up over the last few weeks.

”What the hell is up your ass?” Xaden asks bluntly as he falls into step next to me.

”Nothing. Just had a long day.” I tell him, heading over to the edge of the Rotunda to look out over the edge.

Being it was pretty much winter, the sun had long set behind the mountains, a pink glow on the horizon signalling it would soon be completely dark outside.

“More like a long few weeks.” Bodhi adds as he leans up against pillar next to me. “You know you can talk to us.”

Bodhi didn’t deserve my anger. He did nothing wrong. Hell he had done better than I had. Even Xaden which had surprised me. They both told me I’d come to eat my words. And I had. And here I was getting jealous over Bodhi being friends with her while she wouldn’t give me time of day.

“Do I get to tell you I told you so?” Chradh drawls in my head, a teasing tone to his voice.

“Don’t you start.” I snap back, earning me a chuckle from him.

“Oh I’m just getting started.” He mocks before I slam my shields firmly into place.

With a sigh I push up from the ledge and face my two friends. “Trust me, it’s nothing you two need to worry about.”

Xaden eyes me, and I can tell he knows exactly what’s up as his eyes flick to Bodhi. He was too damn perceptive for his own good.

“It’s about her isn’t it?” He asks, a slight hint of teasing in his voice. Great, just fucking great.

“I told you it was nothing.” I almost snap at him.

“So she’s nothing is she?” A slight smirk pulling at Xadens lips as he eyes me.

“Yes. Always has been and always will be. She’s nothing to me.”

“Right, so that’s why every time you see Bodhi with her you look like you want to murder him?”

“I do not!” I nearly yell at him, causing a few people heading to dinner to look our way as Bodhi and Xaden chuckle at me.

”Oh you do.” Bodhi teases with a smirk as I glare at him. If he wasn’t practically family I would probably punch that smirk off his god damn face.

“No. I. Don’t.” I grumble out as I clench my fists.

“Yes, you have been. Ever since that training session we did where she chose Bodhi over you, you’ve been practically death staring him.” Xaden says, almost looking proud he gets to announce it. I open my mouth to respond but he cuts me off. “And don’t try deny it. Ever since Threshing you’ve been different towards her.”

“I have not. I hate her. She’s nothing to me.” I admit, but the words felt wrong leaving my mouth. A blatant lie. “Name one situation where I’ve been different towards her.” I challenge the two of them, both sharing a look that makes me nervous.

“Where to begin. How about the morning after Threshing where I walked into the hallway to you practically eye fucking her.” Bodhi starting off the list.

Shit, I’d forgotten about that. But I wasn’t eye fucking her. Simply getting under her skin. I didn’t want her that way.

“Or after Threshing where I had to grab you to stop you from going after her father when he grabbed her.” Xaden adds with a grin.

Shit.

“Oh and at training where steam was practically coming out your ears when she pulled Bodhi off the ground and he held onto her hand a little too long for your liking. Do we need to go on?”

Bodhi’s eyes light up. “And I’m pretty sure you’ve teased her less. Barely heard you call her little Aetos since that training session.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’ve just come to realise she’s not as bad as I thought. And maybe she’s not like her brother or father.” I admit as casually as I can, trying to cut off the conversation.

“So we get to say I told you so?” Xaden teases with a smirk.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Hell no. I said she might not be that bad. I don’t even know her and she won’t give me the time of day.”

“Can you blame her? You’ve kinda been an ass towards her.” Bodhi admits, looking nervous how I’ll respond.

I snap my heads towards him as I glare at him. “I’m trying ok! Well tried. She seems pretty adamant I’m nothing to her, so probably no point in trying anymore.” I say with a shrug.

If she wanted to keep this up, I was more than happy to do the same.

Bodhi sighs and shakes his head at me. “Give her time Garrick. She’s clearly had a rough life. Hell she barely tells me anything outside of her day to day life and she considers me a friend, and even that took months.”

“She’s an Aetos, I doubt her life has been that rough.” I say bitterly.

Yes there was something off about her family dynamic, but her life can’t have been that bad. But maybe I was even wrong about that. She was different to her brother. Held her self differently. Acted differently. Besides the few heated conversations I’d seen them have, he was definitely the more approachable of the two. He talked easily with other cadets, made friends easily. But something told me if it wasn’t for Bodhi pushing the limit with her, she would have been on her own. Outside of him and the other two girls I’d seen with them, she didn’t hang out with anyone else. And when she wasn’t with them, the hard mask came back down in full force. Almost as if that was her normal way of acting. As if the way she had started being around Bodhi and the others wasn’t normal for her.

“I can tell you know that’s not true. All you have to do is look at how Dain and Dahlia act around each other to know that’s not true.” Bodhi smiling softly at the end, as if he’s trying to make me feel sorry for her. Which honestly, maybe I did a little.

“Whatever. I tried and she doesn’t want a bar of it. So it doesn’t matter.” I say before stalking off to my dorm to try get some sleep before our supply run. But with the thoughts running through my head, I highly doubted sleep would come to me.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml

[hussyknee]

Ayat Khaddura, 27, was a digital content and podcast presenter in North Gaza. She was one of the five journalists murdered by Israel's targeted air strike on Nov 20, along with her sister and grandmother in her home. She posted this video in the knowledge that these were probably her last moments.

Video description:

A young Arab woman in a hijab and abaya speaks into her camera in Arabic in a high, frightened voice. The subtitles read: "This might be the last video from me. Today the Occupation Forces dropped phosphorus bombs on the Beit Lahia residential area, and frightening sound bombs. And uhm, they dropped letters from the sky ordering us to evacuate. So of course nearly everyone evacuated for the most part. Everyone ran into the streets in a crazy way. No one knows where they're coming or going. Uhm, we're all split up and around. Me and some others stayed at home. The others evacuated and left. We don't know where they've gone, that's for sure. The situation is terrifying, the scenes are horrifying [voice breaking as she starts to cry], the situation is extremely difficult. May God have mercy on us." [She closes her eyes as she starts to cry openly. End clip.]

[New clip.] The same young woman is seated on a desk in front of a world map wearing a jacket over a t-shirt and her hijab. Large video caption reads "Message from Ayat Khaddura who was martyred yesterday". Her voice is sad and resigned, and her face is tired and tear-stained as she speaks in Arabic. Subtitles read:

"We are human beings, just like other human beings around the world. We had many big dreams, but unfortunately today our dreams are that if we are killed we will be martyred in one piece, one body (not torn to pieces) so that people can recognise us, and we will not be cut off in pieces and put in a bag. [struggles not to cry.] When we are martyred there will be a shroud for us and we will be buried in a grave. Our dreams have become that the war will stop, that we stop hearing the sound of bombing. We never imagined we would reach such a stage and live such a life that does not have the lowest basic necessities. [Blinks back tears.] There are things we can't talk about, there are things that people photographed and did not document. When the war will end, who will continue to talk to people? What happened to us, how we lived, what we saw. Everything is being destroyed before our eyes." [Looks down with a sob. End video.]

Israel dropping leaflets onto trapped and hiding people minutes before bombing them is nothing but a sick PR exercise— there's nowhere safe to go, no telling where the bombs will drop, no way to not leave family members behind while fleeing. Many people in North Gaza decided not to evacuate to the South, not only because similar calls to go South have ended in Israeli airstrikes massacring the refugees, but the possibility of being killed while trying to make the journey, the lack of food and water to sustain them, and inability to leave old and disabled family members behind. Some like Hind Khaudary, who had the opportunity to leave the Gaza strip entirely through foreign embassies, stayed behind to continue reporting the situation unfolding in the North. Meanwhile, Israel is continuing to bomb the South, despite their own evacuation orders.

Ayat is one of the fifty-three Middle Eastern journalists killed since Oct. 7. Forty-six of them were Palestinian, most massacred along with their families. Air strikes on other journalists managed to kill only their families instead. This is the deadliest period for journalists recorded by the Committee to Protect Journalists in its thirty years of existence. In fact, Israel killed one of the CPJ's own journalists documenting the murders around the same time as Ayat.

Nearly all these are targeted strikes. Israel controls the census in Gaza and therefore has information on where everyone lives. They also track journalists cellphones and use surveillance drones and quadcopters (drone snipers). Journalists and their families are known to receive threatening phone calls from unknown numbers before they're eventually attacked.

As to why Israel is so concerned about journalists? For the same reason the Biden Administration has stated openly.

But the administration remains wary about Netanyahu’s endgame and seeming lack of a plan for what to do once Hamas is defeated. There was no sense that the pause would turn into a lengthier cease-fire, a senior administration official said. And there was some concern in the administration about an unintended consequence of the pause: that it would allow journalists broader access to Gaza and the opportunity to further illuminate the devastation there and turn public opinion on Israel.

Please spread news of these journalists' murders, show their faces, say their names. While Western journalists from CNN and BCC are embedded with IOF teams to safely "report" on Gaza, Palestinian journalists who have been reporting there for years, wearing a press jacket and helmet they know won't protect them, are documenting and broadcasting the situation on the ground, watching their colleagues being picked off one by one for the last month and half, not knowing when it will be their turn. Ayat was not a combatant. She was a young woman a lot like most on this site, young and angry at injustice, armed with only a degree and internet connection to fight for her people. She wanted the world to witness her last moments: documenting the situation till the end, her terror of dying, how she clung to her faith and wanted to live. Hers and her compatriots work is to resist letting their people disappear among the vast uncounted; she resisted it to her last breath.

Empires and colonizers win wars by reducing people to numbers. When people become numbers they become collateral, cattle, "unavoidable casualties". This is what Palestinians have fought for decades to show: "We Are Not Numbers". If the West wants to kill human beings with impunity, everyone gets to see exactly which lives and loves and hopes it's snuffing out forever.

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

*NSFW* The Wishing Hole (Yandere x GN!Reader)

Warning!! This is not a romance, read at your own risk CW: LONG, Dead Dove, abuse, murder, trauma, manipulation, masturbation, mutilation, unhealthy relationships, obsession

"Have you heard about the hole?"

Part I

"It's right over here!" Miranda theater-whispered to her friends as she led them through the black woods. Their flashlights bobbed in the darkness, the only light visible to the trio of twelve year olds as they trekked through the thicket. (Reader) gripped onto their envelope tightly, fearful of leaving sweat marks on it.

They had been staying the night at Brian's house when Miranda brought up the hole. A local urban legend by that point, the story of a hole that granted wishes. Brian had chastised Miranda for believing a story so stupid, but still followed her and (Reader) when they snuck out to grant their wishes.

"How do you know where it is?" He nervously hissed.

"Abby's sister Rebecca has a friend who found it. Over here." Miranda spoke as though it should have been obvious why she knew where it was.

(Reader) could do nothing but hope. They hoped hard, over and over again, wrinkling the papers in their fist as the yellow light led them to their future. All they could do was beg the universe to grant their wish. For the hole to be real.

The trees thinned and opened, revealing a small clearing with a very deep hole dug out of the earth. It was a normal looking hole, but in the dark of a moonless night to a group of children, it was ominous.

Their muddy boots all stopped a good foot away from the edge. The ground didn't look stable.

After taking a shaky breath, Miranda threw her envelope into the hole, squeezing her eyes shut as she focused all her energy on the wish written inside the letter she tossed. Brian thought about arguing, calling out his friends for littering, but instead copied Miranda, throwing his wish in as well. (Reader) felt adrenaline shoot to their finger tips as the anxiety tried to rip through their veins and escape their skin. Their packet was thicker than either of their friends', and fell harder as they chucked it in with all their strength.

The only future (Reader) wanted was nearly impossible. It would take divine intervention to get that happiness. "What did you wish for?" Miranda asked Brian behind (Reader).

"I want to know what I want to do."

"That's it?"

"What'd you wish for?"

"A hot boyfriend, who's gonna love me, and marry me."

"Well, when you're trapped in a marriage with three kids, I'll be doing what I love every day."

Miranda groaned loudly, refusing to get into another argument with her best friend. She instead looked at (Reader) who was still focusing on the hole. "What did you wish for, (Reader)?"

Their eyes seemed to be seeing something the other two couldn't see. Large pupils fixated on nothing, still filled with enough anxiety to cripple an adult.

"Someone who loves me.."

"Ugh, not you too.." Brian's voice melted into the background, almost unintelligible in the dense air. The contents of the wish filled (Reader's) head to the point that nothing else could be heard.

• 15 years later •

Another failed date.

Dark rings permanently decorated the underneath of (Reader's) tired eyes. The perpetually single adult slid down against the wall, too exhausted to continue standing. There was nothing particularly wrong with the guy, but he just wasn't "the one" for (Reader). He was boring and awkward, rambling about his job and future plans, bragging about his hypothetical future fortune. Nothing he did was bad enough for (Reader) to guiltlessly label him a douche, but nothing about him was their type.

They pulled out their phone, looking at the dark haired man on their wallpaper for a second too long before opening up their messages with their date. (Reader) typed up a quick message to thank Rich for the date, but that they didn't see it going any further.

The phone was tossed to the side as (Reader) struggled to stand, grabbing a beer from their fridge as the phone began chiming from the linoleum. Texts rapidly coming in were ignored by (Reader) as they cracked open their first drink for the night.

His unread messages echoed through (Reader's) shoebox apartment.

The weary adult wondered how their therapist would react next week at their appointment. It wasn't realistic for an adult to fixate on a wish they had made as a child, but just like all those years ago, (Reader) knew deep in their bones that there was no happiness for them if they couldn't have that wish come true. Rich was attractive, in an average sort of way, with straight brown hair cut a little too short for the shape of his brow. He had nice lips, (Reader) thought, but couldn't imagine kissing them.

The beer tasted like lightly bitter water. Not a promising sign; it tasted like they would need something stronger. On the way to the living room (Reader) noticed their bedroom door had some dirt on the white paint, like someone had pushed it open with filthy hands.

(Reader) felt an anxious jolt to their system. A familiar pain they hadn't felt in a long time. They pushed open the door, timidly entering their own room like a stranger nervous to be caught. But the room was empty.

"So, how'd your date with Rich go?" Adam asked hopefully. The same trio of friends since primary school sat in their local diner. It was a monthly ritual, gathering for brunch to force themselves to keep in touch. They tried to hold the meeting every week, but with work scheduling it was impossible. Adam sat with his husband, Jon, across from Brian and (Reader). Everyone had changed so much as they got older, but that was to be expected. No one can stay a child forever.

(Reader) sighed before sipping on their milkshake. Adam knew exactly what that meant, and groaned, just as dramatically as when he was a child. His hair may be shorter, but some things stayed consistent.

"What was wrong with this guy?"

"Nothing!" (Reader) replied defensively. "He just... wasn't my type."

Brian pushed up his glasses. "Maybe you should lower your standards."

"Brian!"

"-I mean, it's good to have standards, obviously, but people are real people, not characters in a book. No one is going to match your description of a perfect partner, because people aren't perfect, ya know?"

(Reader) stole a glance at their phone, admiring the black haired man behind the time. "You can say that, because your wish already came true. Both of yours."

Both Brian and Adam looked ashamed and a little uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact and fixating on their meals. Jon almost went cross-eyed trying to understand what (Reader) was implying.

(Reader) stood, tossing a couple bills onto the table. "I have to go, I'll talk to you guys later."

"Okay, have a good day! Text me when you get home." Adam said warmly, hugging his dear friend tightly while trying to shape his face into a happier expression.

"I will. Bye."

Brian gave up a small side hug, grimacing.

Jon waited until (Reader) was out of sight before asking "Were they talking about that wish you guys made as kids?"

The bespectacled young man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

"I know what Adam wished for, but what did you and (Reader) wish for?" When he mentioned Adam's wish, Adam rolled his eyes playfully and they nudged each other lightly. Their whole relationship was practically diabetic for Brian, who still after all these years didn't get the appeal in romance.

Brian adjusted his glasses again, clearing his throat. "I wanted to know what to do with my life." And he had found that calling. The summer before high school he discovered a YouTube channel centered around ornithology and sent him on a strange spiral of bird mania. His friends and family thought it was a temporary fixation that he would lose interest in after a year or so, but his newfound fascination guided him all the way through college, landing him in an animal husbandry profession taking care of cranes at (what Brian considered to be) a humane zoo. "(Reader) wished for someone to love them."

"Well, I believe there's someone for everyone. It takes some people longer to find 'the one' than it does for others, and (Reader) seems like a great person, so I'm sure they'll meet someone that fits their childhood ideal."

Although Jon meant well with his words he could see the discomfort on his husband's and Brian's faces, their eyes either focused on their drink or plate.

They never read (Reader's) wish.

But over the years the two friends had begun to piece together a picture of the kind of man (Reader) wanted.

It was a complete breach of trust, looking into a friend's past, going full internet stalker mode to investigate into the secrets (Reader) wouldn't divulge. And what they found...

Was a lot.

They didn't know how to open the conversation with their third musketeer, since the facts and speculations were all obtained without (Reader's) knowledge or permission, but if Brian and Adam were correct in their understanding of what (Reader's) wish was, they genuinely wanted to help (Reader).

They also knew where (Reader) was going. But even that was impossible to confess.

Because at that moment, (Reader) was in their car for their monthly four hour visit with the greatest man (Reader) had ever known. It was unfortunate scheduling, but (Reader) couldn't compromise the day for either party. Keeping in contact with their friends was important for their mental health (according to their therapist) but this meeting was more important to (Reader) than practically anything else in their life.

Metal fencing and high beige walls appeared through the trees like a fairy tale castle. Instead of an evil dragon guarding the entrance, however, there were armed guards. Still every bit of evil in (Reader's) eyes.

"Welcome back, Mx. (Reader)." The usual security officer greeted grimly. Before he could ask for identification, (Reader) already had it out. Although they had met many times throughout the past decade, it was still a formality required by law. The two filled out the necessary paperwork while only offering tight smiles. He opened the gate for (Reader) to drive in and park in the visitor's lot. (Reader) always felt the cameras on them whenever they entered this "castle".

Officers emptied (Reader's) pockets and scanned their body for metal. There would be no physical connection at all, but they still needed to take precautions.

(Reader) was led through the lifeless grey halls towards visitation. Each step made their heart race and fostered the smile on their lips. Approaching the room with squeaky broken stools and bulletproof glass relaxed their faux grin for a genuine tranquility. There were no other visitors at the time.

The stool creaked under (Reader) as they gently eased into the old thing, staring at the window. Shortly after they sat down, the man from their phone's wallpaper, now with more silver hair than black, shuffled in on the other side, smiling softly as he sat across from (Reader). They both grabbed the phones.

"Hi Dad."

His dark eyes with pupils so large that without direct light made them look black had deeply etched wrinkles decorating them that folded deeper as he smiled. When Donavon McElroy was arrested, the news outlets focused on his eyes like some kind of Kubrick film, fixating on how you could just see the evil in some people. It felt as though the only person in the entire country who could see how loving Donavon's eyes were was (Reader).

"Hey kiddo. I've missed you."

"I missed you too." There were only four hours of visitation allowed per month. "Have you been getting my letters?"

Greasy ringlets of hair tumbled to the side as he cocked his head. "They're still the highlight of each week." Donavon didn't blink often. Even though the lights always hurt his eyes, no matter how dim they were, he seemed like a mannequin, refusing to blink and miss a second of his precious child's face. "How have you been since our last visit? I know you said in your letters that you're still going to therapy, which is good, very good.. how's that going for you?"

(Reader) felt their smile dip a little. "Well, it's going. I don't really like my therapist, but I know it's just because I don't like what she has to say. Even if I change doctors, they'll still say the same things."

Donavon nodded understandingly. It was like that at first for him as well, receiving psychiatric treatment while in prison. "I didn't like being told that my line of thinking was.. wrong. I knew that logically my thinking was, of course, obviously wrong, but it didn't feel wrong, so having a.. professional tell me that was upsetting."

"But it's important that you continue with it. And I'm very proud of you for continuing with it."

(Reader) laughed. It was a sharp scoff of a laugh, but not spiteful. It filled their chest with hot lava to hear someone praise them for doing what they've been doing since they were ten years old. Because it was difficult. Even if (Reader) continuously told themselves that this was the bare minimum. It was still difficult.

"She has me out in the dating world." (Reader) slumped a little, only slightly enough that no one but Donavon could tell the change in their posture. "Which is.. not fun."

"It can be fun. Does that carnival still come? There used to be a traveling carnival, a pop up fair, that would set up in a parking lot of a small store in our home town, really cheap. That could be a fun first date. Tiny ferris wheel and gravitron. Elephant ears." The two adults smiled widely thinking about it, but neither of them were picturing it as a date. His smile melted when he realized this. "I wish I could have taken you there."

(Reader) imagined a different life, one where they were in his care instead of their mother's, eating pastries the size of their head and getting sick on possibly dangerous attractions in a small parking lot. Their mother never took them, but they knew which pop up fair he was talking about, riding past it on the bus many times in their life. "That sounds like it would have been fun.."

".. but like I said, dating can be fun. As long as your being safe." (Reader's) dad's smile bounced back. "What have you done so far that hasn't been fun?"

"Well, I went out for dinner. Guy named Rich. He was, uh, decent. Talked a lot. Mostly about his job, and goals."

"Sounds career focused, that's good."

"Eh.." They shrugged, eyes drifting.

"What was wrong with him?"

(Reader) sighed. "Nothing. He was.. competent. Seemed like a regular guy. He just.. wasn't my type."

Guilt began to crawl through the folds of Donavon's brain like bugs infesting his conscious. He knew it was all his fault. Everything. But if he said that out loud, (Reader) would deny it, argue and fight it. "Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea."

"There's also plenty of trash."

Donavon pointed a finger at his kid warningly. "There's also sunken treasure. Don't give up hope."

"I don't need someone to be happy.."

"That's true.. but something tells me that when you weren't actively dating around, you weren't being content with the single life, and that's why your therapist is having you go out there. That.. maybe you were still waiting around for something that you shouldn't have, instead of living life to the fullest while alone."

The two became uncomfortably silent. This happened nearly every month. "I just want someone who loves me."

Donavon swore he could cry at that moment. "I'm sorry for-"

"Don't apologize." (Reader) cut him off. "Don't apologize for being a great dad."

"I wasn't. I wasn't a great dad. I'm-"

"-don't-"

"-a monster, (Reader). Kiddo, please, just listen to me. I'm sorry for the things I've done. The way I went about.. I wasn't in my right mind.. what I put you through was not okay. It was not, and will never be okay." He leaned forward, wishing to break through the glass dividing them and hug his kid. "I'm so sorry."

