#c: ficlet

[jolteonwrites]

journal entry of john o'callaghan, aged 23, circa 2012. several days before the events of 24 floors.

will someone just come and take my heart? set it down in front of moving cars.

It would hurt less.

I see my life in flashes and phases. Happiness, sadness, disappointment, loneliness, excitement, fear, shame. The joyful moments are so fleeting but the sadness stretches on forever, reaching an eternity that fills me with guilty, awful dread. I know I should feel grateful. My life has worked out so magically special, I have the best job in the world. I am grateful for this, I am.

Why isn't it enough?

My family loves me. I tour the world with my best friends. We have fans across oceans. Some of them don't even speak much English. They adore what we create anyway. Music transcends all barriers.

And it's not enough to break this curse attached to me. The joy is temporary, the sadness is everlasting.

It might be my own fault.

I seem to carry death with me in my pocket.

I know it's there because it's very heavy and it gives my soul a dull, constant ache to drag it wherever I go.

Life is not how I thought it would be as a child. And that is not to say it's not a magical gift every day, to be here, to feel, to be. It's mostly pensive and blurs together. But when it's painful, it rakes through like the most jagged blade, slow and deliberate and forceful and so fucking terrible.

And it's lonely.

Oh my God, it's fucking lonely.

I want to be okay with alone but I yearn and it takes up a space in my throat and I can't speak.

I'm not sure my friends 'get' it. Their brains don't work the same. When I find someone that does... they don't stay for long.

What does that mean? I think it was my fault.

I think it was all my fault.

Who am I? Where am I going?

I think I've been asking the wrong questions my whole life. And my pockets are heavy.

This life feels like a living death.

I don't think I want to be here any more.

[riality-check]

The eagerly awaited part 2 of the DILF!Steve concert saga is here!! Part 1, in case you missed it.

"You're not going."

"Come on! I haven't thrown up in an hour!"

"The drive to the venue is an hour and a half."

"Steve-"

"And if you throw up in my car-"

"Oh my God-"

"I'll kill you."

Steve doesn't need to see Dustin's eye roll in order to feel the full force of it through the phone.

"I'll just kill you. You'll have a headstone within the week that says Here Lies Dustin Henderson: Rightfully Murdered for Puking in Steve Harrington's Car," he continues as he packs Capri-Suns into the cooler for the car ride.

He doesn't remember ever being that thirsty as a kid, but if Anna wants strawberry kiwi, Anna gets strawberry kiwi. It helps that it's Steve's favorite flavor, too.

"I'd need a big ass headstone to fit all of that," Dustin snaps.

"Your big-ass ego would demand no less, shithead," Steve shoots back.

"Swear jar, Daddy!" Anna calls from her room, across the house because while she doesn't listen to Steve when he's right in front of her, she can hear him break the swear jar rule from halfway across the world.

He zips up the cooler, fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and throws it into the half-full soup can next to the stove.

(A quarter doesn't mean much, but Anna doesn't know that. The day Steve teaches that kid about inflation is the day his pockets become permanently empty.)

"Did she just swear jar you?" Dustin asks from over the phone.

"You baited me into it."

"I did no such thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're not coming, though, are you?"

Dustin sighs, and, for all his teasing, Steve does genuinely feel bad. "I still feel like if I breathe wrong, I'll hurl, so, no. I don't think I'll manage the car ride, nevermind the actual show."

"Sorry dude."

"Don't be. Some dickhead will live stream the whole thing on Instagram, anyway. I'll live vicariously through them."

Steve snorts and picks up the cooler. He got Anna dressed beforehand, so it's just a matter of getting her to stop playing with whatever toy she dug up - Play-Doh has been the fixation of the week - in her room so they can go.

"Besides," Dustin continues, and Steve hates where this is going. "Anna loved the show, and you've got a reason-"

"Nope," Steve says, knocking on Anna's door. "Don't finish that sentence."

"All I'm saying-"

"I know what you're gong to say, which means you know my answer. I don't date."

Anna opens her door. From the little Steve can see inside, there are at least three containers of Play-Doh open and strewn across the floor. He thinks her Barbies are involved in it somehow.

"Time to go," Steve says, and he thinks, Please don't let there be Play-Doh in the Barbie hair.

"Five more minutes," Anna tries.

"Nope. Clean up and roll out."

"Hi, Anna," Dustin says through the phone.

"Uncle Dusty!" Anna shrieks, and she starts jumping up and down. "Are you comin', too?"

Dustin sighs, and Steve can't tell if it's at the nickname or if he's still cursing the universe. "No, but you and your dad have a great time, okay?"

"Can you, can you tell Daddy I should get five more minutes?"

Steve raises his eyebrows at her. Anna, to her credit, ignores him wonderfully.

"If you clean up," Dustin says, because he's actually Steve's favorite person right now, "you get to do more headbanging at the concert."

Anna gasps like Steve didn't already tell her that earlier today, and she gets to work on putting her toys away. Steve helps, of course, and he finds that there is, in fact, Play-Doh in two of her Barbies' hair.

Fun. They're going to turn into Buzzcut Barbies when Anna goes to sleep because he can already tell that they are the furthest thing from salvageable.

But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting Anna in the car, deploying the first two of many strawberry kiwi Capri Suns from the cooler, and making the drive to the venue, which Steve does with minimal road rage and accompanied by the Disney radio station.

