#it will feel eerily like failure

[lu-sn]

pete is an early riser. this irks vegas to no end, especially since he's needed twice the amount of sleep after getting shot and he's not very keen on doing that in a cold, desolate, pete-less bed. but pete is a creature of habit, accustomed to training at the crack of dawn from a young age, and he refuses to budge. "i need to stay in shape," he'll say apologetically as he tugs his wrist away from a clingy, cranky vegas. "i'm not about to let you get shot again."

vegas has many problems with this statement, starting with "i got myself shot, idiot," and ending with "you're not my bodyguard, so stop fucking acting like it," but somewhere in between he always ends up twisting the knife too deep, and pete will smile that strained, empty smile that vegas never wants to see again. so vegas has learned, with great difficulty, to let this fight lie.

besides, vegas has discovered a silver lining in all of this: post-workout pete is hungry.

he's sweaty and disheveled, too, if vegas can manage to lure pete to the kitchen before he wanders off to shower, and vegas has always liked him like that. so when vegas has the energy, he'll make tom luad muu from scratch with all of the trappings, slicing up pork blood and intestine and liver in the early light of dawn, leaving them to simmer and burble pleasantly on the stove. he'll pull out strips of chicken he left to marinate overnight (he loves feeding pete meat, he loves it), grill them over open flame, and the enticing scent of it will fill up the kitchen and the hallways beyond. it works like a charm; pete will stumble in nose-first, and the look of awe of his face will settle like contentment into vegas's bones.

and then vegas gets to watch pete steadily work his way through a ridiculous amount of food, humming with satisfaction and moaning in pleasure as he slurps up soup and tears through chunks of meat, licking traces of grease off the corners of his mouth, and something warm and heady will curl in the pit of vegas's stomach -- and he'll get hard. sometimes he'll do something about it, leaning over to taste the salty sweat on pete's neck and the lingering spice on pete's mouth; but most times he finds himself doing nothing but sitting in the intensity of his own love for pete, basking in the warmth of pete's delight, and thinking to himself, this must be what happiness feels like.

-

inspired partially by a convo with @fleet-off about vegas's passive horniness and partially by this bingqiu fic about making obscene sounds while eating. hehe

[iloveyouitisruiningmylife]

real

[ventique18]

~ Related to my previous reblog

~ Malleus and his unorthodox leadership style

@hanafubukki perfectly described how Malleus tends to blame and overstretch himself to make up for others' shortcomings. I also noticed that this tendency also reflects on his leadership style.

At this point, it's common knowledge to players that Malleus isn't exactly the best housewarden in NRC. This is actually also addressed by Riddle in Twst's Savanaclaw novel. He is incredibly charismatic and his followers know to trust in him completely and follow his lead, but his style is not ideal.

I'd like to reiterate the not ideal part. It's not ideal because it's not the standard for leadership that we're used to. He's not like Riddle who would scold his members for not studying the day before an exam, nor is he like Vil who proactively curates his members' skincare routine so they'd look their best for a photoshoot. In fact, he is not a preventive type of leader; he's more of a corrective one.

As a king-to-be, he deeply respects that every single person has a role that they have to fulfill, and he expects that his dorm members already know what to do and how to do it correctly. He doesn't like to interrupt when they're doing their roles because he trusts in them completely, but in the event that something indeed goes wrong, he feels like it's his role to put everything back to their right places because he's responsible for every action that his domain does. As if every single person in his house is one of his limbs, and if something goes off, then the blame is simply on him, the head. And that's why there's no "I cannot do this" for him; he is always their last bastion and he can't fail their established belief that in his presence, everything is well.

This is both a relief and a sort of pressure on them. Because Diasomnia works eerily close to a religion, they're always assured that they have a god to solve all their problems when the going gets tough. At the same time, Diasomnia members are always pressured to do everything correctly, just because it would reflect badly on their god if they don't.

Malleus himself is not pressuring them though; in fact he believes that failure is an important part of learning, just like how he tells you in alchemy classes to fail as often as you must--because he's there to support you all the way. He has always been kind and understanding to others. It's to himself that he's not so kind to. After all, when the last bastion falls, it's game over.

[photmath]

It Was Never Us | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé x Female Reader

Summary: You had finally had enough.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: ANGST, ANGST, cursing, time jump, lots of dialogue

Note: I reluctantly apologize. I rushed to get this out in time before the semester started so if there are mistakes, I do apologize for that.

FOUR YEARS AGO

It has been three times now. Three times that Kylian had forgotten about your biweekly date night. Three times that you were left feeling like a complete failure. Three times you were left questioning yourself what you did wrong.