(Reader) softly responded "You're the only person who ever loved me."

"And you deserve better than that."

'No', (Reader) thought, 'there is no better than that.'

"Let's change the subject, please." (Reader) closed their eyes, forcing away the tears. "We never have enough time, and I don't want to spend the entire day focusing on sad shit."

Donavon took a shaky breath. "Okay, kiddo.." he mulled over for a second what to talk about before cracking a smile, one wide enough to show off his missing canine. "Remember Eddy?"

"Your old bunk mate?"

"Yep."

"What about him?"

"He got stabbed."

The sentence was so short and sudden that it shocked (Reader) into snorting, bringing back their genuine smile. "What? When? What happened?"

From the door an older guard smiled sadly, away from view. Donavon was liked by nearly everyone, both by the guards and the other prisoners. It was always a shame, getting to know someone who was supposed to be an evil bastard, and learning that they were just a great man who needed help. Plenty of the older guards understood that (Reader) would forever look at them with disgust and mildly veiled hatred. Because Donavon was (Reader's) hero, and the guards were just wardens unjustly holding him captive.

Their conversation continued without pause, filling the empty room with sounds of parental love and warmth. The guard at the door loved being there whenever it was time for (Reader's) visit with their dad, because it really was an incredibly beautiful and emotional scene every time he was present, but he also hated being the one on duty whenever (Reader) came, because he had to be the villain to say "Time's up" when their four hours were over.

"Mx. (Reader). Donavon."

(Reader's) eyes drooped, darkening under the shadow of their eyelashes. "Already?"

"Unfortunately."

The guard had been there so long, he remembered when (Reader) was a child, and would cry and scream whenever it was time to leave, begging him to let their daddy out.

Donavon smiled comfortingly. "Thank you for visiting me, kiddo."

"Of course."

"Maybe in another decade they'll let me have physical contact visitation." Donavon chuckled, only half serious with his hopeful statement. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too. Don't forget to write."

"I never do."

They both stood up, hanging up their phones painfully. It was the worst time of the day. His chains shook around his wrists as he waved goodbye. He never hurt a single guard in his time incarcerated, but it was a formality, a requirement, due to the nature of his crime. It didn't seem to matter how good his behavior was. Even though the guards trusted him, according to the law Donovan was still to be treated as a monster.

After being guided back out of the room, through the halls, and out to the parking lot, (Reader) finally felt like they could breathe. The air that was stolen when the guard ended their visit with their dad was greedily sucked up outside the stifling building. They finally looked at their silent phone, seeing a dozen messages from Rich. Or, who's number (Reader) assumed was Rich, since they had deleted his contact as soon as they woke up that morning.

Most of the texts were pleas for a second date, or an explanation for what he did wrong. Some of them were insults.

(Reader) sighed, deleting the conversation and blocking his number before getting into their car, allowing tears to silently fall down their warm cheeks. All that they wished for was for someone to love them, and no one would ever love them like their dad did.

The drive back was just as miserable as it was every month.

And just like every month, the tears didn't stop until (Reader) pulled up to their apartment. It was a long day, where the good moments weren't long enough, and (Reader) was ready for another beer. It wasn't Sunday, but it was their Sunday, which meant that they couldn't stay up drinking all night.

But it felt as though they had just popped open their can when someone started pounding on their door, angrily and frantically. (Reader) cursed not being able to afford to live in an apartment that had a controlled door to the building, living in a cheap one that had the stairs on the outside of the building. Which meant that there were no security measures to prevent just anyone from coming straight to (Reader's) unit.

They set the alcohol to the side and made their way to the door. The banging only stopped when the person on the other side heard (Reader) unlocking the deadbolt. A slightly sweaty man with brown hair too short to be messy stood impatiently.

"Rich?"

The slightly younger man shrugged sharply, jutting his head to the side with an attitude as if to say 'No shit, who else?'

"Are you going to let me in?" He asked impatiently.

"Uh, no?" (Reader) furrowed their brow. "How'd you find where I live?" They were too confused to even be mad or scared.

"It wasn't difficult; literally everything is online." Rich responded as though (Reader) was a fucking idiot for even asking. The disrespect was shocking, a severe shift from how he acted during their date. He shifted abruptly as though he was going to charge (Reader), so they tightened their muscles, holding the door closer to their side, which earned an aggravated huff.

"What are you doing here, Rich?"

"Well, you owe me an explanation after you ghosted me after our date the other day." His tone made it sound so obvious.

(Reader) scoffed, almost amused. "No I fucking don't."

"I was the perfect gentleman on our date considering the circumstances, you and I had a good time, but then you ghosted me? And I just want to know why." The emphasis on the 'considering the circumstances' included a wave, motioning to (Reader's) body. (Reader) didn't know if he was insinuating that their body was a problem, or if it was their gender expression, or if he just had high fashion expectations that (Reader) didn't live up to, but the little hand movement finally ticked them off.

"Okay, you're done." (Reader) tried to close the door, but Rich was stronger than he looked, and effortlessly pushed them back into their apartment and entered. (Reader) didn't fall, only stumbled, wobbling to regain balance as Rich casually closed the door behind him, pacing his hands on his hips.

"So, what did I do wrong?"

"You mean before you broke into my home?"

"I did- don't be fucking dramatic, I did not break in. I just want to know, I just want to know what I did wrong."

(Reader) slowly backed up, mentally picturing the apartment behind them to figure out where their closest form of defense was. "Nothing. It just didn't work out-"

"BULL SHIT."

"-you weren't my type."

Rich stuck out his jaw, clicking his tongue. "That isn't a reason."

"Yes, it is-"

"That isn't a reason to be a fucking dick."

'How far behind me is my knife block?'

Before (Reader) could make a move their front door violently flew open again, slamming loudly into the wall. Both Rich and (Reader) whipped around at the jarring noise.

A man stood in the doorway.

His skin was so caked in dirt and muck that his yellowish skin was almost completely painted over. Long, black hair curled due to the oil, hanging down and sticking to his gaunt face. Between the shaggy locks black eyes glared unblinkingly.

"Who the fuck is that?!" Rich nearly hollered, retreating closer to (Reader) out of fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the modified weapon in the intruder's hand.

Warmth spread throughout (Reader's) entire body; the god of love releasing a cage of butterflies into their body.

"He's here to kill me."

Part 0

Eight year old (Reader) tugged on their oversized long sleeve shirt. It was rubbing against the bruises uncomfortably. Everything about their body felt uncomfortable lately.

Their mother was late again.

Mr. Haley sighed loudly for the umpteenth time, looking at his watch as though it was (Reader's) fault their mother hadn't picked them up yet. It was warm and humid, and the sleeves of (Reader's) shirt were sticking to their arms. Despite the heat, Mr. Haley wouldn't allow (Reader) to wait inside, instead standing at the entrance of the school under a tree. (Reader) was the last child at pickup, aside from the children outside on the field for after school sports.

"Is your mom working late again?"

(Reader) didn't answer, instead watching the man walking into the nearly empty parking lot who seemed to be staring at (Reader) and their teacher. They couldn't tell exactly from how far away he was, but he didn't get any closer, keeping to the entrance, partially hidden behind a sign.

"Do you have anyone else I can call? Grandparents?" His kind voice was strained, exhaustion melting his patience.

The man suddenly ducked away from view, and shortly after (Reader's) frazzled mother sped walked into the lot, storming closer to the building. (Reader) left to meet her half way in an attempt to calm her down, but their teacher followed.

"Good afternoon, Ms. (Name)-"

"(Reader), c'mon." As soon as (Reader's) mother was close enough she immediately spun on her heel to leave again, ignoring the teacher.

"Ms. (Name), this is the third time-"

"I know!" The woman snapped, stopping abruptly, causing (Reader) to bump into her side. "I'm sorry."

"-the third time this month."

"I said I know!" She whined, throwing up her hands. "I couldn't get out of work, it wasn't that long!"

"After school activities are almost over. It's been almost an hour-"

"Don't be a dick, okay, I'm twenty minutes late."

"School ended forty minutes ago."

She crossed her arms. "So not an hour."

"Almost an hour-"

"So not an hour."

Mr. Haley sighed in defeat. He tried again, however, he was interrupted by the woman grabbing (Reader) by the arm and dragging them out of the parking lot. Her nails dug into the scabs on (Reader's) arm.

She spat out curses towards the teacher as she dragged her kid down the road towards the bus stop.

"Fucking asshole- and I told you that I was working late!" She turned her frustrations on (Reader), squeezing their arm painfully before releasing them, making (Reader) lose their balance.

"I'm sorry, Mom.." (Reader) quietly apologized, already shrinking in on themselves, head hunching into their tiny shoulders.

"Jesus, stop flinching like that. You look like I beat you or something.."

It was true, she never hit (Reader).

She just grabbed them.

Grabbed them by the back of the shirt, the front of their collar, the arms, wrists, and all parents smack their kids on the back of their heads, that's not hitting. It wasn't her fault that (Reader) bruised so easily. She didn't even hit them.

The city bus pulled up to the stop.

"Kevin's coming over for date night, so when we get home, make sure to do all your homework in your room. I'll bring you dinner and some snacks, but the adults need some alone time, okay?"

"Okay?"

"Okay!" (Reader) loudly responded, wringing their shirt in frustration.

(Reader) liked their mom when they had popcorn nights, when they made a bowl of popcorn and sat down to watch a rented movie together. But most of the time? (Reader) hated their mother.

They hated the way she dismissed them. (Reader) never seemed to be a priority in the woman's life. It didn't even feel like she hated (Reader). (Reader) was just nothing. They didn't receive hugs when they were scared, didn't get kisses when they were sick. And it wasn't one of those cases where you can't remember a single good memory because you're mad; (Reader) couldn't recall a single time their mother ever said the words 'I love you' to them.

She said it to Kevin though.

When they arrived home, (Reader) immediately went to their room, closing the door and flopping onto their mattress on the floor. They didn't feel like doing their homework, and decided instead on a quick nap. It wasn't like their mother was going to check in on them and see how they were doing anyway.

Maybe their dreams would bring a nice family for them.

CRASH!

A loud smash of glass and something heavy falling onto the thin apartment floor woke (Reader) up. They didn't know how long they were out for, but the sun was still up. (Reader) nervously bolted off the mattress and onto their feet, teetering in the middle of the room.

There was a quiet choking sound that liquefied into a gurgle before silencing.

(Reader's) handle slowly turned and their door was softly opened. A terrified looking man drenched in blood stood in front of (Reader), gazing down at them with inhuman eyes. His eyes were wide, panicked, but glassy, red, and with pupils so enlarged that he reminded (Reader) of the ghost woman from a scary movie their mother had been watching. He tried to brush his black hair out of his eyes, never looking away from (Reader's). It was the most intense staring contest (Reader) had ever been in.

He was timid in his approach, crouching down to his knees as he got closer to (Reader).

"..Hi." His voice was shaky and breathy. The man seemed to be overcome with an emotion that (Reader) didn't recognize. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes, yet he still didn't blink. He swallowed hard before continuing. "My name is Donavon."

(Reader) was in an odd trance, halfway between petrified and numb. "My name is (Reader)." They didn't know why they answered.

"I know." For the first time since entering, Donavon glanced away from (Reader), searching the room for something. There were no toys in (Reader's) room. "Are you a-" His face broke trying to find the words he needed for his question. "Are you a b-?" A- a-.."

"I'm a kid." (Reader) tugged on their uncomfortable long sleeve shirt.

Donavon smiled so wide that his face looked like it completely split in half. Tears ran down his face shamelessly. The pure joy startled (Reader). "You're a kid." He sniffed back his snot and wiped away some tears, still smiling so hard that his face was turning red and he looked like he was going to laugh. "You're my kid."

He pulled (Reader) into a hug.

It wasn't like the quick hug the school nurse gave them, or the hugs their friends at school gave them; it was desperate.

He squeezed them almost too tightly, his fingers digging painfully into their ribs as he breathed in their hair. But (Reader) didn't cry out or ask him to stop. Tears had begun to fall from their eyes as well.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo. I should have been here. I should have been here." He started rocking (Reader) as he apologized into their scalp. "I didn't know about you, but I do now, and I'm here now."

(Reader) felt him kiss the side of their head quickly before he went back to whispering.

"I didn't know. But I do now. I'm so sorry."

It was too much, and it made (Reader) cry. They sobbed loudly, wailing into his chest as they returned the hug.

"I love you, (Reader). I love you so much. I don't know you yet, but I still love you. I should have been here for you, but I am now. And I am never letting you go. Okay? No one is ever taking you away from me."

Police sirens approached, screaming outside the building. (Reader) felt Donavon quickly reach into his back pocket, but he never let go from their right embrace.

"I never knew your mom. When I saw you with her last year, I - I tried to get into contact, but, but.. No one would listen to me, I had no proof.. I.. got a DNA test.. I -I'm your dad! I'm a father!" He started rambling, trying to explain things to (Reader), but they couldn't understand anything he was saying. And it didn't matter to them. He said he loved them.

(Reader) heard heavy boot steps and an officer loudly announce his presence.

"No one is ever taking you away from me again."

He was still only hugging (Reader) with one arm.

Someone entered the room, and a really loud sound hurt (Reader's) ears.

An officer shot Donovan in the shoulder, causing the knife he was holding to clatter onto the floor. He fell, releasing (Reader). They saw the knife and quickly put two and two together. But something happened in (Reader's) underdeveloped brain. It didn't matter that they had just met him. That man the police just shot was their dad. And he loved them.

"No!" (Reader) tried to launch themselves at Donovan to protect him, but their tiny body was caught by an officer.

"Don't worry, I've got ya!" The man tried to console (Reader), easily subduing their thrashing limbs, but his soothing voice didn't ease the pain in their heart, nor did it dampen the volume of their shrieks.

"DADDY!!"

The cop carried (Reader) out past the bodies of their mother and Kevin. Both were mutilated, lying naked near the couch in a pool of blood and spilt vodka.

Donavon was sentenced to life without parole.

He testified in court that the only thing he regretted was almost hurting his child. (Reader's) mother had taken advantage of him at a party years ago. Donavon had passed out drunk in the master's bedroom and woken up with his pants and underwear around his ankles. He told the court he didn't remember anything that happened, so although he suspected that someone had assaulted him, he had no proof and records showed that the police refused to help him when he went to report it.

It was a one in a million chance that Donavon saw (Reader) and their mother grocery shopping over a year ago, and nearly had a heart attack seeing a little kid who had his father's ears. Ears are just as unique as fingerprints, and to see a little kid with badly cut hair looking like a mixture of his father's baby photos and the woman walking beside them gave Donavon a sense of confidence that was borderline disturbing. He told the jury that he approached the woman with the intent of making polite conversation about how much alike her kiddo looked like his late father, but knew immediately that (Reader) was his, because when their mother looked Donavon in the eyes she recognized him.

"Before I could even say 'Hi', she grabbed (Reader's) arm and said 'Stay away from my child, Donavon.' I didn't even remember her face."

On the witness stand, Donavon admitted to breaking into their home so he could get access to (Reader's) DNA, stealing their hair brush. He also admitted to stalking the family, watching them as (Reader) openly showed signs of abuse. He called CPS multiple times, but nothing ever came of it.

Donavon repeated how time and time again law enforcement failed to help him get custody of his 'alleged' child, and that he had "snapped".

"I told (Reader) that no one would take them away from me again. Please, please I know I was wrong." Donavon pleaded the jury, looking past the lawyers and staring with his horrifying, never ending gaze. "Please don't put me away forever. I can get better, with help! I needed help! But my baby, my kiddo, they deserve better, please don't separate us again!"

Despite going to a decent foster family and receiving regular therapy sessions with child services, (Reader) had learned what true love was. The smiles their foster family gave them felt fake. No one could hug (Reader) tight enough to press their way into (Reader's) heart. Love was tears streaming down from the black coal eyes of a desperate father who just killed his kiddo's abusers. That was heroic. That was good. Just.

(Reader's) foster parents smiled at each other all the time, and said I love you multiple times a day. Then they divorced. Love was (Reader's) daddy, ready to kill (Reader) so they never had to be apart again.

The therapist with child services watched with a broken heart as (Reader) refused her homemade cookies. "Have you made any friends at school?"

(Reader) shrugged. They didn't see much of a point in friends. "There are these two kids I eat lunch with." Two kids who wouldn't leave them alone, no matter how much (Reader) ignored them.

"That's good! What are their names?"

"Miranda and Brian."

"Are they good kids?"

"They're weird. Brian wears glasses that make his eyes look super big, and Miranda wears a fedora."

"Well, I'll let you in on a secret. The weird kids are usually more fun to hang out with than the normal kids!" She winked while smiling, but it didn't phase (Reader).

"When can I see my dad?"

The therapist leaned back, looking up at the ceiling to control her inner turmoil before shutting her eyes. "I'm working on that, but it's very difficult. Mr. McElroy is in a lot of trouble for what he did."

(Reader) looked down at the drawing they had been making of them playing outside with Donavon. "I wish he killed me."

Part II

Warren had run away from home, again.

His left eye was swollen shut, and blood speckled the front of his t-shirt. The ten year old hadn't even done anything yet, but his father had had a bad day at work, and been drinking for a couple of hours by the time Warren was dropped off by the Saturday babysitter.

He ran into the woods, blinded by his tears and the swelling.

Because of the crying and injury to his eye, Warren couldn't see very well, and kept running even when he emerged from the trees into a clearing; running into a very deep hole.

There was a pain as his ankle popped, crashing at the bottom into the mud. Everything hurt, so he allowed himself to scream and cry as loudly as he needed. No one was going to come for him anyway.

And so he stayed in the hole and watched as the sun went down and the world went black. Even though he knew his father wouldn't come looking for him, he still wished he would. He wished someone needed him as badly as he needed them.

There was no moon that night, leaving Warren completely blind after the purple sunset left the sky. With his unusually dilated pupils Warren typically preferred the dark over the sun, but without the moon there wasn't enough light for him to see.

'Maybe, I should just spend the night in here.' The sad thought made him sniffle, threatening to release the floodgates again.

"It's right over here!" A loud whisper followed by feet tripping over branches echoed through the trees. Warren held his breath, suddenly afraid of being discovered. It wasn't logical to be frightened, but he was. There were strangers in the woods, and he was in pain and blind and alone. His heart beat in his chest like a war drum as people drew near.

"How do you know where it is?"

The voices belonged to children, probably around Warren's age, but he didn't recognize any of them. Most of what they said was too quiet to hear, until they arrived at the clearing.

"Over here."

The strangers stopped near the hole, but too far away to see Warren covered in mud at the bottom. Lights were illuminating the air, and Warren figured that they must have had flashlights with them. His eyes finally had enough light to adjust to the pitch black, and he watched a letter flutter into the hole, followed shortly by another letter, gracefully drifting in.

Then a thick envelope was chucked in, hitting Warren in the head, who had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from accidentally making a startled sound.

"What did you wish for?" Someone asked.

With that question, Warren realized where he was.

He grabbed the letter that had hit him, quietly opening it up as two of the strangers above him bickered. In the faint light he saw a lot of words, too many to read before they left, so he quickly scanned the page out of curiosity. His breath hitched when he saw a drawing of himself.

Black eyes and shaggy black hair.

Warren put the papers back in the envelope and stuck it in his pants. Someone approached the edge, and Warren caught a glimpse of hair and eyes. They didn't see him, but he certainly saw them.

"What did you wish for, (Reader)?"

"Someone who loves me.."

And at that moment, Warren believed in the hole that grants wishes.

He had no proof that the child looking down at him was the same child who threw the wish practically into his lap, but he knew that it was. Like fate, or magic.

After the trio left, Warren pulled his sore little body out of the muck, repeating (Reader's) name to himself over and over again as to not forget it. He didn't know how, but he knew that (Reader) was the one who's wish he had stolen. Warren limped home, easily sneaking in past his father passed out on the couch and up the stairs to the bathroom, where he locked the door.

He quickly pulled out the letter, opening it up in the light to read the wish in full.

"I wish someone would love me." Warren read quietly out loud, sounding out each word as his finger followed the sentence.

"He has to be just like my dad. Be - cause my dad is the only person who loves me."

"He has to have black hair and black eyes.."

Warren looked at his dirty face in the mirror, ignoring the purple around his left eye and focusing on his natural features. A proud smile crept onto his lips.

He went back to reading. "And his eyes should be deep.." Warren's own eyes were also deep set, making it look like he had bags under his eyes even after a full night's sleep. His ears started to turn pink. The picture was of the kid he saw at the hole with a tall man with black hair and eyes and a little guy who looked the same. He pointed at each person. "That's (Reader).. that's (Reader's) daddy... And that's.." he looked at himself in the mirror, tearing up with how hard he was smiling.

Someone needed him.

He turned the page over and his smile instantly fell, his blood freezing.

Pictures of bloody bodies covered the pages.

Page after page of dead people with the most intense things Warren had ever read followed the seemingly innocent wish. He hadn't been exposed to video games yet, his father didn't let him watch TV, and Warren ignored the other kids at his school, so he had never known violence outside of the terrible things his father did to him. And the words he read in that envelope were violent.

"True love is keeping me."

"If he loves me, he'll kill me."

"Don't let them take me away again."

"Together forever."

(Reader) was worried about the limitations of the wishing hole, so they felt they had to be very specific about their ideal boy. Which meant that they had to explain what love was. And to explain what love was, meant that they had to explain to the hole what their dad had done to their mother and Kevin.

It scared Warren.

But only for a moment.

He thought about the joy (Reader) would feel when they saw him for the first time, how their eyes would light up with love and adoration. In his mind, they would recognize him instantly, like their drawing come to life. Warren was their wish come true. And, in a way, (Reader) was his.

He slowly went back to his bedroom and hid the letter in his underwear drawer. The wish was like his most prized possession. Knowing that there was someone out there who needed Warren made him, for the first time in a very long time, feel hopeful for the future.

The next few years of Warren's life, however, were not pleasant in the slightest.

An anatomy book flew at Warren's face, connecting with his thin nose. He was now in highschool, and the abuse had only worsened.

"What the fuck is this?!" His father threw another medical book, terrified. In the past he used to throw and break things even though Warren's only crime was existing, but now even Warren could understand his father's disgust.

A rat laid on Warren's table, split open.

"I'm practicing.." Warren smiled, blood dripping from his nostrils.

"I should kick you out of the goddamn house!" The drunk man kicked a wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.

"If you do that, I'll go to the police."

His father's eyes widened. "The fuck you just say, you little psychopath?!"