Success by all metrics, really.

Dinner might as well be now, so Steve shells out a truly disgusting amount of money for overpriced chicken nuggets and fries at the venue. Anna will only eat half her portion but say she's hungry later, but that's what the snacks and water Steve smuggled in via his jacket are for.

They get to their seats, dinner finished up, just as the lights go down for the first opener. Steve looks to his left, half-expecting Eddie and his friends to be there before remembering that they won't be.

He tries not to feel too disappointed. He fails miserably.

The seat next to him, however, isn't empty. There's a note taped to the back of it, one addressed to Steve and Miss Anna, so Steve feels alright taking and opening it.

At the top, there's a messily scrawled phone number. Underneath, it says:

Here's my number. Probably a bad idea to call with all the noise. Texting works, though you should do that after the show. I'll be a little busy until then.

-Eddie

Steve puts the note in his pocket, puts Anna's ear defenders on, puts his own earplugs in, and looks at the stage, where-

Hang on.

He squints at the stage, where four guys have started playing a song that, frankly, sounds too much like literally all the music Steve listened to yesterday for him to care about all that much. The drummer is pretty small, with wild, curly hair. The bassist looks familiar. The lead singer, who is very talented but not to Steve's personal taste, also looks familiar. And the guitarist-

No way. No way in hell.

It's a total coincidence. Lots of guys have long, curly hair and heavy jewelry and big eyes and are wearing formal wear, for some reason, and catch Steve's eye, and-

"Thank you for such a great welcome!" the guitarist says, and his smile totally isn't doing anything to Steve, thanks very much.

Anna stops moving, where she's standing next to Steve, and climbs up into his lap to get a better look at the stage. She looks out, then back at Steve, then out, then back at Steve, making a face as confused as Steve feels.

Some days, he thinks he ended up with a clone, not a kid.

"I'll get off the mic in a second. I only do the talking because Jeff," the guitarist points at the lead singer, who ducks his head, "is really shy."

Jeff. That name is definitely relevant, but Steve is a permanent resident of denial.

"We fought about what song we were going to include next in our set list, so much so that we didn't decide until yesterday and had to consult a tiebreaker."

Okay, maybe Steve is a less permanent resident of denial than he thought.

"So, thank you to Miss Anna, who did great at headbanging for her first time-"

Anna whips around so fast, her forehead nearly collides with Steve's jaw.

"And to Steve, who's a big fan of American Psycho."

At the song name, the crowd loses their minds, and if Anna wasn't sitting right in front of him, Steve would join them.

Because what the fuck is happening right now?

His question isn't answered. In fact, about five more questions pop up in its stead when, during the bridge of the song, Jeff puts on a clear rain jacket and picks up a prop axe.

Please, God, don't let this traumatize my kid, Steve thinks.

Anna, thankfully, doesn't get scared. When Jeff brings the axe down, again and again, Steve's weirdo daughter fucking smiles. And giggles. It's kind of cute, actually.

When the song ends, she turns back to Steve.

"That's Eddie onstage," Steve says, and saying it, somehow, makes it real.

"I thought so!" Anna says, and she turns back to watch the show. Steve puts an arm around her waist so she doesn't fall off his lap when she bangs her head to the music.

The rest of the songs, in Steve's opinion, are better than the opening song. They're more melodic, which Steve can definitely get behind, and each of them has a gimmick onstage, all based off of various horror movies. It's ridiculous, but also really, really cool.

And Eddie, onstage, because it is the same guy who flirted with him and was so sweet to Anna yesterday, is really, really hot.

Steve has never had a thing for guitarists before. He's never had a thing for musicians before. Hell, until a year ago, he didn't realize he had a thing for men.

Eddie is. Uh. Yeah. Really doing it for him.

Steve doesn't know whether it's his enthusiasm, or the way he moves, or seeing his hair tied up, or the fucking dress pants and suspenders, or just his hands, but he does know he has to get himself in check because this is an all ages show and he's here with his daughter.

He already knows he can't add these songs to his grading playlist, not when they're accompanied by visuals of Eddie playing his guitar.

Sweet Jesus.

"Alright, that's our set!" Eddie says. "Thanks, y'all, for sticking around for us, and let's give it up for the next act!"

The crowd, including Anna and Steve, cheer as they exit and the lights go up.

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to add Eddie's number to his contacts, and is greeted by not one, not two, but sixteen missed calls from Dustin Henderson.

Naturally, Steve calls him back. "Who died?"

"What the fuck?" Dustin yells, and Steve just puts the phone on speaker to save the rest of his hearing. "Did Eddie fucking Munson just personally thank you from the stage?"

"Swear jar, Uncle Dusty!" Anna says.

"Sorry," Dustin says. "But Steve. Answers. Now."

"How do you even-"

"Instagram live. Is Eddie the guy you were telling me about yesterday?"

Steve takes his phone off speaker. Prior experience tells him that this conversation has a less than zero chance of staying PG, nevermind PG-13.

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is."

"The one who flirted with you, and you forgot to ask for his number."

"Well, I have it now."

"What?" Dustin shrieks, and Steve is incredibly thankful that he didn't take his earplugs out.

"He left me his number on the seat."

"Text him."

"I was going to, until I saw that you called me sixteen times."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie Munson was flirting with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands a pack of gummy bears to Anna when she taps his arm. "He could have just been nice. I don't even know if he's into guys."