The first time he had forgotten about it, he made it up to you by taking you out the next day. The second time: he had made plans with Neymar that day, said that he got the days confused, you just said that it was fine. You weren’t in the mood to argue that day—especially because your team had a bad loss—a match he hadn’t even bothered to show up to, let alone text you ‘good luck’ or ‘sorry about the match.’

But today, today was different. It was the anniversary of your four-year relationship. He said he had the night handled a couple of weeks ago, and that all you had to do was ‘dress pretty.’ You weren’t able to double check with him because of his away match yesterday. He was flying in today and then was going to attend a rehab session to loosen his tight muscles.

He had promised he wouldn’t be back home late.

However, it had been almost four hours past the time he was supposed to come by and pick you up. So now, you are just fed up.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about the anniversary date or your plans. Let alone a text message saying ‘Happy Anniversary.’ You thought maybe he was planning an elaborate dinner, that that was the reason why you hadn’t been sent your favorite flowers or even a call.

Your phone dings again. A timer you had set for yourself to start winding down for the night because you had a big match tomorrow—Women’s Championship League—against Chelsea.

Standing in the kitchen in your heels, dress still on, you couldn’t take your eyes off your phone: a video of Kylian at a restaurant with Neymar and some of his other teammates. He wasn’t doing anything bad, but he was just there. Never did he mention to you that he was going out tonight. The video had been taken over an hour ago.

You don’t even feel angry. You feel embarrassed. Humiliated. But you don’t let those emotions consume you, instead you start packing a set of clothes in a large traveling purse you have. You weren’t going to stay here tonight, you couldn’t.

As you zip up your bag, satisfied with the items you packed, you go back to make you some type of dinner. You hear the front door unlock and you let out a breathy sigh to calm down your feelings as he walks in.

He glances at you, and then does a double take, his head tilting, “It’s a bit late to go out, ma chérie, don’t you think?”

You cross your arms in front of you, Kylian’s confused expression only growing. You give him a calm smile, “You tell me.”

“What do you mean?” He sets the training bag he took this morning on the dining room chair. He props his elbow against it.

“What’s today?”

His cheeks warm suddenly, his mind juggling through birthdays and anniversaries. He stills. His shoulders slack as he rubs his face, “Fuck, fuck, chérie, I’m so sorry—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m done, Kylian,” you say. Your voice is so eerily calm that it makes him worry.

He looks at you, his eyebrows raised, “What?”

“I’m done.”

“No, chérie,” he walks towards you in a couple of strides. His arms are reaching out for you but you swipe them away. Your heels clack against the marble tile as you walk past him. “Let me make it up to you.”

You let out a laugh, “I can’t believe I wasted this time with you.”

He’s shaking his head but you can’t see him frantically following your pace up the stairs, “Don’t say that, mon amour.”

“You haven’t remembered shit, Kylian!” you whip your head to face him. His face is only guilty and full of shame. “I can’t even remember the last time we cuddled, let alone held hands.”

You knew juggling between matches of you and him, time got stretched impossibly. But the times you were home, Kylian used to never take them for granted, neither did you. The both of you would cherish one another whenever in each other’s presence. Always communicating, loving one another, and supporting each other at games if time permitted.

But then the World Cup happened. You had the time to go to Russia and you and Kylian had the best time there despite you only being able to see him after his matches. His popularity and recognition skyrocketed. He was on everyone’s mind and you couldn’t be any more proud.

However, that was the turning point in your relationship. No longer were you guys able to go on weekly dates comfortably—not with Kylian’s new status. He would have to rent out restaurants or you two would get bombarded. It turned to every other week because it got exhausting trying to make time with him at a restaurant.

Kylian’s hands fumble on the rail, clutching onto them. His eyes tear away from yours and you scoff, continuing up the stairs. His steps heavy and fast, “Chérie, wait.”

“I waited for four hours, I’m done.” You grab your bag and sling it on your shoulder.

He gawks, “Done with what?”

You look up at him, “Done with this. With you and your unkept promises.”

His face falls again and he stops walking closer to you, scared that any move towards you will only push you away. He says, “No, can we just talk about this please?”

“Sure, Kylian, we can talk,” you indulge, your voice laced with sarcasm.

He frowns, his mouth opening but he says nothing. He scratches his neck, searching for words, “I—I’m sorry.”

Your hand teases off the engagement ring from your finger, setting it down on the dresser you and Kylian share. Kylian’s heart squeezes at the sight of you. He can’t stop himself from walking to you, “Wait, please.”

You stand there, eyeing him quietly. His eyes are darting back and forth between your bare finger and the ring. “Don’t do this. Not right now, you have a game tomorrow. What—what did I do wrong? I’ll fix it, chérie, I promise. I’ll fix it.”

His hands find yours and you let him. You had already made up your mind and you weren’t going to change it. You couldn’t keep doing this each time.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” you say and his eyebrows furrow. “You’re not the man who proposed to me on my first ever professional football field that I played on. You aren’t the person who used to rent out restaurants for me without hesitation if I said I was craving something.