The man was very nimble for someone so swollen from years of alcohol consumption, closing the distance between himself and his son before Warren had a chance to put up his hands in defense. Large, yellowed fingers grabbed a fistful of Warren's greasy hair and lifted his dangerously underweight body off the ground; high enough where Warren couldn't touch the floor with his toes.

"Think about it. You have no proof for the cops that I killed this rat, but I have all the proof that you hit me." To emphasize his point, Warren didn't wipe away the blood that was now dripping onto the rat carcass.

Black eyes that held no light stared wide and unblinking at the disgusting excuse of a man before Warren. His father looked about the room, which was now covered in articles about some murderer from years ago and medical texts printed off at the local library.

Warren was dropped onto his ass. "Fucking freak." His father mumbled before stumbling out of the room.

It wasn't until Warren heard the drunkard smash though the hall towards the staircase that he finally grabbed some tissue to shove up his nose. It had taken him years and years of hard thinking, but Warren had finally found a way to be (Reader's) perfect husband. It was difficult, but the solution was finally discovered, a way to make (Reader's) wish come true without killing them.

He thought he would probably drop out of school, but that didn't really matter to Warren. The young man already had a part time job, and his future career as a manager for a small corner store was practically set.

Candid shots of (Reader) laid under the box of tissues. While (Reader) had continued growing into an attractive young adult, Warren was stunted. A lack of nutrition gave his unnaturally pale skin a yellow tint, and he was so thin that some of his teeth were becoming loose. But it felt as though he couldn't waste even a second thought on anything that wasn't (Reader).

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers.." Warren apologized quietly to the dead rat. "I didn't mean to kill you. I'll do better next time."

Every time Warren saw (Reader) out and about, he wanted to drag them behind a dumpster and fuck them till they bled. It took incredible restraint to stick to his plan and keep to the shadows.

Their wish, laminated, hung above his bed like a prayer, one that he read and worshipped every night before bed.

Warren's father didn't notice when he stopped going to his classes.

He also didn't notice the muffled screaming from the basement, when Warren evolved his experiments from rats to people.

It wasn't until the smell became unbearable that he finally sobered up enough to go down and investigate.

As he searched the house for the cause of the smell, the aging, dying man briefly wondered when the last time he had been down in basement was. Or, when he last saw his good for nothing son.

The stairs to the lowest level creaked under his shoes, and an anxiety he had never before known trickled up through his bones.

At the bottom of the stairs, a door held back the stench like a leaking flood gate. Opening the squealing door wafted a wave of nausea inducing gas right into the man's face.

"Hey, ew what the- hey freak! You down here?! What's that smell..?" His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the dusty basement light before Warren swung a wooden baseball bat with spikes towards his father's face. One spike went through his skull near his nose and another popped open one of his eyes. But his death was due to the blunt force, cracking his head open as easily as smashing a watermelon. The junkie strapped and gagged to the table silently screamed as their one hope for salvation died in front of them.

"I'm sorry about the interruption." Warren smiled, his eyes still and unwavering. The man who had destroyed his childhood and stolen his happiness laid bleeding out on the floor, and Warren didn't feel a single thing. It was strange, part of him thought that he would feel satisfaction watching his abuser die, but he felt nothing at all. Warren only killed his father because he had interrupted his experiment with the homeless person who looked amazingly like (Reader). The young man held up a belt. "Let's continue."

Warren didn't consider himself to be a murderer. What he was doing to the people he abducted was for love. There was no evil or hatred, and if he looked at it in a certain light, he wasn't really trying to kill them at all.

Moving to the night shift gave Warren more time to stalk (Reader) during the day. Just as he had predicted, Warren became a higher member of management, and even 'owned his own home' now that his father had tragically passed. Everything was progressing perfectly, because his entire existence was a wish come true.

It hurt, hiding in the booth behind (Reader) and their friends, hearing about how they had started dating at the suggestion of their bitch therapist, but Warren decided that it was good for their relationship. It proved to him that even after all this time, (Reader) still loved him and needed him. Every time a date failed to live up to (Reader's) expectations it further fueled Warren's fantasy of how (Reader) would react when he finally revealed himself to them.

The dates also provided Warren ample opportunity to look around their apartment. Like when they went on a date with some whiny loser his age. He wasn't even (Reader's) type. Their home was small and quaint, and taking pictures of it in extreme detail helped Warren learn how to decorate the room (Reader) would be staying in once they finally started dating.

Dating.

The idea of merely "dating" caused a painful strain in Warren's chest, but he knew that it was only logical to date before he proposed. At least for a month or so. Maybe a week.

Well, whenever he did propose, Warren knew (Reader) would accept, because Warren was their wish come true. There was nothing he could do wrong, because his entire existence was due to (Reader's) will.

He didn't even bother cleaning off the dirt when he scuffed up the bedroom door. There was no point, because (Reader) wouldn't ever fear or hate anything he did, even if they didn't know he was the one responsible. Because that was fate.

(Reader's) undergarments rested on top of the dirty clothes basket.

Even that was fate.

Because why would they leave their worn underwear in plain view, if not for him? His hands with dirt crusted nails stroked the garment, imaging that he could still feel the heat of (Reader's) body on them. Warren imagined how happy (Reader) would be to learn what he did with their underwear, in their bed. He imagined their eyes glowing like an angel's as their smile graced his filthy presence.

Because this was (Reader's) wish.

And soon, Warren would finally give them their happily ever after.

Warren had put in for a week of vacation at his work; their shared bedroom was decorated; and his supplies were hidden in a backpack in the dirt behind (Reader's) complex. It was like a fairytale, when the knight came to save the dragon from the prince.

Rich approached (Reader's) front door as Warren dug up his hidden tools. Mud covered his face and gloves, but he didn't mind. In fact, it was like a mask, where only his true love would recognize him. Warren knew that his dream would come true that day, but it was even better than he had hoped for. Prince Rich was there to harass his dragon.

He had hoped it would be this easy, and the universe provided. Fate was always on Warren's side when it came to making (Reader's) wish come true. All those lives lost to Warren's experiments were not wasted.

The annoying voice of Rich was audible from outside the building, but it was difficult to feel anything negative towards to poor bastard. In Warren's mind, it wasn't Rich's fault that he was born to be such a loser; it was fate's design for the man to be sacrificed.

Warren threw open the front door, scaring the shit out of the stronger looking man. "Who the fuck is that?!"

Then, the sands of time were fused into glass by the electricity between Warren and (Reader). Their expression looked relieved, just as Warren had always hoped it would. A smile stretched across the beautiful lips Warren often fantasized about kissing. Their cheeks pulled up in the most honest grin Warren had ever seen.

Tears of joy decorated their bottom lashes like glitter.

"He's here to kill me."

Rich put up his arm as though to protect (Reader) from Warren. Again, Warren felt no anger towards the man and his silly reaction.

The bat used to kill Warren's father restarted time as it aimed for Rich's skull.

(Reader) looked up endearingly at Warren, now sitting on their knees in a pool of Rich's blood. The man before them was everything they had ever dreamt of. His black eyes never left (Reader's), even as he bludgeoned their date to death.

It took all of (Reader's) will power to not shake in their seat. Excitement flowed through their veins so quickly that it sent involuntary quivers through their muscles. Everything that they had ever wanted was finally coming true.

"I've been waiting for you." (Reader) felt their chest tighten as Warren approached.

But then he dropped his bat.

Their smile twitched a little, but (Reader) tried to not let anxiety ruin their happiest moment. The dirty man slid a backpack off and started rifling through it.

"I've been waiting for you too.." A voice that sounded oddly chipper finally responded, echoing from a wide grin that showed off yellowing teeth with a few missing on the bottom row.

(Reader) smiled harder. "You're going to kill me?" It was phrased like a question, but it was more of a plea.

"No."

"What?"

(Reader's) smile cracked in half. The adrenaline in their system turned deadly.

Warren's smile didn't fade.

"But, you have to." (Reader) began to panic. This had to be the man they wished to life. He had to be there to kill them. It was fate. He had to! "Aren't you here for me?"

"Of course I am."

"Then you have to kill me! If you love me, you have to-!"

Warren dropped his bag, revealing a hacksaw. He held it relaxed in one hand, and held a belt in the other. "Do you know how selfish you are, (Reader)?"

(Reader's) mind went numb with confusion.

"I've loved you for so long, and now that I finally have you, you think I'm going to kill you?"

"I'm not going to let anyone have you."

"Not even death."

The End

The two story house was full of trash bags. Every room in the building was full of clutter and filth, except the master bedroom.

Warren came home from a long shift, excited to have his precious spouse in his arms.

None of the guards at the prison would listen to Donavon when he tried to convince them all that something was wrong. A child suddenly not visiting their murderer of a parent in prison was not reason to go to the police and open a missing person's case. Even the officers that liked Donavon couldn't do anything.

The bedroom decorated to (Reader's) taste was unlocked by Warren as he finally climbed through all the shit. He entered their shared home with a warm expression of pure love on his face.

"(Reader), I'm home!"

In the middle of the room watching television was a wheelchair bound (Reader). Their arms and legs amputated, sitting helplessly in a soiled diaper. A drugged up, lopsided smiled sleepily tugged the corners of their mouth up.

"Welcome home, baby.."

A/N: Sorry it took so long, happy to start writing again ❤️

[rockrosethistle]

"Ted Spankoffski is so tragic" yes yes I agree with you but you know who we don't talk about enough?

The man, the myth, the legend, Ethan Green.

Everyone loves to talk about how much they love him, but you are all forgetting that he is heartbreaking.

So first of all, he loves Lex. Incredibly devoted. And you're thinking, "well obviously he loves his girlfriend?" But I am not exaggerating when I say nearly every decision this man makes is for the sake of making her happy.

He cares about her opinion of him. He cares about how she's feeling. Ethan literally has more emotional intelligence as a 19-20 year old than most grown men do. He was going to propose!

And then his relationship with Hannah. At the ripe old age of 19, Ethan steps into a fatherly role for his girlfriend's kid sister, and he fucking kills it. If he is devoted to Lex, he's protective of Hannah. He dies trying to fight off people that want to hurt her.

The first time we see him in Yellowjacket, he's trying to cheer Hannah up after her shop class accident. On Hannah's birthday, he takes her out to Pizza Pete's even though he doesn't have the money to spare. She is a priority to him. He even wears a little birthday celebration crown.

On top of that, he's a decent guy. Yes, he's not above threatening people or stealing, but his heart is always in the right place when he does it. He puts the effort into his relationship. He is shown apologizing when he fucks up and recognizing his mistakes. He saves Lex and Hannah's life's at the end of Yellowjacket.

Great, right? No. Not great. The narrative is consistently ruining his life.

He dies in Black Friday. Dies in a brutal way while being ambushed for a doll that he didn't have. He actually dies for nothing. And his very last words are "I'll get you to California, Lex. That way you don't gotta cry so much no more." Was Lex in the room? No. He was hallucinating her. Fucking devastating.

And then, his face gets worn by a dark god to torment Hannah. Hannah, one of the people he cared most about, is being toyed with by something wearing Ethan's face. You just know he's watching in the afterlife feeling utterly powerless.

There are timelines where Ethan and Lex accept larger jail sentences so that Hannah isn't left alone. He is not related to Hannah, or Lex. He has no real obligation to do that. He chooses to, for Hannah's sake. And has to spend years in jail.

In Yellowjacket, after all they've been through, after he bought the damn ring, the girls just leave him behind. He gets broken up with via a note while they escape to California. And you know it's for the better, you know it's for his own safety, but it still hurts.

There was even supposed to be a Nightmare Time episode where he comes back from the dead Pet-Cemetery style, murders Hannah, and then is tortured for eternity?? But then the Langs were like "No, actually, everyone would hate this." and thank God because Ethan does not need that on his plate.

Look at this. "We caught you a poki-man." He's too good I miss him so much.

This poor guy does nothing wrong and is constantly being punished. I need in my bones to have a universe where he marries Lex and they get custody of Hannah.

[crowsofdarkness]

A Fight For Darkness: Chapter Two

-gif not mine. credit to owners-

Pairings: Eric Draven(Bill Skarsgard) x Female!Reader.

Content Warnings: language, violence, mentions of murder, mentions of taking own life, black mail, blood, smoking, drinking, mentions of drug use, arranged marriage, 18+ smut that I will mention at the beginning of the chapter.

Summary: An unknown text and a list full of questions for what happened to your sister leads you down to the underground fight ring that belongs to none other than Eric Draven, The Crow. Once he captures your eyes with his, the web you were desperate to untangle suddenly tightens.

Authors Note: This is not cannon to The Crow(2024). Shelly nor her and Eric's love story exist in this series. Eric does have his fast ability to heal thought. Tags are open for this series as well!

A Fight For Darkness Masterlist

“I’m only going to ask one more time, Y/N. How the hell did you get into the club tonight?” 

Eric’s voice fell on my deaf ears as I continued to stare straight ahead at the peeling paint on the wall, almost in a near catatonic state. My body couldn’t move no matter how hard I tried; not even my toes that were still covered in blood since I kicked them off before my run from those two men. 

I blinked before gazing up towards Eric, who was leaning against the door of the room with his arms crossed over his bare chest. Even in my current state, I looked over the variety of weird tattoos that covered his skin and could feel something inside of me twinge with disgust. 

No, not disgust. Something new for me. 

Arousal?

Typically I wasn't attracted to those kinds of men, my type more on the preppier side. The ones that wore polos and spent their Sunday afternoons at the golf course. 

So why was I currently staring at the hard v-line of his hips, practically drooling over this man? This stranger?  

It’s the shock, I told myself. It had to be the shock of the last ten minutes. I’m not thinking clearly. 

I racked my brain trying to think of an excuse, not wanting to give him the real reason why I was here tonight all the while trying to prove my innocence that I had nothing to do with the two dead bodies in that room. 

One with a slit throat and the other with a bullet hole in their head. 

Blinking away those images, I ran a dry tongue over my lips and let out a staggering breath. 

“I was looking for someone,” I did my best to ignore how shaky my voice sounded. 

Eric raised a brow. “Who?” 

“No one of importance,” my eyes flicked down at my hands, stained with blood. 

I began scratching away at it, opening to rid myself of what I saw.

“How’d you get in tonight?” Eric continued to lean against the door. “I haven’t set out any new invitations in months and this is the first time I’ve seen you here.” 

“Wait,” I looked up at him. “This is your place?” 

“Don’t change the subject. How did you get an invite?” Eric asked again through thin slits of his eyes. 

“Uh,” I began rubbing my palms on my bare thighs, hoping maybe that action would wipe away the dry blood. “Someone sent it to me.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie. 

I was still telling the truth while not divulging too much into my true motives for showing up tonight. That should keep Eric happy enough to let me go. 

“Who?” His deep voice questioned. 

Shit. 

“I don’t know,” I sighed, still rubbing my palms on my thighs. 

Up and down. 

Up. 

Down. 

Just as Eric was about to ask yet another question, there was a rapid knocking on the door. 

“Not now!” He called back. 

“Boss! You need to come see this!” A worried voice said. 

Eric grumbled a spew of curses under his breath before taking three wide strides over towards me, yanking my body off of the couch. His grip on my elbow was fierce, his fingers digging into my skin. 

“What are you doing?” I demanded, my heart nearly bursting out of my chest in fear so I dug my feet into the ground. “Let me go!” 

“I don’t know who you are or why you were here in the first place. Do you really think I’d let you walk around my club unsupervised?” Eric whirled his head towards me with dark eyes. “For all I know, you could have killed those two people.” 

“I didn’t!” I said, shaking my head violently with wide eyes. “I promise! I just walked into the room by accident. I was trying to find the way out!” 

Eric cocked his head to the side with an assessing gaze. It lingered over my face for longer than I deemed necessary yet when his eyes watched the way my throat bobbed, something fluttered deep within my gut. 

“Was that before or after you killed someone?” 

Before I could protest again, someone pounded on the door causing Eric to continue dragging me out of the room. It was so fast, I hadn't had time to see if the man that was leading us through the now empty fight club was the same man I’d run into before; the one that was chasing me. 

People were working on cleaning up the fight cage, scrubbing out the blood from the mat, while others were sweeping up the trash that littered the floor. It felt sticky under my bare feet and internally I cringed at how gross this entire place was. 

Surely there was no way my sister would be involved in some place like this. 

The second we stepped, well more like Eric dragged me through the threshold of the room, I took in sight of the two dead bodies now in better light. My stomach dropped out of my ass and bile rising in my throat. 

It was so much worse than I thought. 

The woman who had her throat slit also had bruises covering her body while the man on the floor not only had the bullet hole in his head but all of his fingertips were cut off. 

“Oh god,” I ripped myself from Eric's grasp to hunch over on my knees, emptying my stomach all over the floor. 

Eric made a noise that sounded a mix between disgust and annoyance as he watched me continue to lose my stomach contents. Eventually when all I could throw up was air, he let out a sigh. 

“I’m going to guess that you didn’t kill these two.” 

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before slowly rising back to full height. “What gave it away?” 

Something like a smile pulled at his lips but he refused to let it show and instead, motioned towards the two bodies behind me. 

“Do you know them?” 

Refusing to look, I shook my head. “No. I’ve never seen them before. I stumbled in here when I was looking for the way out.”

“Did anyone see you in here?” Eric asked. 

My lips parted but I hesitated, not knowing if it was a good idea to let him know. 

“Don’t bother lying. When you barged into my office it looked like you were running from something,” he noted. 

Letting out a shaky breath, I nodded. “Two guys but I didn’t get a good look at their faces because of how dark it was in here. The only light that was one was the one above the bed.” 

Now, there was a brighter light on, illuminating the entire space. 

Eric scratched at his bare chest, staring at me for a long moment, and I felt myself becoming small underneath his intense gaze. But it wasn’t only that. I found myself feeling that unknown feeling again, like earlier. Something fluttered low in my gut, a warmth spreading through my veins, and I shifted on my bare feet when they stuck to the nasty floor. 

He must have noticed how not only gross I looked but the mess surrounding us as well because he turned to one of the guys in the room with us; one of his guards. 

“Did we get an I.D on these two?” 

The shorter one nodded towards the girl. “Some hooker.” 

I sliced my eyes into him. “That’s not nice.” 

“If you expect me to care about some drugged up hooker, you’re fucking crazy,” the guard took a step towards me. 

Eric was quick to step in his path, blocking him from me. “Watch it, Greg.” 

The guard, Greg, clenched his jaw. “You don’t know who this broad is, Eric. She shows up in your office covered in blood. For all we know, she could have killed these two.”

“Did you not see me throw up all over the place?” I pointed to the ground. 

“That doesn’t mean-.” 

Greg began but Eric held up a hand to silence him, the muscles in his back tensing. 

“Who is the guy?” He asked, changing the subject. 

“That’s where shit gets interesting,” Greg ran a hand over his jaw. “Alexi Sokolov.” 

Eric somehow even went more tense in the shoulders as his head snapped over towards me. “You’ve never seen these two before?” 

“I already told you, no,” I shook my head with narrowed eyes. “Should I?” 

“Alexi is, well was the leader of the Russian mob here in the city. He frequented my fight club a few times,” Eric ran a hand through his short hair. “And that doesnt help narrow down the list on who killed these two.” 

My blood ran cold and skin clammy as I thought back to the two men I ran from. Could I have stumbled into something more than just a simple murder while looking for my sister? Could the Russians be involved in my sister's disappearance?

The task of finding my sister was becoming more daunting and I suddenly questioned if I could do it on my own. 

“I need to get out of here,” I muttered more so to myself. 

I made it all of two steps before Eric’s large frame blocked the doorway. 

“You’re not leaving until I know for a fact you’re not linked to these two,” he crossed his arms over his chest. 

Scolding myself for letting my gaze linger on his thick arms, I narrowed my eyes up at him. 

“I already told you. I don’t know them,” I said through gritted teeth. 

“Until my guys finish running a background check on you, you’re not going anywhere. Especially like that,” Eric nodded towards the dried blood covering me. 

“Did you say you’re running a background check on me?” I nearly yelled. 

He shrugged. “I don’t know you and you still won’t tell me how you got in tonight. So you could save us all the trouble and just tell the truth.”

“Are you going to let me go if I do?” 

Even though my head was held high and eyes were narrowed at him, my voice shook with undeniable fear. 

Eric’s eyes raked over my body, a smug smile on his face. “Depends on what you tell me.”

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I glanced around the room at Eric’s guards who were busy cleaning up; dragging the bodies away and scrubbing the floor with bleach. The severity of what exactly happened tonight was beginning to bury itself deep inside of my bones, the fear making me sick to my stomach again. I could feel the bile rising in my throat again so I swallowed a few times in an effort to keep it down. 

“I don’t know you,” I finally spoke while looking back at Eric. “How do I know you won’t kill me?”

“If I wanted to, you would have been dropped dead on the floor the second you stepped foot into my office,” Eric answered without an ounce of remorse. 

I blinked, mouth agape. “You-you kill people?” 

Eric stood unmoving in front of me, a thick wall of muscles, and his silence was the answer to my question. My palms began to sweat and I took a step away from him, all the blood draining from my veins. 

“I’m leaving,” my voice was meek. 

“No you’re not. Not until you tell me what you were doing in my club,” Eric grunted. 

Not even giving me more than a few seconds, his grip was tight around my elbow as he all but dragged me out of the room and towards his office. 

“Let me go!” I yelled while digging my heels into the ground. 

“And have you run off? I don’t think so,” Eric snorted. 

As we neared his office, he was about to toss me inside when someone else appeared in the doorway making Eric curse and putting me behind him. Due to his height, I couldn’t see over his shoulder so I peered around his shoulder to see a leggy blonde leaning against the doorframe, dark red lips pulled up in a smile. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you for our celebratory fuck because of your win tonight!” 

I internally frowned at the feeling that festered low in my gut. It was unfamiliar but began to burn when she took a step towards Eric, which in turn made him take one away, bringing me along with him. 

“How’d you get in, Lindsey? I have you blacklisted ” He said, voice clipped. 

The blonde rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you blacklisted me over a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” Eric’s shoulders tensed. “I caught you snooping through my computer and you proceeded to lie to me when I confronted you about it.”

“You think you saw me,” Lindsey held up a finger. 

“I have you on video surveillance,” he replied bluntly.

That seemed to shut her up as Lindsey crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I wanted to see you. So what do you say when we head back to my place?” 

Eric’s grip had loosened around my elbow while he was talking so I took it as my opportunity to quietly slip away, doing my best to ignore the stupid and annoying feeling stabbing my gut. 