"Have you looked at him?"

"Wow, Dustybuns, I didn't know you were homophobic."

"I think it's the complete opposite of homophobic to try to get you laid."

"Hanging up!" Steve shouts because a part of him will never see Dustin as any older than thirteen, and no thirteen year old should ever say that.

"Text-"

Steve hangs up the call. "Can I have a gummy bear?"

"No," Anna says, mouth full, in her seat, legs swinging.

"I bought them."

She shrugs. "You gave them to me. Mine now."

Steve stares. She stares right back.

He sighs and opens a new pack of gummy bears.

With his mouth full of sweet Haribo corpses, Steve takes out the note and adds Eddie to his contacts. Before he can overthink it, he sends him a message:

I guess I don't have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we're even on that front, I'm a teacher, and Anna's full time job is preschool.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and focuses on making this a good experience for Anna, who somehow wormed her way into a conversation with the intimidating-looking couple sitting next to her.

Because it's totally not like a literal rockstar is going to text him back. Right?

Part 3!!

[angeldreamsoffanfic]

“So how did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Y’know, how did you know.”

“Dingus, I’m gonna need you to spell it out for me here, the Russians did a number on how many of my braincells are actually working.”

“How did you know that you liked girls?”

Robin Buckley immediately pushed herself up so she was resting on her elbows, head tilted to catch Steve Harrington’s eyes in the low light of their hospital room.

They weren’t originally even going to go to the hospital, if Robin was being honest. They had just wanted to slip away back to their respective homes, but then Melissa and Richard Buckley caught wind that Robin was hurt. Then the both of them realized that Steve’s parents (if Robin has to use that term to describe them) had less than zero intention of sending anyone to pick up Steve.

Then EMS made the light suggestion of both of them probably needing to go to Hawkins General Hospital… and well, while Melissa and Richard did tend to lead toward more natural remedies… one couldn’t fix a concussion or a drugging with an unknown substance with essential oils and hope.

“Robbie? Did you OD over there?” Steve had himself up on his elbows, easily mimicking Robin. That’s the thing that makes the inside of Robin ache, that he’s so like her. She knows that she’s an only child, knows that, but sometimes Steve’ll just… do something and it makes her question it. Makes her wonder how she spent so long without him, without another brain and two legs and arms and so much hair. “Robbie?”

“No, I am still alive.” Robin slowly spoke, before she let out a soft sigh. “Why do you ask?”

“Like-” Steve huffed as he shook his head from side to side, before he used the one hand that was free from the pulse monitor and saline drip to card through his hair. It’s sleep ruffled, and if he uses product (Robin is sure he does), it’s for sure gone. Steve looks up though, and his eyes are so earnest that it causes something to hurt inside of Robin. “never mind just ignore- fuck - just ignore me.”

“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried, you idiot.” Robin let out a huff, and she winced as the PICC line in her arm shifted as tilted to be able to fully face Steve on her side. “But I just, dingus, this is out of left field for even you.”

“How so?”

“Did you even know that, that people like me even existed until a couple of hours ago?” Robin kept her voice soft, especially as Steve huffed out an indignant sounding sigh. Robin sighs though, and then she cards her own hand through her hair, and forges onward. “I think I’ve just… always known.”

“Always?”

“Yeah like-” Robin shrugged, a careful movement of her shoulders. “When I was like, eight? My uh, parents sent me to this camp thing- like summer camp kind of like what Dustin went to? But with, y’know, with the swimming and archery and dude I was fucking awful at it.” Steve let out a soft and watery laugh at Robin’s rambling, and that gave Robin enough power to continue. “But we uh, had these like songs we had to learn? And there was this uh, girl counselor there that had to teach me because you know, that was her job.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and uh. She couldn’t have been older than I am now but man…” Robin let out a slow whistle, and allowed herself to fully melt into the hospital cot she’s laid up on. “All I could think was that I just wanted to be with her. Like not even kissing because I thought kissing was gross then, still do now kinda but anyway- I wanted to like, hold her hand and shit. Do the cheesy stuff I’d seen in the movies, y’know?”

Steve huffed out his own laugh, and he tilted his head to lean against his pillows instead of facing Robin. Robin watched though, quiet for once, as Steve swallowed once and then twice- before he cleared his throat.

“I knew it existed before you.”

“What?”

“It.”

“Dingus-”

“Girls liking girls.” Steve’s voice is barely above a whisper, even as Robin can hear him gulp in a lungful of air. “And boys liking boys.”

“You did?” Robin kept her voice quiet, gentle, as coaxing as she could- especially when she could see Steve’s throat bob. “Dingus?”

“I…” Steve doesn’t continue, and that’s enough.

Enough to Robin that she pushed herself up, and ignored the pain that ricocheted down her spine like needles. Ignored Steve’s hurried ‘what are-’, as she stumbled out of her hospital bed and right to Steve’s. She made sure to drag her IV pole and the monitor with her, situating it as best as she could next to Steve’s. Robin huffed quietly as the pain trickled down her spine, and she couldn’t help but smile as Steve curled his hand carefully around her wrist and tugged.

Robin got comfortable, let Steve fret over her as best as he could, his fingers only ever-so slightly trembling as he made sure that the line in her arm wasn’t kinked up. They were pressed close, side to side and hip to hip, and Robin tilted her head down until it was rested on Steve’s shoulder.

“Wanna keep going, Stevie?”

“No.”

“But?”

“I…” Steve huffed again, a small indignant noise that Robin mimicked.

They sat like that then, just the two of them for a moment, before Steve continued slowly.

“I’ve never, told anyone this- like I’ve told Tommy H. so much shit about me - but this is… Robin this is different.” Steve speaks in a hurried and stilted way, like he’s stringing together bits and pieces of sentences, and it shouldn’t work.

But it does because he’s Steve and she’s Robin.

And truthfully, Robin likes that. That they’re Steve and Robin. SteveandRobin. RobinandSteve. Likes that the two of them are so in tune that even her own mother didn’t want to separate them.

That had to mean something in the end, didn’t it?

“Tell me, whatever… whenever.” Robin murmured as she turned her head so she could press a soft kiss to Steve’s shoulder. The hospital gown is thin enough she can feel the heat of his skin from up under it, and that’s grounding. Grounding even as Steve drew in a shaky breath, audibly swallowing again. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

“I didn’t uh, notice Tammy in Ms. Click’s class or uh, you for a reason.” Steve slowly spoke, eyes wet, and Robin can hear his sniffle as he tried to reign his emotions back. “Ms. Click made him sit uh, right by her desk at the front of the room.”

And oh.

Oh.

If that doesn’t immediately settle something that just usually writhes around in Robin’s chest.

“Him?” Robin is gentle, gentler than she thinks she’s ever been.

“Uh, yeah… Eddie Munson?” Steve huffed out an almost dry laugh, the only thing that he does that ever remotely reminds her of his time as his high school “King Steve” persona. “He uh, got this bat tattoo right before that year’s Thanksgiving break and all I could do was just… gawk at him.”

“And then what?” Robin knew she was pushing, searching for information, but she can’t help it. Not when Steve is right next to her, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. Not when he’s like her. In all the ways that matter.

“I went home and screamed into my pillow.”

Robin immediately smacked Steve’s thigh with the knuckles of her left hand- grinning in triumph when Steve let out a squawk of laughter.

“Eddie Munson?”

“What about him?”

“He’s… he’s a total dud!”

“No he’s not!”

“He stepped in my mashed potatoes once! That is totally total dud material!”

“No way!”

“He wants to be like, like a metal singer!”

“He has a band! Dreams!”

“Do you even know if he can hold a tune?”

“Well, no-”

“Total. Dud.”

Robin grinned wide as Steve launched into a very quick defense about Eddie, and she decides then and there that Steve and her? They’ll be just fine.

Especially if she can get Eddie to come into Steve and her’s orbit just a bit, to see if the crush is still there.

Because while Robin may not have all of the gay knowledge in the world, there is one thing for a complete certainty that she knows.

The black hanky that Eddie kept in his pocket?

Well…

Robin chuffed to herself, before she tilted so she could lay on her side- nose tucked into the place where Steve’s neck and shoulder met.

Right before she falls asleep though, Robin does a very important thing on a mental whiteboard.

You Rule: 1

You Suck: 0

hope you all enjoyed! truthfully think this is one of my favorite things i have written. love platonic stobin. <3

[thetarttfuldickhead]

And Jamie is getting better and better, isn’t he, getting closer and closer to being the best (not just of Richmond; not just of England; of the whole fucking world), and it’s all great, all fucking fantastic, only it gets into his head for a little bit, same way being the perfect team mate got into his head after his first call-up for England, and it starts to gnaw at him again, eat away at him again, every tiny little mistake (every tiny little thing that isn’t even a mistake, is just a thing that might have, possibly and in another world, been better), and he doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it affect him, he works hard, chin up lad, gotta be good for his team, right, gotta be perfect for them, and mostly he really is all right, having the time of his life, yeah; on top of the fucking world because he very nearly is as good as they ever get, but eventually there’s an important game where he misses a pass or a penalty or a sitter and it happens to everybody, and everybody knows it happens to everybody, but it isn’t supposed to happen to him, is it, and what fucking good is he if—

And it’s the dressing room after and he doesn’t have even know how to fucking start but before he can say a word Isaac just fixes him with a stare, “No, bruv. We don’t wanna hear it.”

And in spite of everything that’s not fair, is it, ‘cause sure he made a mistake, “But—!“

And there’s Sam, who shakes his head and puts his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, eyes so very serious and sincere. “We are not your father, Jamie. We don’t stop loving you if you’re not perfect.”

[yllirya]

Red Blanket

[wriolette drabble of a gifted red blanket. see the full drabble collection here]

After Wriothesley becomes the administrator of the Fortress, and Neuvillette gets closer to him (for official matters first), one day, the Judge gifts him a very soft, fluffy, red blanket. 

Neuvillette feels embarrassed but he explains – he feels after Wriothesley's hard days, this could be comfort.

He thinks it’s a silly action, but it was something like a winter bazaar in Fontaine. And when he strolled there on his way back to the Palais, his eyes got caught up on that blanket. 

At this point, Wriothesley is only the head of Meropide for a short time, and when he becomes that, Neuvillette helps him to settle the new arrangement with the overworld. He voted to trust him and put faith in the young man. As all prisoners stood behind him, it would have been a riot to remove him anyway, even if some governors would have wanted that. Anyhow, Wriothesley takes over Meropide, and Neuvillette offers him help to settle the correct paperwork regarding some changes - all by the laws.