Why the hell was I jealous? I had no right to be. I didn’t know her or Eric. 

I only made it a few steps before Eric’s hand shot out to grab at the nape of my neck, yanking me back to him. 

“Nice try,” he breathed against the shell of my ear. 

“You seem busy,” I said, ignoring the way my body ignited with a blaze from his grip on the back of my neck. “I don’t want to get in the way of your booty call.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes. “Are you jealous? Want me to bend you over and fuck your tight cunt instead?” 

I swallowed thickly when my core ached at his vulgar words. Never in my life had a man talked to me this way before. So why was I so turned on by it? 

“You’re disgusting,” I tried to fight against him which only made him tighten his grip on the back of my neck, yanking me towards his chest. 

I glanced up at him with my best pissed off expression as nipples brushed over his bare chest through the thin material of my dress. I bit the inside of my cheek at how good it felt, not wanting to let the moan slip from my clenched lips. 

“You didn’t say no,” he said with a smirk. 

“Did you want to?” I blurted. 

What the fuck? Why did I ask him that? I didn’t care to know if he wanted to fuck me or not.

Eric’s eyes flicked up and down over my body again. “Tempting. I must say, the dried blood on your skin is making my cock hard.”

“Can I please go home? I just want to leave,” I begged quietly, changing the subject away from the images of him bending over. 

Truth be told, I was exhausted. I had no idea what time it was and wanted nothing more than to crawl into my bed in hopes of forgetting everything that happened. Also, the earlier revelation that Eric may have killed people made me want to run far away, never looking back.

“Stop fucking asking that,” he muttered under his breath while dragging me back towards his office where Lindsey continued to lean against the doorway; her eyes flaring when she noticed me. 

“Who’s this?” 

“Get the fuck out of here, Lindsey,” Eric demanded and wrenched her out of the way. 

Her protests were hushed by him slamming the door in her face before he swung on his heels, pointing a finger at his couch. 

“Sit.” 

“Fuck you,” I snarled. 

Something flickered in Eric’s eyes as his upper lip twitched but instead of saying anything, he forced me to sit on the couch ignoring my protests. 

Like previously, I sat on the couch while he sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. His thighs were spread wide on either side of my closed legs, almost as if he was blocking me in. Eric was still shirtless and I forced myself to keep my eyes on his, not wanting to get caught taking in the sight of his abs. 

He doesn't have a six pack. That man has an eight pack. 

Scolding my inner thoughts, I played with the ends of my dirty dress. 

“So,” Eric’s deep voice broke through the quiet. “How did you get an invite to my fight club?” 

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, contemplating whether or not to lie to him but knew that in the end, the only way I was getting out of here was giving Eric what he wanted. 

Not everything. 

“Uh,” I cleared my throat while sitting up straighter. “Some unknown number texted me with the address and a picture of a bloody crow.” 

Eric hummed. “The Bloody Crow invite. Only specific people on the list get that invite.”

“Do you think you could figure out who sent it?” I asked. 

“The list is over two hundred people long.” 

Not knowing what to say, I nodded. I’d been curious as to who sent me the text earlier today. There were only two people who knew about my search for my sister and that was my dad who was dead; he killed himself shortly after my sister went missing so unless he was contacting me from beyond the grave, it wasn't him. The other was the detective assigned to my sister's case and something told me he wouldn’t be sending me somewhere where I could find out more info about the case than him. 

“Why did you come here tonight?” Eric asked. 

I hesitated for a beat, not knowing if I could trust him with my search. But maybe if I gave him a little bit of information, he could point me in the right direction. 

“My sister,” I said. 

“I don’t have any female fighters.” 

I shook my head with a sigh. “No, she’s missing. Has been for the last six months and I’ve been looking for answers.” 

Eric’s left brow rose. “Isn’t that a job for the police?” 

I snorted. “The police haven’t done shit. They gave up after a month. Everytime I try to get updates, I’m directed to voicemail after voicemail of cops who could care less. So it’s up to me to find out where she is.”

“What makes you think she’s still alive?” 

My heart sank at Eric’s words. I knew there was always the possibility that my sister would be dead, especially with how long she’s been missing, but I refused to think that. I would find her and when I did, she would be alive. 

“I don’t,” I answered honestly. “But I’m not going to stop looking for her.”

“You think she came here?” Eric asked. 

I let out a long sigh before easing back into the couch. “I doubt it. Illegal underground fighting rings wasn’t something she was into.” 

“Who said I run an illegal establishment?” He asked with a mock hurt tone but then his face turned serious. “Do you have a picture of her? Maybe I can recognize her.” 

My knee brushed up against his, a surge of static flowing through me, but I ignored it. 

“How can I trust you? You could lie to me just to throw me off course,” I said with furrowed brows. “I don’t even know you.”

Eric scratched at the tattoos on his chest and shrugged. “That’s right, you don’t. And I don’t know you. But you stumbled into my fightclub. Someone sent you an invite for a reason. Which means one of two things. Either it wasn’t meant for you or I have a mole inside my club.”

“The text said I could find answers for my missing sister here so I think it was meant for me.” 

“Well, then it looks like I have a mole,” Eric’s jaw clenched, a vein on the side of his forehead prominent with a deep shade of purple. 

I motioned to my purse that was still on the table next to Eric. “I have a picture of her in my wallet.” 

Once he rifled through my purse to find the picture, he stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head. 

“I’ve never seen her before.” 

“I’m starting to think this was a dead end. Whoever sent me that text did it to throw me off,” I said. 

Silence fell between us, our deep breathing echoing in the room, and I took in the sight of Eric’s office. It wasn’t big by any means, just a desk with a chair, a couch, and a punching bag in the corner. There was a closed door behind the desk to which I assumed was a closet. 

A rough knock sounded on the main door to his office and Eric called over his shoulder. “Come in!”

One of his guards peered his head inside, hesitating when he saw me sitting on the couch. Eric noticed but instead of kicking me out, he nodded towards the guard urging him on. 

“Uh, boss. We reviewed the tapes and we got something.” 

“What did you find?” Eric asked while rising to his feet. 

I didn’t bother to move, only slink further deep into the couch. 

“Ms. Y/L/N was telling the truth. She came alone and as soon as she saw you fighting in the cage, she tried to leave but ended up in the room with the two bodies. She was in there less than two minutes, not enough time to kill them.”

“Told you,” I grumbled under my breath while crossing my arms over my chest. 

Eric glanced down at me. “Did I disgust you that much during my fight?” 

No, not you. 

“I don’t like violence,” I stated with a shrug.

He hummed before looking back at his guard. “What else did you find out?”

“Whoever the two guys that caught here weren’t that slick. While they were chasing her, they ran into direct sight of the cameras. We got a good look at their faces.”

“And?” 

The guard shifted on his feet before running a hand over his face. “It’s bad.” 

“Worse than the head of the Russian mob being murdered in my club?” Eric retorted back. 

“Worse like they are Roeg’s men.”

A slew of curses fell from Eric’s mouth as he rested his hands low on his hips, the black gym shorts he still wore from his fight hanging even lower. He began pacing the length of his office and I watched with slight fear in my eyes, heart beating rapidly. 

“Who’s Roeg?” I dared ask. 

Eric ignored me, turning back to his guard. “How sure are we that they got a good look at, Y/N?”

“They didn’t get a good look at me,” I said. “The room was dark.” 

“Are you positive?” He directed towards me. 

My lips parted to speak but quickly I snapped them shut when I realized I wasn’t entirely sure if those two men actually saw me or not. 

Running a hand through his hair, Eric went over towards the other door in his office and opened it, pulling out a hoodie and a pair of sweats; him obviously keeping extra clothes in there. He tossed them to me with a pointed finger. 

“Get dressed. Leave your bloody clothes here so we can burn them.” 

“Why?” My voice shook as I held the clothes to my chest. “What are you going to do?” 

“Are we clear?” Eric asked his guard. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “We did a full sweep of the building and the grounds outside. Roeg’s men are nowhere in sight. Jackson is reviewing the tapes from the backdoor to see how they got in.”

“Send me the footage as soon as you get it,” Eric said and then grabbed a shirt from the closet, throwing it on. “Didn’t I tell you to get dressed?” 

I slowly stood from the couch, still holding the hoodie and sweats close to my chest. “Why? What’s going on?” 

“You’re leaving. Go home and never come back here.” 

Eric’s words should have elated me, finally being able to go home, yet I continued to stand in front of him unmoving. Something in those bright eyes gave way that he was keeping secrets. 

Instead of arguing, I let out a long sigh and nodded. “Trust me, you’ll never see me here again.”

“Good. You can get dressed in here and one of my guards will walk you to your car.” 

He walked towards the open door of his office, muttering something to the guard, but my voice called after him. 

“What am I supposed to do if one of those guys shows up again?”

Eric paused for a moment, contemplating something in his mind, before stalking back over to his desk and ripped open a drawer. 

“If something happens, call me,” he handed me a card with his number on it but held it back before I could grab it. “This doesn’t mean you can text me asking me what I’m doing or what my favorite color is.” 

Narrowing my eyes, I snatched the card from his hand. “Trust me, Eric. You’re not even my type.” 

Liar. 

Ignoring the voice in my head yet again, I held his gaze for a solid three breaths before he let out an amused noise and turned swiftly on his heels, hating right in the doorway. 

“A piece of advice?” Eric called over his shoulder. “Stop looking into your sister's disappearance. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

1  2  3  4  5 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Chapter 6

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: implied possessive and obsessive themes/actions/behaviors/thoughts, reader is one second away from having a panic attack, indirect mention of death, mention of murder, implied toxic family/child abuse, very, very light choking, mention/possible stalking, Toxic marriage/relationship, Reader is so done mentally despite only living in the Argece mansion for one (1) day, Reader becomes sassy, jealousy, everyone ooc

NSFW warnings: Very suggestive, throw back to their first time, implied dacryphilia

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE THEY ARE BOTH ARE  EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS 

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DON’T INTERACT/REBLOG WITH FANDOM STUFF DNI AND PLEASE DO NOT SPAM LIKE MY POSTS

= = =

“You never once referred to Dion as your husband.” 

“P-pardon?” 

That caught you off guard. Frankly speaking, calling the man your husband aloud is stomach-turning. Not that you would admit that, or rather not that you could. The punishment you would receive from Lant if it were to ever reach his ears…

 “Well, we haven’t been married for even a week.” Carefully explaining yourself, you scan behind her to check if anyone was there. “So, I am still a bit shy about it.” You smile shyly. Blood rushes through your veins and you can hear the thundering pumping and feel it. 

Your blood becomes ice and skin slime as Roxana observes your behavior and reaction before making a move. Fresh coral lips tug into a soft smile as Roxana sees past your lie and stares into your soul. Her eyes remind you of your husband’s; glowing scarlet that curtains their true emotions and thoughts. 

Sinister or otherwise, you’re afraid to drown in them. 

“I see. That’s adorable.” She reminds you of a venus fly trap; inviting only to trap you. Even so, her ‘affection’ towards you nearly has you tripping on your feet. No. This is how she gets people. 

“Lady Roxana, I had a fun time speaking with you.” You halfheartedly bid her farewell, bowing. You plan on walking the moment you raise your head. What you don’t plan on doing, however, is returning to your chambers immediately. 

Ah, but… where would you even go? 

“Oh, right. Do you remember the way?” she blinks at you while you blink back. Your mind is a void - absolutely nothing in it. Next, she laughs. 

It sounds like bells on Christmas, a chorus in the church, that exciting and relieved feeling you get once you hear ‘shift’s over,’ from the managers. Head full of cotton, you allow yourself to simply enjoy this moment. Once the blissful laughter has ended, she offers to guide you.

Personally. 

“O-oh, it’s fine - “ you just got mind fucked - Roxana willingly go anywhere near Dion’s room? Something’s not right. You take a step back. 

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” You give her a faux smile, worried.

 Worried for what? Your safety? The possible argument that could break out between the two half-siblings? Seeing something you’re not supposed to? Or having to awkwardly stand to the side as Dion acts weirdly and creepy towards his sister?

“It’s fine; I’d like to get to know you more. We’re family now, so it’s natural.” 

We’re family now. 

“...I’ll accept then. Thank you for taking care of me.” The scream that wishes to burst from your chest, the saliva drowning your gums and mouth, the quiver that threatens to take over your body - you hold it back. You have to. 

“It’s not a problem.” 

Fear prevents you from asking about Hana. 

You follow once she starts to walk, the sound of heels hitting the floor echoing. Even her back is elegant - perfect form, back straight and head up. Carrying an air of sophistication and confidence, Roxana Agriche deserves the female lead role. Her blond waves lightly bounce with each step. 

She is the definition of beauty. 

And as a dedicated fan - also driven by fear and mental stress - you will stay steps behind her. It’s for the best, it’s for your safety. Walk in her shadow but not at her side. Let the spotlight shine on her so you won’t be noticed, left alone by anyone and everyone. That is one plan for survival. 

“Oh? Sorry, I didn’t realize that you were behind me.” The fifteen-year-old girl waits for you to join her side after stopping, refusing to walk another inch until you do so. And your eighteen-year-old self  hesitates - not because you feel inferior to her. God no, but because her mind is a puzzle you can’t solve. 

You don’t have the power to read her thoughts. You are only able to guess. 

This isn’t fiction anymore. 

“It’s fine. I was also lost in thought.” Busy with admiring her rather. You pick up your pace a bit if only to please her. She resumes guiding you once you’re right by her. Nothing falls into place despite observing her from the corner of your eye. You don’t sense anything.

No hostility nor mischief. There wasn’t a hint of pity on her face. Mockery was also absent, genuine joy nonexistent. 

“If I may say, you’re more lovely than I heard.” She compliments you, offering another one of those sweet smiles. And like the fool you are, you trip over both your feet and words. 

“A-ah, you’re too kind. If anything, the saying goes towards you.” Your neck feels hot and your mind is turning to mush. “Truly, you are indeed an interesting person.” 

She stops again, taken aback. But she quickly recovers before returning back to the conversation. “Interesting? You’re the first person to describe me as such.” 

“That’s a surprise. I thought many would have.” You think about it. What was the first thing everyone notices about Roxana? Her beauty, of course. 

But, as a reader, how could you ignore and forget her personality? 

…then again, this entire time you were mentally obsessing over her appearance and voice. You were no better than everyone else.

You take a turn in the ridiculously long hallway. Just for a moment, tranquility replaces the harshness of reality. Funny. 

One moment you’re afraid of her and the next she brings you peace. She’s a bit easier to deal with than Dion. Softer, gentler, and outwards she is humane. The most sane family member in this hell. 

“We’re in the main hallway.” Roxana informs, and the staircase looks familiar. When you had made your way with Hana to the dining room, you were disorienting so hard you didn’t even realize your feet were moving. 

“Up these stairs and we’ll be closer to your room.” Roxana tells you, a hint of disgust in her voice. Aha. So she doesn’t want to go near him. Then why guide you? 

“Oh,” you say, “how nice.” How wonderful indeed, seeing the husband who left after your first night, who’s acting weird, who’s brutal personality is hidden beneath a layer of indifference, who probably stalked you while - 

Oh. 

Oh God. 

“? Are you okay? You look pale.”

Roxana’s question brings you back to reality. Blinking, you try to calm yourself before your breathing gets heavier. Your heart won’t stop rattling. Your blood won’t stop rushing. Your ears are ringing. 

Never once did you think of the possibility that Dion Agriche had stalked you during the duration of your engagement. The shampoo, the sheets, that horrifying look in his eyes - 

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. I’m just a bit… nervous.” Did he stalk you? If so, why? To drill even more fear into you, to show you that he could easily cause you harm? To silently threaten the safety of your family if you were to ever act out? 

“But yes, I’m fine. Just need a minute to gather myself.” 

Either out of curiosity or obligation, or even consideration, Roxana lets you do just that. 

- - -

You got to the door sooner than wanted. Way too soon. 

Despite the show your sister-in-law displays, she can’t hide the disgust and hatred in her eyes as she stares at the heavy double doors. You don’t blame her. Even if he acted out on orders, your husband still killed her brother. Their brother. 

He also attempts to harm her mother. Just to see her cry. 

…would he do the same to you?

“Well,” turning to her, you show a smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. You’re too tired to even try. “Thank you for showing me the way.” 

You open the door before she could even get a word out. Shut it behind you before every single ounce of bravery evaporates, leaving you a slimy mess. Monster or not, Dion Agriche is still your husband. And, as you were raised, you have to play the role of his wife. 

 His pretty, little, obedient wife. 

Only to see that no-one is in the room. 

“...haha…wow…hahaha!” like a mad woman you giggle, falling to the floor as your legs give out. Was it from stress? Relief? Does it matter? 

You’re happy - you don’t have to see his face for a bit longer. Even if it’s only for a minute, you don’t have to be in his presence. But with happiness comes realization - Dion will eventually show up. He told you such. 

“...I… I just want to sleep.” Your shoulders slump as you become boneless - so much happened within the span of a few hours. Odd behavior, old memories, confusing feelings - you’re not meant for this environment. Forget about being murdered or tortured - your mind would dismantle before anything could happen. 

The floor is uncomfortable but all of your strength is gone. Were you always this weak? This hopeless? So much that you couldn’t even last a single day. Pathetic. 

“...” ahead of you is the bed. The same bed you lost your virginity on. The same bed you will have to share with your arranged husband. It was comfortable, but the fact you laid with Dion on it makes you sick. 

You’d rather sleep on the floor. 

Moonlight fills the room from the glassdoors closing off the terrace. Jeremy said you should escape. Is it worth it? Was jumping off the terrace to attempt an escape worth it? Would you survive it? 

Get caught? 

Die?

Your mind is becoming muddy. You haven’t even met with Lant yet. The worst of the worst. Yet here you are, already thinking foolishly. Of course you would be caught. Dying wasn’t something you wanted to do, though. Neither was being punished for attempting an escape. 

Your ears perk at the sound of the door opening behind you. 

“Do you find the floor more comfortable than the bed?” Voice low and deep, Dion doesn’t even properly greet you. Well, not like you want to either. 

You want to tell him to try it in spite. But you’re too tired to even turn around and face him, much less stand. His footsteps get closer until he’s right behind you. Your eyes shut close. 

“Wife.” He calls once, and you don’t respond. You don’t want to.

You want him to stop calling you that. You want him to stop talking to you. You want him to stop existing. 

His footsteps echo in the room before he kneels in front of you. Finally, you look at him. What type of expression are you making? 

His hand is cold as he brings it up to cup your cheek. Scarlet that glows in the moonlight that looks at you in such a strange way. Do you know what was swirling in his eyes? Do you want to?

“...Dion. Welcome back.” acknowledging him, you peel his hand away from your cheek. He already touched you the night before. That’s enough. 

Instead of leaving, he grasps your wrist. Firm enough to where you couldn’t tug your hand away. You eye it before giving up. Just for now. 

“I’m sorry, but i’m too sore from last night,” you say, assuming that sex is on his mind. Obligation, lust, routine. Either one could be the reason. 

“I’m not here for that. Nor do I want it.” 

Your head tilts to the side before he continues. “Father expects us to dine with him tomorrow.” 

“I see. Is that all?” 

“You look dead,” free hand cupping your face - again - Dion gently swipes his thumb under your eye. “Worse than when you showed up for dinner.” Hah. Is he enjoying himself?

“I’m just tired,” lying your eyes travel to your lap. “I’ll… if that’s all, then I’ll retire to bed.” You want him to leave you alone. You want to go home. 

On shaky legs you force yourself up and your husband lets go of your wrist. Your knees buck as you walk towards the bed. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. All you need to do is make it to bed. Changing clothes isn’t even on your mind - you just want to lay down. 

“You’re not going to change?” Your husband inquiries. What was wrong with this man? He barely spoke a word to you before the wedding. He left after cumming and leaving you alone, in pain and shivering like a fucking newborn foal. He didn’t spare a fucking glance at you during dinner until his siblings showed up. 

“Where is Hana?” You ignore his question, focusing on the one person who doesn’t feel like a death trap. 

“She retired for the night. On Roxana’s orders.” 

“What? Why?” you almost get whiplash from how hard and fast you turn your head to look at Dion. Your husband has been looking at you this entire time. 

“She didn’t think I’d show up here.” 

I wish you didn’t. I wish you would have stayed indifferent as you were until today.

“Oh. Then, I’ll just sleep like this.” Flopping onto the bed, you kick your heels off. The corset is still tight, and it makes it harder to breathe. But you refuse to ask him for help. 

Thankfully, your husband makes no move to. Instead you hear him walk and the sound of the closet opening. Ruffling of the clothes before it stops. From what you heard, nothing dropped to the floor, rather, heavy boots walk towards the bed until they stop right behind you. 

Amazing how being so mentally and physically worn makes a person forget their survival instincts. How it makes fear turn into annoyance and gulps become huffs. 

But annoyance becomes confusion when something soft and loose lands on your back. Did he just… throw something on you?

Why can’t your husband just pick a side? Decide to ignore you. To be nice to you. Not go back and forth like it’s a fucking swing boat. 

“Wife,” there he goes again with that dreadful title, does he not remember your godforsaken name? “You won’t fall asleep with it on. You’re unable to.” You’re one second away from tearing your hair out. One second away from strangling him. 

You can regret everything tomorrow. 

“... Will you leave me alone if I change?” Supporting yourself on your shoulders you crane your neck to look over your shoulder. Your husband only nods, not explaining why he’s so insistent on having you change. 

You’re so done that you don’t even realize he’s enjoying this side of you. Your frustration, your annoyance, all spent and directed towards him. Tomorrow, when you’re of clear mind you’ll freak out, kicking and yelling at yourself for risking making him mad, only to question why he didn’t say anything in the first place. 

“I can’t reach behind my back,” you communicate to him, waiting for his reaction. A reply that may never come. 

“Just lay face down. I’ll untie it and won’t touch you further.” You wish he would leave and maybe fall down the stairs and break something. Ah, but maybe Lant should go through that instead. Break his neck and lay there, lifeless. How would the scene play out after that?

“Alright,” you give in, preparing for a war that doesn’t exist. Dion removes whatever he threw onto your back before nimble fingers quickly and carefully undo the strings on your dress. Once he’s done with that, he works on the corset, completely gentle. 

Wait, something wasn’t right. 

“Wait, how do you know how to undo the strings so quickly?” Waiting for his answer, you don’t make an effort to watch his reaction. You’d rather not look at the man who’s walking on thin ice right now. Yes, you are going to consider chucking yourself into the nearest river tomorrow. If you could find one. 