They spend some time together but Wriothesley also has to make order by his gauntlets to shut down riots at their core. Neuvillette can see him halfway beaten up during their meetings, sometimes before Sigewinne could heal him. They never speak any of this.

Wriothesley always just shakes it off as if it'd be nothing. But Neuvillette wonders when he got comfort - even if only in the sense of having a good night's rest. Because not on the streets. Not in a cell in Meropide under the old regime.

So when Neuvillette sees that red blanket, he just can't help but think of Wriothesley and he buys it. Do humans gift blankets? He does not know. He keeps a straight face while Wriothesley opens it, and he gets a rather neutral "Thank you" in return.

It's many years later that Neuvillette learns Wriothesley cried himself to sleep that night, alone, wrapped up in the blanket – and that he still has it and never intends to throw it away, ever. For his next birthday, Neuvillette buys him a new one – and he gets a warm hug in return this time.

[space-writes]

I have a collection of Sorrow/Vren kiss ficlets and since it’s @ockissweek, i’m going to be posting a few of them! Enjoy this little sparkly mercenary/grumpy assassin snippet~

“What is this?”

Vren eyed the cloth-wrapped package, mildly concerned. Sorrow only smiled in his usual infuriating way and shrugged a shoulder.

“Find out.”

Rolling his eyes, Vren untied the strings and pulled back the cloth. His hands froze when he saw what it was. He lifted the dagger free in silence. It balanced perfectly in his hand, the hilt some strange infernal bone that cuved into his palm as though molded for it. The dark metal blade held a firelight sheen, etched with infernii markings he couldn’t read down its short length. As he turned it this way and that, examining it, a strange warmth clutched at his heart.

He set it aside on the table and gave Sorrow a moment to frown before hauling him down into a furious kiss. A soft yelp of surprise turned to a pleased hum—Vren tilted his head, deepening the kiss, hardly able to breathe.

“You know me so well,” he gasped out between kisses.

“Of course I do,” Sorrow replied. “You’re my assassin, remember?”

Vren kissed him again, messy and hard. It wasn’t the gift that was turning him upside down so much as it was that he knew that Sorrow hadn’t given it with an expectation of service. It wasn’t another shackle, another tally notch to keep him bound. It was a gift, to be used if he wished, because he knew Vren would use it. Would like it.

“I love you,” he breathed into Sorrow’s mouth. The words still felt rough and unfamiliar on his tongue, but he couldn’t deny they were true. “Gods, I love you.”

Sorrow laughed, and the taste of it was like the rising sun.

Valloroth taglist: @cherrybombfangirlwrites @memento-morri-writes @foxboyclit @lawful-evil-novelist @at-thezenith @morganwriteblr @fayeiswriting @serenanymph @sam-glade (ask to be +/-)

[americorys]

Chenford + when did you fall for me?

"When did you fall for me?" He asks the question softly, knowing she'll hear it over the crackling of the fire and the intensity of her thoughts. It's quiet, almost like he doesn't want to ask, but he knows she'll hear his tone and know it's genuine.

She knows him in that way.

He hopes that for the most part, he knows her in that way, too.

Tim watches as Lucy chews on her lower lip in thought, his teeth pressing lightly into the skin of his own lip.

Something about the combination of the cool air, the wine she'd poured in his glass, and the way she's been smiling at him tonight have him buzzing beneath the surface – enough that he'd wanted to ask her this, enough that he wanted to hear the answer. They've been skirting around the reality of it: when did you realize we were oh-so-much-more, he assumes because she thinks it will derail them entirely, but more likely because...well, he's never actually asked.

It's been hard to wrap his mind around the idea that they're in this incredibly serious relationship when he doesn't remember any of it – and harder still to try and convince himself they shouldn't be. He knows what Lucy thinks: she thinks he doesn't understand, could never feel the way she feels, hasn't let himself drift into that mindset.

What he really feels is a hell of a lot more complicated, though. He gets it entirely, if not more because she's been actively loving him through this. He doesn't remember their relationship at all, and she's doing the work for both of them.

How could he not be hopelessly in love with her?

That's where it gets complicated, though – because he loves her for her, but he loves her for him, too. He needs to untangle that before he can let himself anywhere near her, truly – because she deserves a selfless love. She deserves someone who puts in the effort for her, who doesn't just love her because she loves them harder.

She lets out a soft laugh and pulls him back, raising her brow. "It's a bad answer," she offers, and Tim tips his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at her. "What? It is."

"Lay it on me," he shrugs, taking a slow sip of his wine. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It's a non-answer," she takes a sip from her glass, holding his gaze as she pulls it away from her mouth. "It wasn't one moment. I fell for you in a million little moments – hearing you call me Lucy after you handed me my final evaluation, offering me a ratty old pair of sweatpants when I stayed at your place after Jackson died," she offers him a sad, solemn smile. "Letting me talk my way into being your aide, inviting me to tear down your childhood home with your sister – god, even," she presses her hand to her face for a moment and he leans in closer, just wanting to be near her. "Even you calling me fucking goat whisperer in front of a date had me swooning. You don't even realize you're doing it, too – which is even more annoying. You just exist as this...wonderfully irritating version of yourself that I can't help but be ass over feet in love with."

Tim swallows, keeping his eyes focused on her. "If you had to pick one," he breathes, grinning as she rolls her eyes at him, visibly annoyed. "What? You said I was irritating, didn't you?"

Lucy bites on the rim of her wine glass, taking a sip and then setting it down. "Just one moment?" He nods, pressing his lips together. She sighs, tapping her fingers against her chin and then dropping them, humming over at him. "I think I really knew the first time you hugged me. That's cheesy and it's not really true, but I...we'd never," she pushes her hair off her face with a one-handed sweep and he wants to slide his hand over her cheek, bring her close, feel her breath on his skin. "We'd never touched like that before, and I didn't want you to let go. You...I stayed at your place," she has that expression she gets when she feels like she needs to fill in the gaps for him, and he nods slowly, hoping she'll breathe and calm down. "You invited me over after Jackson died, said I shouldn't be alone. You hugged me and I," she lets out a soft, hiccuping laugh, "I don't know, I didn't want you to stop. I didn't know what I was feeling then, but I know it now. You were keeping me still. You were grounding me," she shrugs. "Turns out, that's what we do for each other."

He lets out a slow, steady breath. "You knew you loved me, then?"

She hums in thought. "No," she laughs. "When I think about it now, I loved you something fierce, then. In the moment? I'd never been more confused about what I was feeling in my life. You were warm, and steady, and I could follow your heartbeat. You confused the absolute shit out me, but...somehow, a little less than everything else did," she smiles over at him softly. "So, everything you do now...just, unnamed."

Tim takes a sip from his glass, reaching over and grabbing her hand. He laces their fingers and squeezes them gently. "So what you're telling me is that we're on the same page," he murmurs, after setting his wine down. "Confused, but intrigued. Enamored, for some reason."

She raises her brows at him. "You're enamored with me, huh?"

He lets out a low, rough laugh. "I've been enamored with you for a long time I remember that much."

He's pretty sure Lucy's smile is enough to keep him asking her questions all night long.

[lewishamil10n]

trick or treat!!!

hi beloved <33 you get a bit from my spy au wip!

—

"He's trouble," Nico had said, his voice soft. His daughter was asleep in his arms, her little head on his shoulder. "You know that, don't you, Lewis? You know he's trouble."

Lewis had let out a snort. "As much trouble as Seb? As much as you?"

"We always had your back," Nico reminded him. "Will Bottas be able to? I've seen his scores. He's good, but he's—" He hesitated.

"You know as well as I do that test scores aren't everything," Lewis said sharply, though he kept his voice low.

"And you know that I will not stop worrying," Nico retorted.

"If it matters so much why did you leave?" The question was out before Lewis could stop himself.

Nico put his hand to the back of his daughter's head, the gesture protective. "Because I was not going to leave my children fatherless at the whim of Toto fucking Wolff."

trick or treat

[riality-check]

Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

[uldren-sov]

On the dotted line

just an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. getting THE TATTOO. naturally this got WAY AWAY FROM ME but their dynamic is just so fun to me at this stage so I had to really go for it you know. some pre-relationship Camy and Seven. ~2k words. Little @infamous-if fic Camy Rose is mine! The band and Seven are canon

Nerves that feel equal parts firecracker and fear light up her skin as Camy Rose is dragged along the dirty sidewalk. Maybe she should protest more, dig her heels in more, grab her best friend by the shoulders and shake him until he saw reason, but there was something about Seven Lawless that always keeps her along for the ride. So, instead of trying to sober up, trying to come to her senses, and trying to tell him this was his worst idea to date, she lets herself be dragged by the cuff of the leather jacket she stole from him toward a hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor they saw a street away from their latest gig.

It was finally going to happen, and it was going to happen tonight.

Her fault, really, for years she's been saying that she always wanted a tattoo and with the success of their latest show Seven concluded that this was the best time to get one. When she shot that down, he doubled down to sweeten the deal: if she got one, then so would he. "Design pending," he clarified. And after a few drinks, mixing and matching alcohol? Sure, why not make a decision she could regret for the rest of her life.

"Yeah, let's do it," she said. With a cheer and a tug on her wrist she was immediately dragged away. But that was back at the after-party and not on the way to the actual store. Whatever buzz of bravery she had because of the alcohol started to fade, replaced by those building nerves.

"I'm not letting you chicken out this time!" He says, his wild, glittering, gaze matched only by his grin. It's infectious and despite everything, she had to admit, it was a great night to do something stupid like this, so long as she shared it with him. It was a great show and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't down to celebrate. With this paycheck she could check off rent being paid, bills being paid, and still have some money left over to play with.

They're even invited back next week. She had no excuses left, no reasons left to worry.

"I'm not chickening out!" She says, deciding in that moment to just say fuck it and jump off that cliff along with him. Matching his step, his gait, his eyes, his energy, she slips her hand in his, clutching on tight. "So long as you're not."

Fingers lace with hers and she can't help but still feel tipsy as she spills with laughter, tugging him to a stop after hearing Jazzy calling out to them. Seven swings back to face her as she swings their hands between them, warmth racing up her arm at the gesture. A furrow of his brows and she knows what he'll say as he leans in. More and more he's pulled weird reactions from her even when they haven't acted any different. Like now, they close the distance between each other and that warmth burns into something hotter, something heavy that settles on her cheeks. It's so dumb! She blames the alcohol as she chuckles a little, trying to disperse the heat in her veins.