“... I was taught.” 

“By?” 

“A teacher.” 

He leaves it at that, choosing to leave out the details. It makes you suspicious. …was he also taught those techniques by a so-called teacher too?

Considering the amount of wives Lant has, STDs most likely don’t exist in this world. Regardless, the mere thought of your husband sleeping with someone before you irritates you. Not because you were jealous or anything of that sort, no; but because it was hypercritical. You were expected to stay ‘pure,’ a virgin while -

“You are the only person I’ve touched, much less slept with.” Was he a mind reader? Or were you just that obvious?

“As your wife, I think I should meet and thank your ‘teacher.’” Exhaustion does wonders to a person. The brain doesn’t work as it should and fright is no longer a thing. Instead it’s replaced by reckless behavior and a clouded mind. 

“Although, I do wish they also taught you aftercare.” 

“That person,” Dion begins, “is someone you know but are unable to see.” Sure Dion Agriche, sure. “As for afterwards… Father called for me.” 

“Mhm. For what?” Cold fingertips barely graze your spine as he looks at your skin. By now everything was untied yet the male doesn’t move. With lidded eyes he considers biting it. But he’s already breaking his promise by granting himself the pleasure to graze it. 

And you’re giving him a pass, perhaps with a blurred mind. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be having this conversation, much less show something other than fear in his presence. 

“To discuss further action regarding our marriage.” 

“You know,” you yawn out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, “most people in arranged marriages would refer to the marriage as ‘this,’ not ‘ours.’” The call of sleep is tempting you. 

“I’m not most people.”

“I know. If you were then you…” 

“Then what?”

Then you wouldn’t be a product of two insane and mental people. You wouldn’t be so jaded nor affection starved to the point you consider hatred as it. You wouldn’t have killed your own siblings or live solely to make one cry. You wouldn’t wander around the earth until your sister decides to kill you. 

You change the subject. “You could have let me finish at least once. It was my first time - you’re supposed to make it a positive experience.” Why you brought this up, you’re not sure. You doubt he feels guilty about it. 

“...Should I make you now?” He traces your spine, the cold sensation making you shiver. Odd. His touch doesn’t feel as gross as earlier. You must be going mad. 

Even more so since you’re hallucinating the hint of hunger in his voice. 

“No. I hated the entire thing. Just jerk off and I’ll shove it in, or something.” The idea of his cum going anywhere near you repulses you, but you understand your role as a wife. His wife. 

“You also found my crying cute. I don’t like that, I actually hate it.” Was communication always this easy when your body is boneless and mind worn? Was he so talkative because he’s tired as well? 

“I can’t help it, “ Dion rubs circles between your shoulder blades and it makes you melt. For a split second, you forgot who you’re talking to. Where you were, who your husband was, your in-laws forgotten. For a moment, everything was ordinary and domestic. 

“I enjoy seeing you cry.” His fingers travel higher until they are at the sides of your neck, feeling your pulse. He wants to squeeze it, see you squirm. The urge to make you cry over and over again from overstimulation gets harder to resist. You’re allowing him to touch you, to see the skin of your back, to see you so vulnerable - surely, you could offer him a taste too, right? 

“...You’re not supposed to be this way.” A light chuckle comes from your chest. “You’re supposed to be brutal, selfish, unredeemable - well, you probably still are, but still. You’re not supposed to be married nor basically asking your wife to fuck.” 

You go on. 

“You’re not supposed to be this way. You’re driving me crazy, acting so different from what I know.” You’re supposed to be the character that was written in the series. Not… whatever this is.

Maybe you misunderstood his character. But you never did finish the novel and the webtoon was put on hiatus because of the shit the artist went through… you hope she’s doing better now. Way better. 

“Even Jeremy and Roxana are behaving weirdly.” You leave it at that, becoming silent. Dion doesn’t say anything. 

You decide to ask him a question that’s been nagging you ever since he mentioned his ‘teacher.’ 

“Oh, by the way… how would you react if I also had a ‘teacher’?” An undertone of teasing laced your voice - of course, you didn’t mean it. Unless it was a lover, you wouldn’t sleep with anyone outside of marriage. Although, you never did enter a relationship once prior to your engagement. 

The atmosphere becomes stiff. You suddenly remember who you’re dealing with - an Agriche. Dion Agriche, to be exact. 

Horror spreads throughout your body once you realize just what you asked him. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel him lean over you, fingers putting slight pressure on your neck, a silent threat to choke you. He’s like a heavy cover, you can barely breathe. 

When he talks it’s lower and deeper, sinister and possessive, his breath hitting your ear as he answers. 

“Easy. I would kill them.” 

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Meet Me At My Window

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Meet Me At My Window

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Mature (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Stiles accidentally falls in love with Derek. Derek begrudgingly falls in love with Stiles. Derek has trust issues and an aversion to romantic entanglements. Stiles lacks tact and would very much like to avoid a painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death. Stiles and Derek end up spending the better part of a year in each other's company, pretending to despise every minute of it. In short: Stiles and Derek are awkward, stubborn, angst-ridden, life-ruining idiots who can't seem to work up the nerve to admit that they're in love.

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose. "Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

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The first time Stiles Stilinski meets Derek Hale, he's rendered with a peculiar combination of all-consuming fear, respect, and sympathy (and, admittedly, arousal…but hey, let's just shove that embarrassing fact to the side and stick a pin in it, shall we?) And of course, because Stiles wants absolutely nothing to do with the sociopathic sourwolf with the burned and broken past, and because his life is just a big pile of nonsensical bullshit, that's the exact opposite of what he gets.

After a while, Stiles starts to lose track of the number of times he ends up saving Derek's life, whether it's reluctantly agreeing (under the threat of a brutal mauling involving the removal of his head from the rest of his body) to cut off Derek's arm so that the poison from a Wolfsbane laced bullet won't spread to his heart…or harboring Derek in his bedroom to keep him hidden from the authorities while on the run for false murder charges…or holding onto a temporarily paralyzed two-hundred-and-something-pound werewolf in the middle of the Beacon Hills swimming pool for hours on end to keep him from drowning while, oh yeah, fighting off a homicidal were-lizard…

He isn't exactly sure which one of those times had officially sealed the deal, but somewhere along the line, Stiles actually starts to give a damn about whether Derek Hale lives or dies.

• • •

After his brief romantic entanglement with Kate Argent (read: the horrific incident that had lead to the death of his entire family and the destruction of his home in an inferno) Derek Hale is, understandably, a little reserved, a little distrusting, and generally, all-around unpleasant company. 

For years following the incident, Derek had mostly just kept to himself, locked away from the rest of the world, skulking in the shadows in the ruins of his old home, fraught with all-consuming guilt and regret, only poking his head out when his older sister had all but dragged him into the Camaro to take them on destination-less road trips across the countryside, whenever the memories of their old life became too much for them to bear. 

They were all each had anymore; all throughout those long and lonely years, Laura had been Derek's alpha, his anchor, the only thing that kept him tethered to his sanity, the one and only person that Derek swore he would ever trust…that is, until she'd been taken from him, too. 

Nearly six years after the fire, mere hours after he'd buried the last remaining member of his family (not counting, of course, the power-hungry uncle responsible for her death) a boy called Stiles Stilinski had come along and utterly demolished that carefully crafted facade that Derek had worked so hard to build. 

Mind you, not all at once. After all, Derek's first impression of Stiles hadn't exactly been all that positive. Even now, after everything they've been through together, how in the fuck a loudmouthed, loquacious, opinionated, irritating whirlwind of a person could have possibly woven his way so deeply under Derek's skin is still beyond him. 

Although, admittedly, the fact that Stiles had saved Derek's life more times than he can count could possibly have something to do with it.

No matter how hard he tries, Derek can't seem to escape the memory of one of those nights in particular, his mind reeling on repeat, piecing together every infinitesimal detail with perfect clarity.

Blood red satin and dark blue denim hugging saturated skin. Beads of water rippling down his pale, freckled face, neck, and shoulders, caught on the edge of his reddened lips. The rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat thrumming against Derek's back, reverberating through the hollow of his chest as he'd held him close, head tipping forward to rest against Derek's shoulder, warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, sending shivers down the length of his spine. 

The sound of their ragged breathing echoing across the hall of the swimming pool as they fought to stay afloat. As Stiles fought with every last ounce of his strength to keep them both alive. Stiles clinging to Derek for dear life, arms coiled tight around his torso, like he's afraid to let him go. And then—

Paralysis. Submersion. That all-consuming fear of abandonment he'd come to know so well, at war with the blissful desire to welcome the darkness that threatened to envelop him as he'd sunk to the depths of the pool. And how poetic, really, that he should die in a way that's almost polar opposite of the fiery death he'd so narrowly escaped last time. 

And then, just moments before he'd lost consciousness — the terrifying realization that someone actually cares enough about him to keep him from drowning. 

Because Stiles had come back for him. 

Because Stiles had plunged to the bottom of the pool and pulled Derek back to the surface. 

Because Stiles had saved Derek's life. 

Again. 

He could have run, could've heeded Derek's warning and gotten himself to safety, could've just let go and left Derek to die, could've saved himself instead of exhausting all of his strength just to make sure that Derek didn't drown. But he hadn't. Unlike everyone else in Derek's life, Stiles had stayed.

Initially, Derek writes it off as the intrinsic, primal, entirely human need for self-preservation, because Stiles is smart enough to know that Derek is integral to his survival. After all, a werewolf with supernatural strength and agility stands a far better chance of protecting itself against a murderous reptilian hybrid of a monster with the ability to incite full-body paralysis with a single swipe of its claws than a skinny, defenseless human does. For Stiles, keeping Derek alive means keeping himself alive. 

It's survival instinct, plain and simple. 

At least, that's how Derek keeps choosing to rationalize it.

Can't you just trust me, just this once?

No!

Hey, I'm the one keeping you alive, okay? Have you noticed that?

And when the paralysis wears off, who's going to be able to fight that thing? You or me?

What, so that's the only reason I've been holding you up for the past two hours?

You don't trust me, and I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you aren't letting me go.

But then, Derek can't help but wonder why Stiles had saved his life countless other times before that night, well before the kanima had ever become a threat. In spite of a seemingly endless running commentary of sarcasm and unconvincing threats to leave him for dead, Stiles had looked after Derek when he'd been shot with a Wolfsbane bullet, had given Derek sanctuary when he'd been on the run for a false murder conviction (thanks, Scott.) He didn't have to do any of that, but he still did it.

And the strangest thing of all is that it keeps happening. Stiles keeps saving Derek's life, over and over again in a multitude of different ways, often risking his own life in the process, and never expects anything but Derek's trust in return. 

Stranger still is the fact that Derek keeps inexplicably seeking out Stiles, of all people, whenever he's in trouble, despite his insistence that he doesn't trust him. He'll talk a big game with intimidation tactics and threats of bodily harm, yet his first instinct is always to protect Stiles, to make sure he's safe, to push him out of harm's way at the first sign of danger, even from his own pack, his own family.

It's only after that night that Derek begrudgingly comes to accept the fact that he not only doesn't mind having Stiles around, but might actually even like him, his stupid, traitorous brain keeping tallies of every positive quality Stiles possesses.

Like the fact that he's brave, and loyal, and compassionate, and clever, mind racing at lightning speed, a hundred different ideas, plans, and theories bouncing around inside his head at any given moment.

Stiles is a challenge, a constant battle of wit and fury to rival his own. Unlike everyone else, Stiles doesn't give Derek the chance to intimidate him, always at the ready to prove that he isn't afraid of him, seeing right through Derek's bullshit tough guy facade to the fragile ego underneath, throwing his own weak threats right back in his face, and giving just as good as he gets.

Stiles is comfort in the form of foolishly optimistic reassurance, shaky laughter, and self-deprecating humor, staving off the never-ending waves of fear and desperation that threaten to consume them both in every seemingly hopeless predicament they find themselves in.

After a while, scenario after mad, perilous, life-or-death scenario, time spent in each other's company becomes almost addictive, exhilarating, rather than vexing and obligatory. Melodramatic death threats carelessly thrown without cause start to lack conviction. Playful banter and lighthearted shoving all but replace heated bickering and power moves. After a while, thrusting Stiles up against hard surfaces becomes so much more than a necessity for garnering respect and gaining favor; it becomes a game.

• • •

They're outside of a club one night, tracking down the kanima's latest potential target, and Derek has got Stiles pressed up against the jagged brick wall of the building, black leather jacket and tight-fitted jeans crushed against worn plaid flannel and dark blue denim. His hands are fisted in the front of Stiles's shirt, canines grazing his ear as he growls out weak threats detailing all the things he's going to do to Stiles if tonight's plan goes awry. 

It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Derek hasn't already done before, (most effectively, he muses, against Stiles's own bedroom wall) except that, this time, something feels different. Something about Stiles smells different. Without thinking, Derek presses in closer, buries his nose into the curve of Stiles's neck, and breathes him in, catching notes of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and black currant wine, twisting into an intoxicating helix and radiating throughout his entire body, swimming in his veins, inexplicably evident with every pulse of Stiles's heartbeat as it thunders against his ribcage.

Derek would be lying if he said that he hadn't caught a hint of that scent before; a subtle, lingering aroma, hidden just beneath the surface of Stiles's skin, every time Derek had gotten too close for comfort. Before now, he had never quite been able to place it, had never concentrated hard enough to bother with riddling it out, always too preoccupied dealing with the monster of the week. 

Never before had it been this potent, this intense, this…

Oh. 

With a sharp twist, the cogs inside Derek's head finally start to turn, and he realizes that he is a complete fucking moron, because in that moment, Stiles smells like pure arousal, like all-encompassing desire, and really, how had it taken him this long to figure it out? After all, it's not like Stiles has ever responded to any of Derek's threats like a normal person.

"If you say one word," Derek warns as he shoves Stiles against his bedroom door, hands fisting into the front of Stiles's shirt.

"Oh what, you mean like, 'Hey dad, Derek Hale is in my room, bring your gun'?" Stiles says cooly, and just like that, the threat dies in the back of Derek's throat, fear and vulnerability slipping through the cracks just long enough for Stiles to take notice; invisible to anyone else, but glaringly obvious to the detail-oriented observer standing right in front of him.

"Yeah, that's right," Stiles asserts, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips like Derek's the one pinned to the wall, caught in a compromising position. "If I'm harboring your fugitive ass, it's my house, my rules, buddy."

He swats Derek's shoulder with the back of his hand, and Derek just stares down at it, dumbfounded. When he looks back up, Stiles's eyes are trained on his lips, and Derek finds himself momentarily frozen by the sight of Stiles's tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, struck speechless by the way his pupils scatter to the edge of his irises as he locks eyes with Derek, the faint uptick of Stiles's heartbeat threatening to jumpstart his own. He swallows thickly, unable to give anything more than a curt nod, before releasing his grip on Stiles's shirt.

But he can't just concede, can't just let Stiles win. He gets one last petty jab in, straightening Stiles's jacket with a harder tug than he knows is strictly necessary. But Stiles, it seems, is just as determined to not let Derek have the upper hand, reaching forward to grasp the collar of his leather jacket, and tugging down just as hard. Derek has to fight the foreign burst of laughter bubbling up inside his chest at the soft "oh my god" that escapes Stiles's mouth as he dodges Derek's glare and nearly topples over his desk chair.

Or—

"Start the car, or I'm gonna rip your throat out…with my teeth," Derek growls, emphasizing the threat with a flash of his teeth that he hopes come across as intimidating, rather than the wincing grimace it actually is.

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, fixing him with narrowed eyes and a glare that nearly calls his bluff, silently screaming 'do it, I dare you,' before heaving a long-suffering sigh and swiftly turning away to expose the long, pale canvas of his neck as he gives in to Derek's demands. 

And even though he is literally dying, and should probably be more concerned about the fact that he's bleeding out all over Stiles's passenger seat, Derek spends far more time than he cares to admit wondering if that wasn't an invitation.

It hits him with all the force of a tidal wave, sweeping him under the current. In that moment, Derek finds himself inexplicably drawn toward Stiles, like he's sunlight dancing across the surface of the water, a fresh breath of salty sea air in the lungs of a drowning man. As the seconds tick past, Derek finds it increasingly more difficult to let Stiles go, driven wild by the desire to press himself further into Stiles's personal space and drink in that warm, inviting scent, to nuzzle against the curves of his neck and collarbones and mark Stiles with his own scent. And it's that fact that sends a jolt of absolute terror spiking through Derek's chest, because he's never wanted to do that with anyone before.

He reigns himself in just long enough to shove Stiles away from him, tearing his gaze away from Stiles's retreating form as he makes his way back into the nightclub in a flustered huff. Once he's certain that Stiles is safely tucked away inside, Derek makes a run for it, bolting back to his hideaway and locking himself in his makeshift bedroom. He slides down the doorframe to the cold concrete floor and buries his face in the palms of his hands, shoulders shaking with the stirrings of a breakdown.

• • •

The next morning, Derek wakes with a cold, calculating satisfaction, convinced that feelings are stupid, that opening yourself up to that kind of vulnerability only leads to self-destruction, and that his interest in Stiles Stilinski is merely that; an interest, an infatuation, a distraction; hoping like hell that these foreign feelings will falter and disappear on their own. 

Because Derek simply refuses to allow himself to even entertain the idea of ever falling in love again, far too broken and haunted by the ever-present guilt of losing his family, of loving and trusting someone so much and so blindly that it had cost him everything and everyone he had ever loved. After Kate, after…the incident, Derek had written off romance for the rest of his foreseeable future, promising himself that he would never again make the mistake of falling for someone as hard as he had fallen for her.

It's in shameless illogicality and childish avoidance that Derek places the blame (at least, partially) on Stiles. Convinces himself that he hates Stiles for making him feel this way. Hates himself for having fallen victim to Stiles's maddeningly adorable charm, for having foolishly let him weave his way under Derek's skin in a way that even Kate never could. Finds his fear of the thought of what inevitable heartbreak Stiles could cause him if he were to give in to his feelings as perfectly justifiable grounds for taking out all of his aggression and unresolved tension on Stiles.

Repeatedly shoving him up against walls at random. 

Shouting at him for no apparent reason other than because he can. 

Using any excuse he can think of to get closer to Stiles, to pull him deeper into pointless, repetitive arguments, just so he can spend more time in his company. 

Delighting in the way Stiles's heartbeat thunders against his ribcage, the way the rush of emotion paints his pulse points and the hollows of his cheekbones. 

Relishing the fact that he is the cause, that he has the power to elicit such an impassioned response in this infuriating, silver-tongued little shit. 

Reveling in the way Stiles's clever, zealous words rip through Derek's skin, latching onto every fiber of his being and lighting up his nerves like a live wire.

It's easier this way, pretending that this innate connection between them, this weird brand of accidental flirting that straddles the line between intimidation and sexual tension, doesn't exist. That it's merely a figment of his imagination gone rogue, a looming nightmare hell-bent on capturing him and swallowing him whole, just as viciously as it had the last time. Only this time, he's not going to give in. He won't allow himself to fall victim to his own vulnerability. He's determined not to.

Besides, even if Derek could entertain the idea that he's even capable of having romantic feelings for someone else, let alone Stiles, of all people, there's still the complication of it being—

Unrequited.

Because Derek knows full well that Stiles is, and always has been, madly in love with Lydia Martin. And how does Derek know that? Because Stiles never shuts up about it. So even if he wanted to, there's no way in hell that Derek could ever convince Stiles to change his mind, to choose him instead, because, as Derek finally comes to realize one quiet afternoon spent in the company of his pack, loving someone isn't a choice. It's not something you can just will away through sheer spite, either, burying it deep down and pretending it doesn't exist. Love takes a hold of you whether you want it to or not, and Stiles, Derek realizes with a resigned sigh, has dug his claws in deep.

Not that it matters.

Although, sometimes—

Sometimes, he'll get foolishly hopeful. He'll catch a hint of that familiar, intoxicating scent, paired with the quickening pace of Stiles's heartbeat every time they accidentally touch, a simple brush of skin against skin that sends an electric spark through Derek's chest…but, because Derek is stubbornly self-deprecating, he simply writes those moments off as coincidence, as Stiles's inherent nervousness and awkwardness, chalking it up to sheer curiosity and raging teenage hormones. 

And even if, by some miracle, the near-constant aroma of Stiles's arousal is because of Derek, well…that alone isn't enough. There's no affection or deeper meaning to be found in lust, after all. And one night with Stiles isn't what Derek is after. If Stiles ever chooses to be with him, what Derek wants is a long-term connection…life-long, if he's being honest…if he should ever be so lucky. 

Still, the nagging notion that he'll never be good enough, that he isn't whole enough, that he hasn't healed enough, to be the kind of companion that someone like Stiles truly needs, eats away at him, stops him from wishing and wanting, from trying. Despite Stiles's infectious optimism that could change the hearts and minds of even the most stubborn, foolish, and broken of people, Derek isn't certain if he'll ever be capable. So he resolves to keep his affections hidden, waiting in vain for someone who will likely never want him as he is.

• • •

Time wears on, and in the summer that follows Scott and Stiles's sophomore year, after the events surrounding Gerard Argent's death and Jackson's transformation from kanima to werewolf, permanently binding Lydia and Jackson as soulmates, Stiles finds himself rapidly losing interest in his pursuit of Lydia Martin, convinced that he never had a chance with her to begin with, and is honestly just content with the fact that she finally seems happy, even if it isn't with him. 

The imposing threat of the alpha pack ends up being much less dramatic than they had originally anticipated. Apparently, the alpha pack is comprised of a makeshift council, containing alphas from each pack in the surrounding area. According to Peter Hale, there have been several werewolf packs living in secrecy across the west coast for quite some time now. 

They'd primarily kept to themselves…that is, until the kanima threatened to expose the existence of their kind. The council traveled to Beacon Hills with the sole intent of putting an end to the problem in the only way that they saw fit: by putting down the abomination, ending the reign of the alpha responsible, acquiring the remaining members of their pack, and dividing them amongst the alphas of the council and their respective packs.

In a rare moment of bravery (or perhaps stupidity) Peter takes it upon himself to negotiate a compromise, and travels to the hidden location of the council. Consequently, the alpha pack is never heard from again, nor is Peter Hale. It can only be assumed that one of three things happened: either the council mistook Peter for the alpha of the Beacon Hills werewolf pack and killed him on the spot, living up to their legend; Peter somehow escaped their conviction and is currently on the run; or, more likely, sassy, silver-tongued Peter Hale talked his way into joining a new pack, and he now runs with an entirely different class of werewolves. Whatever the case, Derek is relieved to finally have his creepy, murderous, meddlesome uncle gone.