His bandana presses into the crown of her head as she tries to hold his bright gaze in the blurry space between them. "No way. We're doing this and when we look at this tattoo, we're going to remember that this was the night that everything changed," he vowed, giving her hand a squeeze.

Her heart betrays her as it stutters in her chest. It's not the first time she's caught between not wanting anything to change between herself and her friends, and desperately wanting a change just between the two of them. And the realization that maybe, just maybe, she's wanted that change for a long time now is terrifying. If she thinks too long about how it feels as they gently sway there, how the tip of his nose brushed over hers, how his breath hits her lips, she'll do something stupid, she knows, so instead she screws her face up and presses him back with her head. She burns pathetically now that there's some space between them and even in her tipsy state she starts to wrestle down those thoughts again.

"So dramatic," she rolls her eyes with a grin. "Or this is just going to be a normal tattoo, or like, our gateway tattoo to a bunch more and that's it." She nudges her shoulder into his side and he squirms.

"All I'm hearing is that I'm going to have the biggest 'I told you so' of my life when we're older and it turns out I was right," he says, hip checking her in retaliation. Stumbling away a step she bursts out laughing and lets go of his hand, shaking off the sparkling warmth in her fingertips before she waves over the rest of their friends who finally caught up.

---

A half-dozen bad ideas later and all six of them finally managed to pull away from all the designs hung on the walls of the cramped store. Since it was decided there was no way to perfectly represent this moment -- and we'd need way more time to design it out, or so Seven had said -- they both settled on something that felt simpler but somehow even more important: their friendship. They'd sign their initials on each others wrists, like they were sealing some kind of evil contract to always be together, through these moments and others.

Camy clocks the wary glance from the artist as they hand them both sharpies. She has the clarification, that, no, this isn't a couple thing, chambered on the tip of her tongue, but Rowan is quicker on the draw.

"Name a more iconic duo than you two and being mistaken for a couple," he says as Seven shakes his head with a scoff, already rolling up his sleeve.

"Iris and Devyn," she quips back as Jazzy aww's teasingly. She grins in the face of the bird Iris flips her way and Devyn's blush, before walking toward the actual station instead of the pseudo-waiting area at the front of the store. As she and Seven take their seats beside each other she idles a moment, staring after the artist setting up further back in the store, allowing the nerves settle in her gut again as she looks after the needle gun, the black ink.

"Hey," Seven's voice is in her ear as she draws her attention back. "Which arm are you sacrificing?" He smiles and it's magic how her nerves just seem to immediately burn off. She hunches closer to him.

"Right one." She nods.

"Really? Main hand?"

"Mic hand, too."

"Wow," he drawls, "this really is special to you, huh?" She snickers and nudges him.

"Big talk from the guy who jumped at the chance to have my name on his skin," she says, looking from under her eyelashes for effect. For a moment his back straightens, his eyes widen, and her heart stalls, waiting for ... something. As quickly as he reacted, it's gone, and in the next heartbeat she remembers how to breathe.

"Someone had to. It's not like other people are exactly lining up to make it happen, Camy," he shoots back with a smirk as her mouth drops open in faux outrage. "You're lucky I'm so generous and taking one for the team."

"First of all! Rude!" She scoffs into a laugh as he grins in her face. "I've had - so many dates, with so many people." He snorts, unimpressed as he rips the top off his sharpie.

"Your last girlfriend was when you started college and that lasted for roughly a month," he says without missing a beat. Weird.

"So what?"

"That was like 11 months ago."

"Well I have a full schedule: focusing on my studies and our band and my job."

"You're really going for the 'I'm focusing on my career' excuse?"

"And I've been on dates since then, by the way! It's not my fault they don't get me."

She meant it as a joke but as Seven presses her hand back at her wrist to start writing he suddenly cuts his gaze to her over his shoulder. There it is again, that stutter, that weight, that heat that blooms under her skin. Because she sees it, but she doesn't know if she really sees it or if she just wants it to be there, that look of his that seems to say 'but I do.'

She can't think about that now. No, she won't think about that now. Especially not when they're sitting so close, not when Seven can feel her pulse race under his fingertips, and not when he's looking at her like that. Like he sometimes does when waking up after a long night of songwriting and hanging out at her apartment, wrapped and tangled up in each other. That heat settles heavy on her skin again as she searches his suddenly dark green eyes.

She should ask him to be her roommate. No, she must still be tipsy. Would that be a bad idea? It seems like a bad idea.

Or the best, she thinks, glancing down to his mouth.

The sharpie cap clatters to the floor and she blinks out of it, pulling back -- when did she lean so far in? -- as she mirrors a sheepish grin from Seven.

"Yeah, well," he suddenly clears his throat, glancing to her and away quickly as he scoops up the sharpie top. "Guess you have to keep trying."

"Not that this is going to help," her smile is shaky in return as the vanishing heat leaves her winded and off balance, despite the alcohol. "How about you, what hand?"

"Left, my mic hand." A small but long-standing debate between them hanging in the background of his declaration.

"Our tattoos will even fit together if we hold hands." She gasps sarcastically as she smiles teasingly his way. An unimpressed narrow of his eyes and Seven suddenly crowds over her arm as she feels a pinpoint of pressure on her wrist.

"I changed my mind. I'm drawing a dick so that everyone knows what you are," he states. She yelps and fights her hand free from his hold amidst their chorus of laughs. A short back and forth and he reveals that the pressure on her skin was just the back of his pen. Seven crows over just how much she fell for it as she grudgingly scrapes together what dignity she has left.

They joke until they finish the draft of their tattoos. She lines their wrists up, black ink on olive and russet skin, the start of something permanent. If she were more sentimental like Seven the moment might mean something more. He might say something about the two of them literally making a mark on each other, or something like it's not only their names but their handwriting, something as unique as a fingerprint, and it's on each others skin.

CR SD

But she's not. She saves all that for him and for those moments where they write and sing in a way she doesn't dare to with anyone else. Instead, as the artist returns, she just says the truth in the simplest way she knows how:

"Forever?"

"Forever."

They hold their hands tight as the needle whirs to life.

[weird-an]

It had been a prank - putting pink hair dye in Billy's shampoo.

He had been so annoying about Max' being late for the hundredth time the last weeks. She just wants to hang out with her friends. Why is he always there, knocking at the door, getting on her nerves about a stupid curfew that isn't even meant for him? Can't he be happy for her that she's making friends?

"Max!" Billy screams, barging into the living room where Max sits with Neil and her mother, watching a movie. "What did you do?"

For a second Max is really proud of herself. Billy's mullet is all pink, only the roots are still a bit blonde. It looks surprisingly pretty.

She can't hold back a smug grin. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Billy yells.

The smile drops from her lips when Neil turns to Billy.

"You need to cut it off."

Billy freezes. Max isn't sure he's breathing. "No."

"Billy, you can't be seen like this. We just moved here, we can't afford that kind of reputation." Neil gets up from the couch. "If you don't do it, I do it."

"No, dad. Sir." Billy's eyes get big and wide, reminding her of a deer caught in the spotlight of a car. She has never seen him like this. Even when Neil slaps him, he never looks scared. Now he does.

"It will be gone in a few days," Max says, feeling sick all of a sudden. She didn't want to get Billy in trouble with Neil. Neil's anger isn't good for anyone, especially Billy.

Neil walks over to Billy, looming over him. Billy's back hits the wall.

"Either you cut it off or I will."

A tear runs down Billy's cheek which he doesn't even seem to notice, because he's still staring at Neil.

"Please, dad."

"It's my fault," Max says. "Neil, I didn't-"

"It's okay, Maxine," Neil smiles at her. "His hair is too long anyway."

[krsive-writes]

A thread fic that I wrote the other day on Twitter. Blind Rick rickorty first time, very fluffy. I haven't done one of these in a long long time, but I think I'm gonna get back into it!

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Suptober 2023 Master List

Here’s the list with all my Suptober fics for this year.

Many thanks to @winchester-reload for organizing this wonderful event!

Liminal - Close Call

Pumpkin Patch - Pumpkins, Mist and Zombrits

Inspired - Piece of Art

Nimbus - In Good Hands

Portrait - ID

Full Spread - A Study in Wings

Black Cat - Beast Of A Different Kind

Satanic Panic - The One Who Still Grips Him Tight

Starlight - The Stars Above, The Ground Below

Close Shave - Someone (Not) To Lose

Epic - Epic

Swap-Meat - Maintenance

Flirt - 10mg of Truth

Fever - Catching On

Abstract - Empty

Bonus 31. Trick or Treat - Just A Trick

It’s been my first year of writing for Supernatural, and my first time participating in Suptober, and I’ve enjoyed it a lot! So many wonderful artists that I’ve discovered! I wish I could draw or paint like they can. But I can only write.

[space-writes]

the thing is, i will let the boys make out but i will also interrupt them all the time because it's one of my favourite tropes and no-one can stop me

Sorrow had him up against the wall, one hand pinned above his head in a grip with just a little too much claw in it to be comfortable. His tongue was making promises in Vren’s mouth, backed up by the body pressed hot and flush to his, hips grinding desperately against his own.

“Too many clothes,” Vren growled, tugging at Sorrow’s belt with his free hand. Sorrow panted out agreement, and two sets of belts and attached weapons thudded to the floor within seconds of each other. Sorrow sucked at his lip, making that needy little whine that turned all thought in Vren’s head to smoke, and Vren was a heartbeat away from just shoving him to the ground and having him right then and there, undressing be damned, when there was a knock at the door.

“Trouble, Prince Sorrow!”

Sorrow groaned and dropped his forehead against Vren’s.

“What kind, Wit?” To his credit, he managed to sound vaguely put-together.

“The kind shaped like a dracari inquisitor.”

Sorrow swore.

“I’ll be right there.”

With great reluctance, he stepped away from Vren and snatched up his weapon-belt. He buckled it back on, shifting his weight with a grimace as he adjusted the set of it.

“There’s always something,” he muttered. He paused with a hand on the door, glancing at Vren. “Just. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Sorrow grinned, sighed, and vanished. Vren let his head thunk back against the wall with a frustrated groan.

Always something.

Valloroth taglist: @cherrybombfangirlwrites @memento-morri-writes @foxboyclit @lawful-evil-novelist @at-thezenith @morganwriteblr @fayeiswriting @serenanymph @sam-glade (ask to be +/-)