In the beginning of the summer, Derek forges a peace treaty with Chris Argent, agreeing to work together in the event of future catastrophes, and the group of reckless, misfit adolescent werewolves and humans becomes a hybrid pack. Derek, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd spend the summer lounging around in the ruins of the old Hale house, regarding Derek's rules, regulations, and attempts at training them with reluctance and rebellion. 

On the edge of summer's end, Derek finally gives in to Stiles's relentless insistence that Derek might actually require Stiles's help reigning in his newly formed pack. And so, much to Derek's indignation, Stiles becomes the official designated researcher of all things supernatural, and, annoyingly enough, Derek's go-to guide for advice and assistance.

• • •

Over the course of his junior year, Stiles and Derek are wrought even closer, collaborating over ideas for pack activities and training exercises. And, staying true to his new role in the group, in nearly no time at all, Stiles becomes incredibly well-versed in pack dynamics and werewolf lore, presenting Derek with detailed sketches of his plans for strengthening their senses to full peak, exercises in anchor grounding and emotional control, agility and strength training, physical defensive and combative strategies, and, most importantly, pack bonding activities. 

Slowly, gradually, the tension between the two of them shifts, builds, ever so subtly with each passing day, and before Stiles can even register what's happening, his attention veers, rather aggressively, toward Derek Hale. 

And, okay, just so we're clear, it's not like Stiles has never noticed how attractive the guy is. He's not one to dismiss physical beauty worthy of a statuesque god so willingly, even if its owner happens to be a snarky, sassy, surly sourwolf with a penchant (or perhaps a kink? no, shut up) for shoving him up against hard surfaces like his own goddamn bedroom wall as a means of intimidation. 

(And seriously, his traitorous body needs to stop reacting to that kind of shit in all the wrong ways, because one of these days, Derek is going to notice and then he'll die of embarrassment before Derek even has the chance to rip his throat out.)

So yeah. Obviously, it's not lost on Stiles that Derek Hale is hot. He gets it. He's well fucking aware of the fact that Derek is…ugh, really fucking gorgeous, actually, in an almost sinful how the hell are you not Photoshopped kind of way, with his perfectly sculpted body, his dark tousled hair, devil-may-care five o'clock shadow skating across his chiseled jawline, not to mention the fact that his eyes are this indescribable combination of blue, green, and hazel that Stiles can't even put a proper name to, but sometimes he kind of wants to paint it…

So.

Yeah.

He's always known Derek was attractive. It's just…it's getting a little harder to ignore lately, that's all.

Okay, so maybe it goes a little beyond simply finding Derek attractive. Maybe he'd imagined that night at the club more than a few times while he was in the shower, and maybe he'd called out Derek's name in a low, throaty moan as he'd climaxed. But it's totally not his fault, okay? It's just, you know, hormones and shit. Just because Stiles sometimes thinks about Derek in a non-platonic way doesn't mean that he's like, in love with him, or anything.

And even if, hypothetically speaking, he was starting to develop actual real feelings for Derek during all the time he'd been spending with him lately…it's not like it matters. It's not like he could actually do anything about it. It's not like he has a shot in hell of ever making that fantasy a reality.

First of all, there's the obvious attraction factor. Stiles, in comparison to Derek, with his short brown hair that's slowly growing out at awkward angles, his gangly physique, and his constant flailing, fidgeting, and anxiety-induced word vomit, isn't exactly the most alluring romantic prospect. (Or so he keeps telling himself.)

Second, there's the somewhat complicated matter of their age difference. Derek is basically a whole college and master's degree older than Stiles, and though he would argue that Derek is every bit the immature, sarcastic little shit that Stiles prides himself in being, Stiles knows for a fact that his dad would never approve. In fact, Stiles is fairly certain his father would rather shit in his own hands and clap than let his son date an older man. A convicted felon, no less. (Granted, it was a false accusation and the charges were dropped, but still.)

Third of all, Derek is…complicated. Mercurial. Cynical. Reclusive. Reticent. And Stiles gets it, completely. Because he knows what Derek has been through. He'd snuck into his dad's office and read the Hale house fire case so many times he's practically got every detail memorized. He knows full well why Derek is this broken shell of a man, drowning in undeserved survivor's guilt, haunted by his past mistakes and regrets. He's skeptical and distrusting for good reason, and probably only tolerates Stiles's company because Stiles is useful to him. 

Which brings him to fourth of all: Stiles isn't entirely certain of the exact nature of their relationship. Derek doesn't really do feelings…or even friendship, probably, for that matter. At least, not with a guy like Stiles. And certainly not willingly. They aren't enemies, exactly (never were, really, more like reluctant partners in crime) nor are they anywhere near the same level of friendship and trust that Stiles shares with Scott. 

So he's not about to test their constant-state-of-flux boundaries and budding friendship by confessing that he is possibly sort of completely in love with him. It would be awkward and embarrassing to the point of torture, and Derek would probably definitely rip his throat out…with his teeth (and ugh, Stiles really wishes that he could stop finding that particular interaction so goddamned hot, because he really shouldn't, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him.) 

Worst of all, it would mean no more Stiles and Derek bonding time, which Stiles has grown rather fond of. So, despite the fact that Derek has become a near-constant presence in his life and Stiles really, really wants to act on his stupid, dumb feelings every time Derek so much as looks in his direction, Stiles promises himself that he won't breathe a word to Derek, that he'll keep his mouth shut and keep his feelings a secret, even if it kills him. 

Stiles can manage to not talk about something, right? 

It's fine. It'll be fine.

• • •

Over time, as hard as he tries to pretend otherwise, Derek begrudgingly comes to terms with the fact that Stiles has become something of a permanent fixture in his life, and, terrifyingly enough, the one person he's come to trust most in this world. Which would explain why, over the course of the year that follows, Stiles also becomes the one person Derek comes to whenever he's wounded. 

Unfortunately, that tends to happen quite a lot, given the number of times Derek crosses paths with rogue werewolf hunters, or accidentally strays into another pack's territory. The majority of Derek's injuries are the direct result of involvement in foreign pack drama, which is difficult to avoid, given how reckless and impulsive Erica and Jackson can sometimes act.

But, despite the constant string of curses and complaints, Stiles always takes care of him. In fact, Stiles becomes so accustomed to playing werewolf doctor that he starts keeping a makeshift first aid kit hidden under his bed for just such occasions, courtesy of Dr. Deaton, local veterinarian and supernatural specialist. The kit is filled with all manner of cure-alls, from Spiderman Band-Aids, to gauze, to dissolvable stitches, as well as twenty-seven different poison antidotes, a dozen lighters, and spare Wolfsbane bullets. Sometimes, if Derek is on his best behavior, Stiles will even share a pint of Ben and Jerry's with him as he tucks Derek into his bed, because, obviously, ice cream is the cure to everything.

After a while, Stiles stops freaking out about Derek's Black Widow level skills of agility and finesse, stops flailing and whisper-screaming holy shit, wear a fucking bell every time he turns a corner in his house and Derek is suddenly just there, slinking out from the shadows with a self-satisfied smirk on his stupid handsome face, and stops reprimanding Derek for his inability to use the front door like a normal person, as opposed to climbing through Stiles's bedroom window at all hours of the goddamn night. 

Sometimes, Derek will drop by with special research projects for Stiles, deciphering strange symbols or concocting antidotes. Sometimes, it's to ask for his help in planning sessions for pack training activities and exercises. But then sometimes, more often than not, Derek will just show up on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window without rhyme or reason, claiming that he's bored and would rather spend time in Stiles's company than stay at home by himself. 

The first time it happens, Stiles just stares at him for a few seconds before choking out a disbelieving Really? And Derek just rolls his eyes like it's not a huge fucking deal that a hot alpha werewolf doesn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night, shrugs his perfectly sculpted shoulders, and asks if Stiles is any good at making grilled cheese. 

He is. Stiles makes a mean grilled cheese, he'll have you know, despite what a certain sourwolf might claim otherwise. And no, they totally don't spend an entire hour making a huge stack of them, bickering over the merits of cheddar vs. mozzarella. Which definitely doesn't lead to an argument about which is better: cookies vs. brownies. How Stiles ends up with a kitchen countertop filled with all manner of baking supplies, insisting that they bake a batch of each from scratch (and one batch of cookie-brownie hybrids, you know, for science) so they can settle the debate once and for all, remains the greatest goddamned mystery of our time.

Derek's patience lasts all of five minutes as he watches Stiles struggle to open a bag of flour, before he's reaching for the bag so he can just do it himself. But Stiles won't let him have it, insisting that he's got it handled, that he'd just be loosening the pickle jar for Derek at this point, even though it's a flimsy paper bag, Stiles, not a pickle jar, but Stiles stubbornly refuses, playing keep-away with the bag of flour. They end up in a sort of vertical wrestling match over it, literally slapping each other's hands out of the way. 

And then the bag of flour bursts open and explodes in both of their faces, scattering the kitchen countertops, the sink, the fridge, the floor, in a blanket of white powder. Stiles blinks it out of his eyes and chances a glance over at Derek, who looks utterly ridiculous with a thick layer of flour coating his facial hair and embedded in his big surly eyebrows, and Stiles presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh, but ends up inhaling a mouthful of flour and a cloud of it puffs out of his mouth as he exhales. And Derek is just staring at him, not saying a word, and uh oh, he thinks, there I go pissing off the alpha again, never thought I'd die covered in baking ingredients, but here we are. 

But then something incredible happens. Without warning, Derek doubles over and bursts out laughing, just full belly laughing, eyes crinkling around the corners, and it's the most surreal experience because Stiles is not used to seeing this side of Derek, this lighter, happier, unencumbered version, and the sight of it sends a pang through his heart, making him ache for the person Derek probably was before the fire, for the person he probably could have been if his life hadn't been turned upside down. In that moment, Stiles vows to make it his personal mission to try to make Derek smile and laugh like that as much as he possibly can.

By the time they take the last batch out of the oven, the kitchen is an absolute war zone, mostly because, after the flour incident, they'd basically devolved into a low-key food fight, flinging chocolate chips at each other and swiping icing across each other's faces. And then Stiles realizes that it's nearly four in the morning and his dad will be home within the hour and will totally kill him if he sees the mess they've made, so he starts begrudgingly taking out the cleaning supplies and setting to work mopping the floor, while Derek tends to the giant tower of mixing bowls stacked in the sink. The kitchen gleams when they're finished, the Sheriff is none the wiser.

Stiles keeps expecting it to just be a one time thing, some weird twilight zone alternate universe where Derek is nice and they actually get along and like each other. But for some reason, it keeps happening. Derek keeps showing up outside his bedroom window, asking to come in. And no matter the time of night, or how much it kind of freaks Stiles out (because, really, Derek Hale wants to come over to his house and just…what, hang out? Like two normal people? Like they're friends? Or— no, oh my god, calm down, it's not a date) Stiles always obliges, immediately dropping whatever he'd been doing and leading Derek down to the kitchen for another round of experimental baking.

Or sometimes, they'll set up camp in the living room, and spend the evening curled around opposite ends of the couch with a bowl of popcorn between them. Hesitantly, like he's afraid one wrong move will send Derek running, Stiles turns toward him, manages a shaky, so, have you ever watched Doctor Who? and gets this impish little gleam in his eyes when Derek shakes his head. (Derek can't help but laugh and roll his eyes whenever Stiles insists on singing along, very loudly and off key, to the lyric-less theme song.)

Derek never really cared too much for television, but he likes watching Stiles binge his way through his favorite shows and movies, likes the way Stiles will look over at him every few minutes with a bright smile on his face to see if Derek's enjoying the content just as much as he is, the way Stiles gets so worked up over seemingly insignificant details, his entire body flailing as he delves into twenty-minute monologues about all the plot twists and character growth in BBC Sherlock, Supernatural, and the MCU.

And then there are those rare, magnificent moments in between. Nights when they don't watch anything at all. Instead, Stiles talks about his mother, about the illness that took her life, about all of the different destructive and detrimental ways in which his father had dealt with his grief, about how Scott had been there for him, every step of the way…and sometimes, Derek shares tiny little fragments about his family, too; brief glimpses into the life he'd led before the fire, before Kate Argent had stolen it all away from him. 

It's those moments that are the most difficult for Derek to admit he covets, and maybe that's what makes them so precious. Because Stiles is the only one who seems to understand the constant, all-consuming pain and self-inflicted guilt that Derek has been going through for over seven years now. 

Because Stiles is incredibly easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to. Because Stiles doesn't force Derek to open up about his past, doesn't expect him to continue, even if he'd stopped speaking mid-sentence, eyes glazing over as he disassociates. 

Because Stiles fills the silence where Derek had trailed off with his own words and memories, gently tugging Derek back to the present. Because Stiles is the first and only person with whom Derek feels comfortable enough to talk to about his family. 

On more than one occasion, Derek has to stop himself from wandering into the dangerous territory of time rewritten, imagining what life would have been like if Stiles could have met them, if Derek could have met Stiles's mother, if neither of them had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the hollow heartbreak that death often brings.

Because, it's like Stiles always says, "Death doesn't just happen to you. It happens to everyone around you. To all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it." 

And he's right, because it does. The loss of a loved one latches onto you, eats at you until you're just an empty shell. And Stiles is the first person he's come across who truly understands what that feels like.

In those moments, Derek can't help but admire how brilliant Stiles is, how well he keeps his own brokenness hidden from the rest of the world. Can't help but find solace in the fact that maybe, he doesn't have to anymore, that neither of them do, now that they've got each other to confide in. And that's…Derek doesn't want to call it hope, exactly…but it's definitely something.

• • •

As the months stack up and fall semester bleeds into spring, Stiles grows accustomed to finding himself in Derek's company more often than he spends the night alone, slipping into a cozy routine, night-owl movie marathons and kitchen adventures a tradition in the making. It should feel weird, shouldn't make sense, but somehow, it does. It feels…oddly natural, comfortable. 

So comfortable, in fact, that sometimes, Derek will fall asleep on Stiles's shoulder mid-marathon, his heavy, sprawled-out form sinking into the couch cushions as he coils his arms around Stiles's waist, his grip like a vice, all but pinning Stiles to his seat. And then Stiles is left with the impossible task of trying to coax a sleepy, surly werewolf upstairs before his dad comes home, threatening Derek with the task of having to explain to the Sheriff why Derek is practically lying on top of his son at such an ungodly hour of the morning. (Because, let's face it, there's no way they're going to be able to talk themselves out of that one.)

It's to no avail, though, because once Stiles finally does manage to drag Derek back up to his bedroom, Derek proceeds to fall asleep in Stiles's bed, leaving Stiles to curl up along the very edge of the mattress, because Derek apparently likes to sprawl. And the worst part about it is that, after Derek leaves in the morning, Stiles's bed always smells like sourwolf, his blankets, pillows, and sheets embedded with Derek's scent. Never mind the fact that it's actually an oddly comforting, earthy fragrance…like petrichor, like rain-soaked grass and autumn leaves, like an early morning run through the woods…not that Stiles would ever admit to that. Instead, he just pretends that it annoys him, especially when his best friend starts to take notice.

One afternoon, Scott comes over after school to study for an upcoming history exam. Scott is doing slightly better this semester than he had been all last year, but he still needs Stiles's help, or he is definitely going to fail the majority of his classes. Scott barrels into Stiles's bedroom and stretches out on his bed, burying his face into the comforter and pretending to cry over the mountain of notes and textbooks that Stiles has laid out in front of him. 

And then, mid-groan, Scott suddenly freezes, all traces of playful banter traded for alarm as he bounds up and glares at Stiles's comforter, head cocked to the side.

"Dude," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Why does your bed smell like Derek Hale? Has he…has he been sleeping here…with you?"

Of course, Stiles's initial reaction is to lie through his goddamn teeth, because how the hell is he supposed to explain their little domestic routine to Scott? But then he remembers that Scott is his best friend, and that, oh yeah, he also happens to possess supernatural werewolf senses, and could catch him in a lie just by listening for the subtle shift in his blood pressure. Plus, there's no way that he can deny the fact that his bed smells like their alpha. Scott would recognize Derek's scent anywhere. So Stiles puts on his best scowling face and starts rambling, hoping his racing heart and flushed skin are mistaken for irritation rather than nerves.

"Ugh, I know, dude, it's totally weird. So, you know how Derek is like, always getting himself into trouble, right? Well, the bastard always ends up coming to me, with like, no regard to the time of night. And I always fix him up, because, you know, the whole not wanting to get mauled to death by a werewolf thing. And, because he's always out all night playing werewolf Batman, the guy never gets any sleep, so he decides my bed is the perfect fucking place to crash, I guess, so that's why it always smells like him…no, don't look at me like that, it's not like he sleeps with me, okay, I just…I mean, it's my own fault, really, because I should probably just lock my window. Of course, Derek would probably just break it and come in anyway…"

No, hang on. That makes it sound like Derek would resort to vandalism just to get close to Stiles, and that's…no, that's not how Derek works. (Probably. He doesn't actually know. It's not like he's had ample opportunity to test that theory. He's just always left his window open for Derek to climb through without a second thought.) 

But then…come to think of it, Stiles isn't entirely certain why Derek always chooses to come to him, of all people, anyway. It's not like Stiles is the only person who's capable of fixing Derek up after a fight…there's Deaton, and Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd…people who've studied werewolves for far longer than Stiles has even been alive…people who actually are werewolves…

Stiles interrupts his own internal word vomit and glances over at Scott, hoping like hell that his short attention span has already moved on to other, more distracting topics (Allison…Lacrosse…Allison) and has already forgotten the fact that Derek's scent is not only all over Stiles's bedroom, but also all over Stiles himself, which, yeah, okay, he knows what that probably looks like to Scott, but Scott's got nothing to worry about, because that is so not ever going to happen because, well…Stiles just isn't that lucky. 

But Scott's got this look on his face like he's genuinely concerned and a little bit uncomfortable and definitely grossed out to the point where he might actually start crying for real, and he's fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and averting his eyes and then, horror of all horrors, he asks, "Are you and Derek dating, or something?"

Stiles splutters, issuing a series of choking noises that have got Scott legitimately worried now.

"I…what? No, of course not! That's…gross, Scott. Why would you even say that?" Stiles chokes out, the discordant crack in his voice completely giving him away. And now he's screaming internally, all-consuming mortification and relief at having finally been caught in the biggest lie of his life (because, hey, pretending not to have feelings for someone is exhausting) waging war for control inside his head. 

Scott raises his hands in surrender, offering Stiles his most convincing innocent puppy dog eyes (there's a joke in there somewhere, but Stiles doesn't have the patience to make it right now.)

"Okay, fine. So you're not dating Derek. I get it. But then…" Scott trails off, reaching underneath his ass to pull out a slightly lopsided stuffed wolf that he apparently hadn't realized he'd been sitting on.

"Why do you have this?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. Without thinking, Stiles launches onto his bed and rips the little plush toy out of Scott's hands, stroking the top of its head and pressing its little black nose into his cheek.

"Dude, don't sit on Sourwolf," he scolds, and seriously, he's going to murder Scott for the ridiculous grin that spreads across his face at the mention of the wolf's name.

"…isn't that what you call Derek?" he asks, biting back laughter.

"No…maybe…whatever, fuck you," Stiles says, shoving Sourwolf under his pillow and pacing the length of his bedroom, striped socks slipping across the hardwood floor. And then he pauses, realization dawning on him as he catches the wide, shit-eating grin unfurling across Scott's face.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps. "You're fucking with me, aren't you? You know."

"What do I know, Stiles?" Scott asks, his voice dripping with mock innocence.

"Okay," Stiles sighs in defeat, dropping down onto the bed to sit beside Scott. "So, exactly how long have you known that I've got a crush on Derek?"

Scott merely chuckles and tilts his head to the side, studying his best friend with a look of pure amusement.

"Probably a lot longer than you have, buddy," Scott laughs, fixing Stiles with one of his signature heart-melting crooked smiles.

Stiles lets out a little sigh of relief, anxiety uncoiling ever so slightly in the pit of his stomach at the notion that his best friend not only knows, but approves.

It's a nice moment.

And then Scott opens his mouth and ruins it.

"I mean, it's kind of obvious, you know? You just get really stupid around him. Like your whole brain just stops functioning whenever Derek's around. It's like someone took your brain, threw it into a jar, and shook it really hard."

Stiles maintains that Scott more than deserved getting punched in the arm.

• • •

One evening in late April, during a thunderstorm dredged up from the deepest depths of hell, Derek catches Stiles walking home in the pouring rain…or rather, Derek rescues Stiles from the potential threat of pneumonia. 

Stiles's Jeep is in the shop again, his dad is working late at the station, and he's just missed the last bus, so he's resorted to walking home from lacrosse practice, in the middle of what can only be described as a soft-core hurricane…without an umbrella, or a raincoat, or even proper footwear…just a pair of muddied-up sneakers and a bright red, rain-soaked hoodie.

Derek heaves a dramatic sigh as he pulls up along the sidewalk, rolls down the windows of his Camaro, and shouts, "Get the fuck in the car, Stiles." 

Stiles jerks up at the sudden noise, his eyes lingering on Derek's darkened features through the sliver of the window, before a huge, ridiculous grin spreads across his face and he immediately jumps into the passenger seat of Derek's car, shrugging out of his sweatshirt and splashing water all over the pristine leather. Derek winces, on the verge of telling Stiles off, but stops dead at the sight of him—

Rainwater dripping down the length of his neck, connecting the smattering of freckles and moles between pale patches of skin like constellations in the night sky.

White shirt clinging to every curve of his torso, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination (but that doesn't stop Derek's from running wild.) 

His tongue darts out from the corner of his mouth to lick a stray drop of water from his lips, and Derek nearly whimpers. 

And then he's arching his back into the heated leather seats, moaning his appreciation in a way that sends a jolt like a shot of whiskey through Derek's chest, and Derek grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white and he thinks, this is it, this is how I die. 

Somehow, miraculously, Derek doesn't crash the car, keeping his eyes averted as he drives Stiles home, berating and lecturing him the entire time about how stupid he is, and how he'll probably catch a fever, and when he does, he can drag his own sorry ass out of bed to get himself hot tea and a bowl of soup, because Derek sure as hell isn't going to be the one to do it. Stiles bites back a laugh, taking it for the bullshit lie it so clearly is. 

Finally, they pull up in front of his house, and while Stiles's eyes are averted, Derek allows himself a moment to really take him in…rain-soaked clothes clinging to his lightly toned muscles, trickles of water streaming down the surface of his skin, lips stained red, blushing from the tangled mix of hot and cold air, steam clouding up the windshield as Stiles breathes out spirals of heat against it. It's intensely beautiful. Stiles is intensely beautiful, and it makes Derek want to lean in and smother him in kisses until the day he dies, to cover every inch of his pale, gorgeous skin with his tongue and his teeth. 

Stiles turns back around, fixing Derek with a curious expression as his fingertips toy with the handle of the door.

"Derek, I—" he begins, sounding just as breathless as Derek feels.

"Don't—" Derek interrupts him, clearing his throat and cursing his voice for having gone so weak. "Don't ever let me catch you doing that again, got it?"

"Oh my god," Stiles says slowly, a brilliant smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You actually do care about me, don't you?"

Derek freezes, breaking his transfixion and rapidly readjusting the hinges of his mask…he can't lose control…can't let it show…not after he'd worked so hard to keep his feelings hidden. He's got to stay calm. Nonchalant. Casual.

"Of course I do," he says, with as much composure as he can manage. "You're pack."

Stiles bites his lower lip to keep his smug little smile in check, and it's so fucking adorable that Derek just can't help himself. Before Stiles can open the door, Derek fists one of his hands into the front of Stiles's shirt and pulls him close.

"If you die from pneumonia, or whatever the fuck you might've caught out there walking around in the freezing rain like a dumbass, I will kill you, and that's a promise," Derek growls, the ghost of a smile skating across his lips.

Stiles merely rolls his eyes, fighting back the urge to laugh, and climbs out of the car, stumbling onto the pavement like his limbs are at war with gravity. He reaches the front door and turns his key in the lock, looking back with a hopeful grin, and gives Derek a little wave before he steps into his house. Derek drives off in a make-believe huff, while Stiles sinks down the length of the door once he gets inside, slumping to the floor with a ridiculous smile on his face, hardly caring that he's freezing and soaked to the bone. Nope, none of that matters, because Derek had just admitted out loud that he cares about Stiles. And that's definitely something.

• • •

One thing that Derek absolutely hates about Stiles is his taste in music. Stiles blasts the shit out of his Jeep's speakers, singing along with a truly horrible excuse for music at the top of his lungs. After one too many dubstep remixes, Derek has no choice but to insist that they take the Camaro out on their pack training sessions instead. The alternative is smashing Stiles's iPod to bits, which Derek would normally have no qualms about doing, it's just…well…Stiles had worked really hard to be able to afford that iPod, and Derek would feel terrible if he broke it. He did try hiding it once, but Stiles found it almost immediately, nearly tearing off the pockets of Derek's leather jacket in the process.

The summer before senior year, Derek decides he wants to take the pack on a road trip up to the mountains for a couple of weeks of private, intensive training sessions. The entire trip had been planned several months in advance, a collaborative effort developed by Stiles and Derek to make the pack stronger, more alert, and more tightly-knit via training exercises that Stiles had charmingly christened packtivities (Derek has developed a bad habit of smacking Stiles across the back of the head every time he uses that word. And he's definitely going to detach a retina if Stiles makes the Camping! It's gonna be in-tents! joke one more fucking time.)

Unfortunately for Derek, since Stiles's Jeep is far roomier than Derek's Camaro, Derek, Stiles, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all pile into the powder blue death-mobile for one agonizingly long drive up the mountainside, with far too much exposure to Stiles's terrible taste in music. (Erica is an evil little instigator; she sings just as loudly and off-key as Stiles does.)

Meanwhile, in the disgustingly adorable couples' carpool, sits Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson. When all of them finally arrive, they set up camp at the edge of the mountain, in a secluded little clearing surrounded by pine trees and berry bushes. The tent-sharing set up goes as follows: Scott and Allison to the first tent, Lydia and Jackson to the second, Erica and Boyd to the third…leaving Derek, Stiles, and Isaac to share the last tent (at least they'd all thought to bring their own sleeping bags.)

Once everyone has unpacked and settled in, Lydia and Allison light up a campfire, while Stiles and Derek drive five blindfolded betas to the very top of the mountain for their first trial in tracking scent. Stiles gives Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson two items of clothing: one with Stiles's scent, and one with Derek's. Their instructions are to wait at the top of the mountain for a full hour, taking time to get acclimated to their surroundings, and giving Stiles and Derek plenty of time to trek their way back to the campsite. Then, after their sixty-minute period is up, they can take off their blindfolds, and find their way back to the campsite, using only their sense of smell to track Stiles and Derek down.

As they turn to leave, Stiles puts on his best Capitol accent, and says, "May the odds be ever in your favor," earning a sarcastic eye roll from Derek.

"This isn't the Hunger Games, Stiles. It's not like they're fighting to the death."

"Dude," Stiles says, shamelessly gaping at Derek. "You actually got that reference? I don't even remember watching that with you."

Derek responds with a simple shrug, sliding into the passenger's seat of the Jeep.

"So," Stiles muses as he climbs into the driver's side. "How come you didn't tell me you were a closet fanboy? I'd always thought you were just humoring me, you know? Watching all that sci-fi and action hero stuff with me. But it would appear that I have converted you."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek sighs, a small smile creeping its way across his lips.

"You know, I've got the trilogy in hardcover, if you ever want to borrow—"

"Shut up and drive, Stiles."

Stiles does as he's told, but his smile is as smug as ever.

As they drive back down the mountains through verdant woods, golden rays of the sun bleeding into the citrine skyline as the rolling hills of the mountainside swallow it whole, the two of them sink into a comfortable silence, neither of them feeling the need to fill the void with idle chatter. Stiles has, thankfully, turned the volume of his iPod down to a soft lull, and is no longer trying to balance driving with conducting the score to The Avengers. 

Stiles stares straight ahead, his fingertips drumming along the edge of the steering wheel in a steady rhythm, a small, contented smile on his lips. Derek focuses his attention on the patches of dirt embedded in the carpet of the passenger's seat, most likely his own doing over the past two years, and absentmindedly scrapes his black leather boots over the tears in the fabric, somehow managing to make them even worse. He keeps his head down, resting his chin against his palm, and slowly, ever so slightly, lifts his eyes to peer over at Stiles from underneath his lashes. If Stiles takes notice, he never lets on.

When they park the Jeep in the clearing at the edge of the mountain, they notice that the campfire has recently been put out, its remaining embers a dull orange, melting into the charcoaled ash of the burning tree bark. Lydia and Allison have, by the looks of it, retreated to one of their tents for the night, waiting for their boys to come back to the campsite. 

Stiles gets an inkling that Derek has no desire to go anywhere near the campfire until it's died out completely, so he perches atop the hood of his Jeep, lies back against the windshield, and pats the spot right next to him, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Derek gives him an exasperated glare, rolling his eyes and shuffling over to the car, before vaulting onto the hood in one smooth, graceful motion, and easing into the space beside Stiles.

Neither of them say a word as they lay there, staring up at the star-strewn sky through a tangled web of tree branches, shoulders and thighs pressed against one another's. By the time the betas return to the campsite, Derek and Stiles have already fallen asleep, and the image of Stiles's head draped over Derek's chest, Derek's arm wrapped tight around Stiles's waist, both of them softly snoring on the hood of Stiles's Jeep, is enough to send the five of them into hysterics, Erica hissing loudly at them all to shut up so she can get to her phone and snap a photo before they wake up.

Even Derek's signature death glares aren't enough to quell all the giggling he has to endure for the entirety of their two-week trip.

• • •

One morning in mid-summer, a few days after they'd returned from their camping trip, Stiles arrives at Derek's house with a determined look in his eyes, arms overflowing with home makeover catalogues, DIY brochures, and stacks of paint samples. As expected, Derek slams the door in Stiles's face. 

It takes all of two days and an endless barrage of okay but what ifs for Stiles to convince Derek to reconsider, pointing out that renovating the Hale house will serve as a fantastic pack bonding activity, that fixing the broken remnants of his home won't chase away the memories that Derek has of his family and of his old life…instead, it'll make way for new memories, for Derek's second family, his new pack, to weave their way into his life. It would become a place for all of them to assemble, to come and go as they please, and maybe then, Derek wouldn't feel so lonely. (The detailed visual of Jackson scowling and covered in paint might have been the determining factor that tipped Derek over the edge.)

The moment Derek finally agrees, Stiles sets the plan into motion, and the pack spends the rest of the summer tirelessly working together to rebuild the Hale house, sanding hardwood flooring and plastering scuffs and scrapes and holes, reinstalling plumbing and electric, choosing furniture and carpeting and repainting the walls. Each week, they devote their mornings and afternoons to working on a different section of the house, celebrating their hard day's work with pizza and takeaway, and piling onto Derek's recently purchased leather couches for movie marathons and Mario Kart tournaments in the evenings.

When it's all finally finished, Derek and the rest of the pack decide to throw a surprise party to celebrate Stiles's 18th birthday, complete with flameless candles stacked onto a massive three-tiered chocolate hazelnut cake. As a sort of thank you, Derek decides to bake Stiles's birthday cake entirely from scratch, whipping up the ingredients from muscle memory. 

It's a recipe they'd found together on Pinterest ages ago, always joking that if they ever ended up on a tag-team baking competition together, that would be their finale-winning show-stopper. It takes him hours, and he's fairly certain that if he didn't have werewolf healing, he'd have developed carpal tunnel just from the piping alone, but the look on Stiles's face when Derek carries it out, the way his eyes flutter closed when he takes his first bite, the way Stiles leans against him and whispers, dude, this is amazing, thank you so much, is totally worth it.

• • •

It's the last day of summer, the last day of freedom before classes kick back up and the majority of the pack is pulled back into the dismal routine of high school, homework, and after-school activities, and of course, Stiles can't sleep. Sure, the dangerous mix of Adderall and Red Bull he'd had the night before were probably the culprits, but mostly, Stiles reasons, it's nerves. Because, here's the thing: once classes resume and everyone's lives go back to being ridiculously busy, now with the added worry of college applications to potentially stir up pack drama, the lot of them won't be able to spend nearly as much time together as they had been all summer. Worst of all, Derek will be left all alone again, and Stiles can't help but worry what that's going to do to him.

Dragging his fingers through his ruffled mess of hair and deciding that there's far too much daylight pouring through his bedroom window for him to even consider trying to go back to sleep, Stiles springs up from his mattress and makes his way downstairs, hoping for something, anything to distract him from stressing out about Derek Hale's hypothetical emotional state. What Stiles gets instead is an eyeful of his father kissing Scott's mom. From the looks of it, she'd stayed the night…and from the casual comfortability of their embrace, it would appear that this has been going on for quite some time.

Stiles should be shocked, really, but given the Sheriff's odd behavior as of late, the way he drifts off mid-conversation with a goofy smile on his face, the hint of really familiar perfume clinging to his clothes, and the occasional smudge of a lipstick stain on his cheek, Stiles is honestly just relieved to have finally figured out his dad's secret.

After a few seconds, Stiles composes himself and quietly clears his throat, and the two of them immediately break apart, Melissa wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, the Sheriff attacking a phantom itch on the back of his head. Stiles presses his lips together, biting back a nervous laugh.

"So…this is new," he says, shoving his fists into the pockets of his pajama pants and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"I'll just…get your coat, then," the Sheriff mumbles, averting his eyes from Stiles's expectant gaze.

"It's summer. I didn't bring a coat," Melissa reminds him, lips curving into a small smile. "Morning, Stiles."

She waves an awkward goodbye in Stiles's general direction and quickly slips out the door, Sheriff Stilinski close on her heels.

"We're gonna have a nice, long chat about all of this after I've dropped Melissa off at work, alright? Promise," he says, closing the door behind him with an audible click.

Stiles sighs and retreats to the couch with a big bowl of fruit loops balanced in his lap, lounging around the living room while he waits, lazily flipping through the channels until he lands on BBC America, which only serves to remind him of his all-nighter sci-fi movie marathons with Derek. 

Since the beginning of summer, they'd been spending all of their free time with the rest of the pack, which had left little time nor reason for Derek to come by Stiles's house…a fact that shouldn't bother Stiles as much as it does. Sure, Derek still came over from time to time to get Stiles's pre-approval of certain video games and movies for pack bonding nights, still crashed on his bed whenever he'd stayed too late and didn't feel like venturing back home…but not nearly as much as he used to.

Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Stilinski strolls through the door, setting down his keys and flopping down onto the opposite end of the couch, sighing and rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"So, when's the wedding?" Stiles asks, smirking.

"Stiles, that's not—" he starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

"I mean, it's not like it would make much of a difference, really. Scott and I are basically already brothers, anyway. You marrying Melissa would just make it, you know…official."

"Stiles," he sighs, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Look, I'm sorry you had to find out about it like this. It's not like we were trying to keep it a secret from you and Scott, it's just…we didn't know if we could actually make this work, you know? We've been friends for so long, we've both got our baggage. We wanted to test the waters a little bit, keep it under wraps until we knew for sure that what we have is a good thing, for the both of us, and, most especially, for the both of you. And I didn't want to upset you, Stiles, because ever since your moth—"

"Dad, it's fine, really," Stiles sighs, cutting him off before he can make any more absurd apologies simply for having found love with someone other than Stiles's mom.

"Look, I know what you're going to say, and yeah, it's still a little weird because of…because of mom, okay, but no matter how long you wait and no matter who you end up with, it's always going to be weird, because I know that you'll never love anyone else the same way you love mom…but if I had to choose someone for you, not that I ever would because that would just be, like, super awkward and weird, but if I had to…I'd choose Melissa, because honestly, it kind of makes sense, you know? And, what it comes down to is…well…I haven't seen you this happy in years, and…and you deserve to be happy, dad."

Sheriff Stilinski stares at his son in astonishment, studying his expression intently, searching for the fault line…but in all honesty, there isn't one. Because there is nothing that Stiles wants more than to see his father happy.

"Thanks, kid," he says, pulling Stiles into a bone-crushing bear hug.

"Suffocating me, dad," Stiles laughs, squeezing his dad back even harder. When they finally pull away, Stiles mock-punches his dad in the arm and says, "Hey, you didn't have to keep it a secret from me and Scott, you know. We would've been fine with it."

Sheriff Stilinski rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles right back.

"Right," he says. "Like you've never kept any secrets from me."

"I know, I know," Stiles sighs dramatically. "I shouldn't have kept the whole werewolves are real and my best friend is one of them thing a secret from you for as long as I did, but hey, it's all out in the open now, right? You know about werewolves, I know about you and Melissa. So, we're good now. No more secrets."

"Huh," Sheriff Stilinski huffs thoughtfully. And then—

"You left out the part where your boyfriend's a werewolf, too."

Stiles gags on his cereal.

"Ew, Scott's not my boyfriend."

"Not Scott," his dad dismisses with a grimace. "I'm talking about Derek Hale."

Wait.

What.

"Look, son, I'm not mad," he says, pretending not to notice the fact that Stiles is literally sinking into the couch cushions in a vain attempt to disappear. "Granted, I'm not too thrilled about the age difference, but he seems like a nice enough guy, and you're an adult now. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions. I'd just like to know that you're happy with him, that he treats you right, that you're using protect—"

This isn't happening. Thisisnthappening. This conversation is so not happening.

Stiles's entire body is on fire.

"Oh my fucking god," he splutters before he can stop himself. "Derek is not my boyfriend. Why does everyone keep saying that about us?"

"Probably because that's exactly what it looks like," the Sheriff says, barking out a laugh.

"Okay, fine, whatever. If me helping Derek plan pack training exercises is the equivalent of me dating Derek, then, yeah, I guess we're dating. But don't tell him that, unless you want your only son to die a very painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I'll believe that when the werewolf in question stops climbing through your bedroom window at all hours of the night, or staring at you like a lovesick puppy-dog when he thinks I'm not watching. And don't give me that look, Stiles. I know perfectly well what goes on when you boys think I'm not home. I can't even begin to count the number of times I've caught you two asleep on this couch together…god only knows what you've been up to."

At that last line, Sheriff Stilinski crinkles his nose, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushions like he's worried he'll find something unseemly hiding underneath them. Stiles, now properly shocked and more than a little paranoid, mouths wordlessly at his father, arms at the ready for another bout of flailing. 

Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head, sighing heavily as he hoists himself up off the couch and reaches for his keys. He's nearly out the door and on his way to work when he doubles back suddenly, fixing Stiles with an affectionate smile, and says, "You know, Stiles…you deserve to be happy, too."

• • •

Later that evening, after Stiles has calmed down from his incredibly awkward (and emotionally scarring) conversation with his father, the pack meets over at Derek's house to celebrate their last night of freedom with a cheesy, romantic comedy movie marathon. 

Scott takes the news of their parents dating just as Stiles had thought he would, with a surprised, "Really? That's awesome!" and gives Stiles a high-five, musing over their potential speeches as groomsmen (the more embarrassing, the better, obviously) and getting far too worked up over a wedding that hasn't even been announced, let alone discussed between the couple in question.

At around 11PM, everyone starts to clear out and head home, complaining in low, grumbling voices about their inevitable workload for the upcoming semester, comparing each other's schedules with excited squees and exhaustive groans. Stiles stays behind to help clean up, just like he always does, collecting plates covered in pizza sauce and glasses half-filled with soda and bringing them into the kitchen, where he does the washing up and leaves the clean dishes in the rack beside the sink to dry, while Derek lurks in the living room, pretending that he doesn't know how to work the dishwasher. 

As Stiles makes his way to the front door, he finds that his path has been blocked by the alpha. He tries to skate around him, but Derek just darts in front of him like the weirdest game of keep-away Stiles has ever had to play.

"Dude, come on, I don't have time for this right now. I have to get home," Stiles says, arching his eyebrows for emphasis, but Derek just continues to stand there, blocking Stiles's only exit like a giant, stupidly handsome wall of muscle. 

Several seconds pass before either of them say anything, and then finally, Derek speaks, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands like he's…like he's nervous. How is that even possible?

"I just," Derek starts, clearing his throat with a brusque sigh. "I never got the chance to thank you for convincing me to fix up the house," he says, his eyes darting around the finished walkway, from the polished, cherry oak hardwood floors to the scarlet runner carpet dancing up the stairwell, to the freshly-plastered walls concealing old scuffs, scrapes, and holes, covered in coats of warm, comforting, sunset hues. 

In reality, it isn't the finished house itself that Derek appreciates, or even the effort that Stiles had put into making the house a more livable place. It was because Stiles had helped give Derek a family again, a home.

"So…thank you," he says softly, locking his eyes onto Stiles's and fixing him with an intense stare, hoping that it's enough to convey everything he hadn't said aloud. They're only a few inches apart now, and Stiles can almost taste the warm, inviting scent of Derek's breath against his lips, urging him closer. 

Stiles worries his lower lip, drags a hand to the back of his head to attack a phantom itch, and says, "Yeah, of course, man…I mean, it's no big deal, really…I just…I care about you, too, you know? You deserve to be happy."

It happens in a matter of seconds, in a whirlwind of nerves and tension that had been plaguing the two of them for the better part of the last year, in a rush of adrenaline grounded in misguided confidence and the optimistic possibility that maybe, just this once, something could actually work in his favor. 

The sight of Derek's lips curving into a hopeful, heart-clenching smile is what draws Stiles in, pushing him over the breaking point until he's lost all semblance of common sense, giving in to his villainous hormones and clandestine desires as he presses his lips against Derek's, fisting his hands into the neckline of Derek's shirt and pulling him closer, pouring every last drop of affection, passion, and frustration into that kiss, delighting in the delicate moan that he conjures out of Derek's mouth as his teeth graze the alpha's lower lip. 

In an instant, the mood shifts from euphoric to tempestuous, and Stiles can feel the muscles of Derek's body tense against his own, the realization of how vulnerable and submissive Derek had just made himself sound rapidly sinking in. Derek pulls back abruptly and pushes at Stiles's shoulders, nearly knocking him to the ground as he fights his way to the bottom of the stairwell.

"We can't do this," he says, almost too quiet for Stiles to catch. "I'm sorry, but I think you should go."

Without so much as a backward glance, Derek races up the stairs and rounds the corner, disappearing down a distant corridor. There's the telltale slam of his bedroom door, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. 

Stiles shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at the empty stairwell, lost for words. A small, disbelieving sob rips its way through his chest and crawls up the length of his throat, and Stiles scrunches up his face as the searing pain of having to hold it all back winds its way through the bridge of his nose. The muscles of his legs start to tremble, giving out as he stumbles to the hardwood floor. 

With a grimace, he grasps the brass doorknob and indelicately wrenches it open, practically throwing himself out onto the front porch and into his Jeep. He turns the radio dial to full blast, drowning out the rest of the world in mottled beats and bass lines, and runs three red lights on his way home, traffic laws be damned. The moment he's safely concealed inside his room, Stiles collapses face-first onto his bed, which, seriously, fuck his life, because his sheets and pillows and blankets all smell exactly like Derek, and right now, that scent is pure torture.

In a fit of frustration, Stiles grabs Sourwolf and throws him across the room, where he collides into the wall with a pathetic little thump. And, of course, because Stiles is a fucking bleeding heart, he actually feels bad about having hurt the little plush toy, and quickly rushes over pick it back up and gently place it on his bedside table. Because really, it's not the inanimate bag of fluff's fault that Derek is a gorgeous, convoluted, life-ruining asshole.

Stiles glances at his phone, his brain churning out a thousand different clever one-liners that he could send to Derek, but instead, he simply lets it fall to the floor, into a rumpled pile of clothing that he's pretty damn sure contains one or more of Derek's shirts. There's nothing he could say that could possibly fix this. Because Stiles has fucked up. He's fucked up big time. And there's no coming back from this.

Stiles doesn't sleep well that night. He gets maybe a good twenty minutes in before his alarm clock starts screaming at him to wake up. He's about as surly and sour as Derek himself that first day back at school, biting back bitter comments when people tell him how exhausted he looks (which, quite frankly, is just rude, because telling someone they look tired is just a polite way of saying they look like shit.)

So instead, he plasters on a fake smile, trudges through the hallways, comes home, and collapses onto his bed, falling into an uneasy sleep and trying his damnedest to ignore the way his phone distinctly doesn't light up with one of Derek's texts, or the way Derek's scent still clings to his bedsheets. The rest of his week follows in a similar pattern, and dust collects on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window.

• • •

It's Friday, less than a week after Stiles's humiliating encounter with Derek, which, miraculously, no one else in the pack seems to have found out about. He's parked his tray at a table in the corner of the school cafeteria, waiting for the rest of the group to show up. 

At the moment, his only company is Danny Mahealani, which is a little awkward, because Stiles has never actually had a proper conversation with the guy before. But Stiles suspects that that's all going to change soon…after all, Danny is well-versed in werewolf lore by now, due to the fact that Jackson had clued him in the night he'd turned…which makes it so much easier, honestly, not having to hide a secret that isn't even his from yet another person. 

But at the moment, Stiles is too damned exhausted and irritable to scrounge up good conversation material, so he just sits there in uncharacteristic silence…which apparently bothers the shit out of Danny, enough that he's actually willing to talk to Stiles for once.

"So, about the alpha," Danny prompts, because of fucking course Danny would want to talk to Stiles about werewolves right now. After all, being the only two humans in a human-werewolf hybrid clique that aren't romantically linked with any of said werewolves finally gives them something to talk about, something that they have in common.

"It's um…it's Miguel, right?" Danny asks, but his cheeky smile would suggest that he already knows otherwise.

"Oh, right. Um…yeah, sorry about that," Stiles says, sighing heavily. "I lied. He's not my cousin…and, um…his name is Derek."

"Derek Hale? Lone survivor of the Hale house fire? Tall, brooding…gorgeous. Yeah, I kind of figured the alpha wasn't actually your cousin…but then…he did spend an awful lot of time in your bedroom…" Danny trails off, and oh my god, is he really going to go there after what had happened between him and Derek last week? Does Stiles really have to deal with this shit right now?

Yes, as it happens, he does.

"So, humor me, Stilinski. Are you and him…you know…" Danny asks, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands.

"No, Danny. Derek and I are not dating," he sighs in a dejected deadpan voice.

"So, he's available, then?"

Stiles full on spasms, his head snapping back up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, and fixes Danny with a wide-eyed glare.

"Oh my god, Danny, no, you can't have him," Stiles blurts without even thinking. Because, unfortunately, Scott is absolutely right. Derek does make him stupid.

"That's what I thought," Danny says, a smug little smile edging its way onto his lips, like he's the fucking all-knowing love guru of Beacon Hills…which, admittedly, he might as well be. 

Luckily, to save Stiles from further embarrassment, Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson finally show up, followed closely by Boyd, Isaac, and Erica. The eight of them immediately launch into a discussion about their classes and the mountain of homework they all have to do, which serves as a nice distraction…for a little while, at least, until they all start raving about some house party that's apparently going on this weekend. 

Scott, all smiles and sunshine and fucking rainbows, throws an arm around Stiles's shoulders and says, "You're coming, too, right?"

Stiles scrunches up his nose in disinterest, earning a disapproving look from the rest of the group.

"Aww, come on, dude," Scott whines. "You've been acting miserable all week. Might be good for you to get out for a little bit."

"Yeah, come out with us tonight, Batman," Erica jests, flashing him her best smile. "Maybe a drink or two will wipe that sad little frown off your face."

"We've all been pretty worried about you," Allison chimes in, and Stiles nearly dies at the look of absolute pity she gives him, well-intentioned though it may be.

"Everything okay, man? You smell like…I don't even know. It's kind of hard to make out," Isaac says.

"A little bit like hopelessness. Yeah, I've been getting that, too," Boyd agrees.

"Me? No, I'm fine. I am completely one hundred and three percent fine…it's not like anything happened to make me, you know, not fine. So…yeah. Everything's…great," Stiles says, placing special emphasis on the t, like he's mocking it just for existing. The pack falls silent, glancing around at each other awkwardly.

"O…kay. Well, good. So…everything's fine, and you're definitely coming with us tonight, right?" Scott asks. 

Stiles groans and buries his face in his palms, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and reluctantly nodding his assent. Scott whoops and punches the air in triumph. Oh joy, Scott managed to talk Stiles into being dragged to yet another horrible social event. Another affair of couple-focused bullshit, serving as a cruel reminder of the fact that Stiles is still painfully single, and that less than a week ago, all because of his stupid, rash decision-making, he'd been rejected and had lost a really great sort-of friend all in one go. 

But Scott thinks he's done right by Stiles, thinks that, somehow, a lame high school party will solve all of his problems, and he absolutely hates making Scott sad, so Stiles will just have to suck it up and pretend like he's having a good time, no matter how much he knows he'll end up despising this evening.

• • •

Derek Hale is freaking the fuck out. 

Okay, so maybe storming off in a terrified huff wasn't exactly the best way he could've handled that situation…but then again, he hadn't ever expected Stiles to kiss him like that, much less…well, ever. No matter how many times he'd imagined that exact scene playing out in his head, over and over in a multitude of different ways until he'd all but perfected the fantasy, he had never expected that Stiles would be the one to make the first move. 

He'd been so caught off guard by Stiles's bold, forward, fervent willingness, that for a moment, he actually thought he'd been dreaming. Stiles had taken complete control of the situation, of Derek himself, to the point where, if he truly wanted to, Stiles could irrevocably destroy him, could tear down the walls he'd worked so hard to build, brick by brick, before Derek could so much as blink. And he couldn't…no, he wouldn't…let that happen. Not again.

Because Derek had spent the past year convincing himself that he could never have this, that nothing could ever happen between the two of them. Because Derek knows that he would never be good enough for a guy like Stiles. Because Derek is reckless and stupid, especially when it comes to his emotions, and he's bound to fuck this up, and he can't risk wrecking the first real, deep connection he's had with someone aside from his own family since the fire.

And the worst part of all of this is that that exact commentary had been running through his head as he'd kissed Stiles back that night, seeking solace in the comfort of Stiles's embrace, weaving his fingers up the length of Stiles's neck, lightly tugging on the strands of his tousled dark brown hair, longer now than the buzzcut he'd worn when they'd first met, swallowing back Stiles's groans of pleasure like he was starved for them. And like the selfish, needy bastard that he is, he hadn't even tried to stop it. 

And then Stiles had done something amazing with his tongue and his teeth that had fractured all logic and reason, unraveling Derek in a way he'd never experienced simply from kissing someone. In that moment, Derek had felt himself surrendering everything to Stiles, reveling in the stomach-flipping euphoria of feeling wanted by someone he loves, and the very notion of sinking to that level of vulnerability all over again had scared the ever-loving shit out of him.

Over the course of the week that follows, Derek vows to stay away from Stiles, to give him the space he tells himself they both need, allowing himself plenty of time to recover, to think everything through. After five days of critical self-analysis, involving heavy bouts of conscience-bashing and repeatedly slamming his fists into his suspended punching bag, Derek arrives at the first sensible realization he's had about himself in nearly seven years: he's being fucking stupid. 

Because Stiles isn't some ticking time-bomb with a secret ruse rooted in vengeance and bloodlust. Stiles isn't going to use him and his vulnerability to destroy him and everything he holds dear. By now, Stiles has more than proven his worth, more than earned Derek's trust and respect and affection, and Derek is a fucking idiot for turning him down, for denying both of them the one thing he's spent years desperately craving. 

Confirming that Stiles's slightly dented, powder blue Jeep is still parked in the driveway, Derek scales the side of the Stilinski house in one swift, fluid movement, just as he'd done hundreds of times before, and perches atop the little ledge outside of Stiles's bedroom window. He holds back laughter at the thought of what Stiles would say about his super sleuth secret agent sneak attack skills, at the image of Stiles's startled expression when he opens the window and casually climbs into his bedroom, just like old times. 

But, much to Derek's disappointment, Stiles's room is empty, door closed, all lights extinguished, crescent moon casting eerie shadows on the walls as it slips in and out of the view of the curtains, bathing the room in darker shades of its usual grays and blues. The only light in the room is the soft glow of the little white apple adorning Stiles's laptop, the only sound the gentle whirring of the motor as it sleeps, waiting for its owner to return from…well, wherever he is. Derek quietly slips into the room and paces the hardwood floor, searching for signs that might clue him in as to where Stiles has gone tonight.

He runs his fingertips along the battle scarred edges of the wooden desk and dressers, across the soft fabric of Stiles's blankets and sheets that have long since lost Derek's scent. He frowns, realizing just how long it's been since he'd last stopped by, and makes a mental note to scent-mark the hell out of Stiles's bed, reclaiming it, and consequently, Stiles, as his. Derek strolls to the edge of the bed and takes up his usual spot, sinking into the mattress like his shape belongs there. He collapses backward onto the soft, plush pillows, inhaling the lingering remnants of Stiles's scent. 

He catches hints of worry, restlessness, and anxiety, and he can't help but grimace, hoping he'll soon be able to fix that. To fix Stiles. Derek had been purposely avoiding him all this past week, and it's going to take a hell of a lot to convince Stiles to forgive him, but he's willing to wait. After all, in a way, he'd been waiting for Stiles all this past year, waiting for something that he thought would likely never happen. He would wait all night if he had to.

• • •

At around three o'clock in the morning, Stiles bursts through his bedroom door, staggers toward the nearest piece of furniture, and clings to it for dear life. Derek startles awake, watching as Stiles kicks off one shoe, and then the other, laughing like an idiot as they collide with his bedside table. He stumbles in the semi-darkness, collapsing onto his bed and snuggling into the comforter, accidentally smacking Derek across the face in the process. Derek swears loudly, rousing a muffled scream from Stiles as he leaps off of the bed and crashes to the floor.

"Holy fucking shitballs," Stiles shouts, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. Derek rushes to his side, grips him by the collar of his shirt, and snakes an arm around his waist, hoisting him upright so his head doesn't hit the floor. Stiles's eyes grow wide as he takes in the sight of Derek's scowl, a mixture of frustration and concern contorting his features in the muted moonlight. 

Derek can hear the erratic thrum of Stiles's heart pounding in his chest, can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Having lost all control of his limbs, Stiles just lies there on his bedroom floor, staring up at Derek with an odd combination of adoration, embarrassment, and shock. He clears his throat once, twice, three times, shifting his weight so that the back of his head is pressed right up against Derek's chest.

"Heeeey, Derek," Stiles says in what he probably imagines is a casual tone, raising his hands in a vain attempt to tame his tousled mess of hair. In his current state, however, his hands miss his head by several inches, and he ends up flailing and high-fiving the air instead. Derek rolls his eyes and tries not to smirk. Then he catches another scent, a sharp, sickly sweet scent that's so strong it makes him wince, rolling off of Stiles's breath in waves.

"You smell like a fucking brewery," Derek growls. "How much have you had to drink?"

Stiles starts counting on his fingers, holds seven of them up to Derek's face, and says, "Couple of shots of vodka, I think…I lost count after the fourth. Oh, and then I had sex…on the beach…which was awesome…oh, wait, no, not like that, I didn't mean…the drink, obviously…I meant the drink," he slurs, hiccoughing and giggling to himself.

"Where were you?" Derek asks, eyebrows knit in confusion, trying to ignore the prickle of a blush that had burst across his face at the sound of Stiles's voice wrapped around the word sex, or the swell of relief that Stiles hadn't spent the night with someone else.

"Party. Biiiiig party. Laaaaaame party. Everyone was paired off by the end of the night, making out in various corners of the room…everyone but me," Stiles sighs dramatically.

"Right.Okay. You need sleep, like, right now," Derek decides, dragging Stiles up by his underarms and carrying him back toward the bed. He lays Stiles down gently, cradling the back of his head in the palms of his hands.

"Wait, what are you even doing here?" Stiles asks around a stifled yawn. "I thought you hated me."

Derek winces, a suffocating ball of guilt manifesting in the back of his throat.

"Don't be stupid, Stiles. Of course I don't hate you," he says, fixing Stiles with a wounded glare.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, like he doesn't quite believe it. "Well, how come you're here, then? Pack meeting's not 'til tomorrow."

"I'm not here because of pack stuff. I'm here to talk about us, Stiles. But that doesn't matter right now. We can talk about it when you're sober," Derek says, pulling back several layers of blankets and sheets and coaxing them around Stiles's stubborn legs.

"Hah…nope, I don't buy it…because I'm here to talk about us is totally not something the real Derek would ever say to me. See, Derek doesn't do feelings…he's about as emotionally constipated as Dean Winchester…which I guess makes me Cas…but anyway, yeah, I'm just going to assume that none of this is actually happening and that my brain is just playing another cruel trick on me…okay, Dream Derek?"

Derek sighs audibly, rolling his eyes and shrugging off the blatant insult.

"Whatever gets you into bed," he says, and then instantly regrets it.

"Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, Dream Derek?" Stiles growls, shrugging out of his t-shirt and throwing it across the room, where it lands in a heap with the rest of his laundry. Stiles is now drunk and shirtless, and he's being incredibly cheeky and flirty, and Derek is hovering just mere inches above him…this can't end well. Stiles's fingertips move to unbutton his jeans, but Derek stops him before he manages to slide them all the way down, hands ghosting over his hips. Stiles closes his eyes and groans miserably, quickly covering his mouth with the palm of his hand as another wave of nausea hits him full-force.

"Yeah, that's so not going to happen right now. Even if you weren't seconds away from throwing up, you're still drunk. Come on, Stiles, get up. You need to put pajamas on. I know you how much you hate sleeping in jeans," he urges, but Stiles doesn't budge, lying flat on his back with his hands fisted into the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck no," Stiles groans. "Seriously, dude, I'm so goddamn dizzy right now, if I open my eyes for even a second, I'm gonna hurl. Feels like I'm on a ship, and not in the fun way."

"Alright, fine," Derek grumbles. "Just lay still and let me tuck you in before you flail out of control and give yourself a concussion."

"That's mean," Stiles whines, rubbing his fingertips against his aching temples.

"Where's the lie though?" Derek quips back, pulling the comforter up to Stiles's neck and tucking in the sides.

"Touché," Stiles mumbles. "But still…rude."  

Stiles rolls over, an appreciative groan escaping his lips as he snuggles in and curls an arm around a little black and gray stuffed wolf that Derek hadn't ever noticed before. With a heavy sigh, Derek lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, appointing himself as Stiles's official nighttime guardian, and studies the steady rise and fall of his chest as he drifts off to sleep, arms wrapped tightly around the little wolf as he nuzzles into its fur.

"Stiles, you ridiculous, adorable little moron…what am I going to do with you?" Derek says, a bit louder than he'd meant to, causing Stiles to startle awake, snorting and mumbling something unintelligible.

"Didn't catch that, sorry," Derek says, at which point Stiles huffs and sighs theatrically.

"I said, you sound just like Derek…all rugged, and sexy, and Alpha Sourwolf," Stiles mumbles, baring his teeth and biting at the corner of his pillow for dramatic effect.

"What did you just say?" Derek barks out a laugh, a furious blush creeping across his cheekbones.

Stiles wrinkles his nose and shakes his head back and forth against the pillow.

"Nothing. I said nothing. I am definitely not talking about Derek Hale anymore. Oh, and, before you ask, for the last time, no, we are definitely not dating."

His eyes are closed, so Derek can only assume that he's still half drunk and half asleep, completely unaware of where he is and who he's speaking to.

"Who thinks we're dating?" Derek asks, making sure to speak a little quieter this time, lest he wake the entire household.

"Well…everyone, really," Stiles replies. "Even my dad."

Derek blinks a couple of times, struck speechless.

"And your dad, he's…okay with that?" Derek asks, hopeful. He takes it as a good sign that the Sheriff hasn't rolled up to his house and cuffed him yet, anyway.

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. He said he just wants me to be happy, and if that's with Derek, then, you know…cool."

"Huh," is all Derek can manage, until another nagging question pops into his head. "So, why does everyone think we're dating, exactly?"

"Ha…well…if you mean why as in why would Derek ever be interested in an awkward, gangly, ridiculously-unattractive-in-every-definition-of-the-word guy like me, then the answer is pretty obvious, my friend…he wouldn't."

Derek simply stares at Stiles, flummoxed and a little bit crestfallen. His words come out strangled, a muddled mess of hope and doubt.

"That's ridiculous, Stiles. Why do you think Derek wouldn't be interested in you?" he asks, swallowing thickly. "Seems like you're placing this guy on a pedestal, and…well, he doesn't sound all that appealing."

Stiles barks out a laugh and slowly shakes his head.

"No, dude, seriously, you don't understand. Derek is…" Stiles sighs, licking his lips and letting out a positively sinful moan in lieu of a response. Derek's heart beats wildly beneath his chest, clinging to Stiles's every word.

"Wait, what? What's Derek? What were you going to say?" Derek demands, shifting closer to Stiles.

"Nope, nonononono, I can't. Real Derek might find out, and there's no way in hell that he can ever know that I'm…nope. Not gonna say it."

Stiles covers his face with his hands.

"Stiles…Stiles, you can tell me, it's fine," Derek urges. "What about Derek?"

"Okaaaaaay, fine, but you have to promise me you won't tell Derek. Cause he'll totally freak out if he ever finds out that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with him."

Derek's eyes grow wide as he falls into a contemplative silence, biting back a ridiculous smile that threatens to fracture his evenly tempered veneer.

"Okay? Promise?" Stiles asks, snapping Derek out of his reverie.

"I…" he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "I promise, Stiles."

"Good," he says, playfully poking Derek through the blanket with his toes.

"Now cuddle me."

"I…what?" Derek laughs.

"Pleaaaaaase? I'm coooooold," Stiles whines.

"O…okay," Derek concedes, quickly kicking off his boots and crawling up the length of the bed. He slides under the covers right behind Stiles, curving an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against his torso, that same old feeling of euphoria blossoming across his chest.

"So, I'm going to tell you another secret," Stiles says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, his voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah?" Derek prompts.

"Last week, I sort of totally kissed Derek," Stiles confesses with a self-satisfied little smile.

"Oh really? How was it?" Derek asks, playing along, his smile so wide he thinks it might actually split his face in two.

"It was amazing. Seriously. I even got him to moan a little bit, which, oh my god, was so fucking hot, but…um…it didn't exactly end very well. Guess he finally realized what he was doing and who he was kissing and decided to book it the hell out of there. Can't blame him, really," Stiles says sadly.

"Stiles," Derek whispers, nuzzling into the back of Stiles's neck and pressing his lips to the soft little patch of skin behind his ear. "I'm so sorry."

"S'okay, dude. Totally my fault," Stiles yawns.

"No it wasn't," Derek mumbles, barely audible. 

The two of them lay like that for a few more minutes, Derek's guilt consuming him whole, until Stiles breaks the silence.

"Hey, so, I know this is going to sound weird and all, but…mind if I pretend you're Derek? Like, actual, in-real-life Derek? I know you're just a terrifyingly real-feeling hallucinatory figment of my imagination, but I thought, hey, might as well be polite and ask. I mean, I don't know if you've got some other place to be, or…" Stiles trails off, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Not at all," Derek chuckles, curling his arms tighter around Stiles's waist.

"Mmmm….you smell really nice…and you're really warm…fuck, you're so comfortable. How are you even doing that? You know what, don't answer that. I'm just gonna chalk it up to the fact that my mind is awesome. Totally loving this lucid dream sequence upgrade."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles," Derek whispers affectionately, rolling his eyes and pressing soft little kisses against the back of Stiles's neck as the two of them drift off to sleep, perfectly content for the first time in years.

• • •

Derek wakes in a tangled mess of bedsheets, torso curled into the arch of Stiles's back. He's careful not to stir, lest he wake Stiles up, arms wrapped around the slumbering man's lanky figure, fingertips absentmindedly tracing a constellation of freckles and moles from the curvature of his collarbones to the dip of his hipbones. He buries his nose into the nape of Stiles's neck and places a soft, sweet kiss along the edge of his hairline. Startled by the sudden sensation of rough stubble brushing against his bare skin, Stiles opens his eyes, blinking rapidly and wincing like the sun has lit his retinas on fire, before rolling over and turning to face Derek.

"Fuck, oh my god," Stiles nearly shouts, flailing uncontrollably as Derek struggles to keep a hold of him. Eventually, Stiles's breathing stills, eyes tracing Derek's shadowed features, lingering for just a moment longer than is truly necessary on the curve of Derek's pouted, pink lips. He swallows thickly, vaguely aware of the relentless drumming inside his head.

"So, um…care to explain why we're half-naked and cuddling in my bed?"

Derek actually has the audacity to look down, lower lip jutted out and eyebrows arching up in confusion, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself shirtless.

"You were really drunk last night," Derek sighs sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of Stiles's shoulder.

"Um…did we…we didn't, did we? I mean, for your sake, because dude, that's some bad judgment right there," Stiles blurts out, his brain having apparently severed its ties to his mouth.

"Of course not," Derek snaps, wounded. "Do you really think I'd take advantage of you like that?"

"No! No, of course I don't. I didn't mean it like that," Stiles amends, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. "So if we didn't…you know…what did happen last night?"

"Oh, the usual…you got wasted at some party and I ended up having to take care of you. I didn't think it was possible for you to be any more mouthy and annoying than you normally are, but apparently, drunk Stiles is quite the talker. I've got to say, though, I learned some pretty interesting things last night," Derek laughs, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Stiles's eyes grow wide in horror.

"Oh dear god. Please tell me I didn't—"

"Yup," Derek quips, popping the p.

"How much of—"

"Everything, I'm afraid."

Stiles shoves his face into his pillow and groans, loudly and miserably. Up until now, he genuinely thought (or perhaps, hoped) that he'd dreamt most of their conversation from the night before.

"So all of that…really happened," Stiles swallows thickly. "Including the part where I confessed that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with you?"

"Yup."

"Any chance you'd be willing to forget everything I said last night?"

"None at all."

"Fuck."

There's a small little pocket of silence, during which Stiles prepares for the onslaught of rejection. Again.

"Stiles."

"Yeah, Derek?" Stiles asks, wincing.

"You do realize that you're an idiot, don't you?"

Well, that's nothing new, but still…ouch.

"Excuse me?" Stiles scoffs indignantly.

"What part of me constantly coming over just to spend time with you, and me spending the night cuddling you and taking care of your stupid drunken ass, and telling you how sorry I am for stopping one of the best goddamn kisses of my life because I was too afraid to admit my own stupid feelings, do you not understand?"

"Well, that's not…oh. Oh. Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"You…do you?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but I still want to hear you say it."

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose.

"Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

"Okay," Stiles says softly, a brilliant smile spreading across his lips. Derek kisses the corner of Stiles's mouth, drawing him closer as Stiles snuggles into his chest. The two of them slowly drift back to sleep, content to spend the rest of their Saturday morning wrapped in each other's arms.