“You kiss me when you come home but you don’t talk to me. You don’t ask how my day was or tell me yours. We don’t cuddle. You don’t even go to my games anymore so I’m surprised that you remembered tomorrows. And you’ve missed our date nights for the past months, and I’m so tired of it.

“I’ve done everything. I’ve gone to every game I could possibly make and cancel plans with my friends to make sure we have our date night. I’ve talked to you and told you if something is wrong, like how you have told me to do. We talk it out and we’re usually fine, but this—this has been going on for so long now, that it started off small and now it’s just grown.”

Your eyes search his and they’re stuck frozen staring at you, taking in your words. You pull your hands from his and he doesn’t fight them to break away.

You clear your throat, “I stopped complaining because I didn’t want to be that bitchy fiancé everyone complains about, but no, I will not settle with someone who is no longer the person I love. So I’m done. I’m not going to marry someone who forgets or gets too comfortable in their relationship that they stop entirely and can’t even realize it.”

He steps in front of you, halting your movements, his voice shaking “Give me one more chance and I swear it will be the last. I swear on everything.”

“You can’t keep promises.”

You move around him but he’s quick to step in front of you again. His hands desperately clutching for yours, “Wait—we’ve been busy these past few months, okay? I think we’ve both been exhausted—”

You shake your head, “Don’t say ‘we,’ Kylian. I have given you everything even when I was tired. That’s the difference between you and I.”

He nods quickly, “Okay, me! I have been exhausted lately that I just haven’t been thinking right. I haven’t loved you the way I should’ve. I haven’t given you the attention nor the time that you deserve. I did get comfortable, okay, yes, I admit to that and it’s my fault.”

You adjust the bag on your shoulders, “It is.” You move past him and walk down the stairs. “Even if you had texted me I probably would’ve let this slide, but to go out tonight, seriously?”

“I forgot,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I know you wish to hear something else—” the both of you stop in the kitchen. His breath hitches, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t keep our promises.”

You take in the view of his face. He’s completely deflated and you wish that brought you joy, but it doesn’t. You want to wrap him in your arms and put your ring back on, saying that you were overreacting but you don’t.

Just a few months ago the two of you were celebrating his twentieth birthday, and then a few months afterward he was proposing to you. The face he wore that day, so full of joy and excitement of what the future held. A stark contrast now.

He frowns, tears welling up in his eyes. A shaky sigh escapes his mouth, “I love you.”

You blink away the tears that threatened to pool, “I love you too, Kylian, that’s why I have to do this. I don’t want to hold myself back—I mean I have a fucking final to play tomorrow and here I am still awake. I can’t keep doing this anymore. I don’t deserve to be second in your life. I hope you find the person that you—”

He cuts you off, “Don’t say that.”

“I wish you all the best and success.”

He closes his eyes, nodding. Somehow him not looking made you walk out easier. And once you finally made it to the elevator, you leaned against the wall and bawled into your hands. Your sobs rattled the entire elevator.

------

PRESENT

“Holy shit,” Sergio mutters. Kylian’s eyebrows furrow next to him, Hakimi across from him leans into the iPad Sergio carries.

“On our PSG?” Hakimi asks.

“There’s only one féminine team,” Sergio replies.

“What’s up?” Kylian perks his head up.

“Y/N Y/L, she just got transferred here.”

Hakimi’s brows furrow, “Woah, her name sounds so familiar.” He flicks his fingers, “Agh! I know it, it’s right there.”

Kylian freezes, dropping the band he and Hakimi were using to stretch. It goes swinging to Hakimi and he winces as it makes contact with his chest.

“Really, Ky?”

Kylian ignores him, walking towards Sergio, examining the article.

The headline reads, “Star Defender is Coming Home!”

Sergio beams, “She’s really good. Marquinhos told me about her…”

He keeps talking but Kylian doesn’t register his words. He’s still fixated on the images of you, you wear a happy smile in your FC Barcelona uniform in one of them, and then in the other you hold a PSG jersey up. You had just been on a stellar season, he knew, of course he had known.

He kept up with all of your games since the two of you had broken up. He had tried to follow you on social media, but watching you play and seeing you up close on his phone, he couldn’t stomach both. He was so glad to see you doing well on Barca that he couldn’t comprehend why you would want to leave them.

Sergio furrows, thinking the same thing, “I wonder why she’s leaving.”

Hakimi shrugs, “I guess we’ll have to just ask her when we see her tonight.”

“Tonight?” Kylian croaks.

He nods, “The exhibition match tonight against the women’s team.”

Kylian eyebrows raise, “That’s today?”

“We were just talking about it,” Sergio says. “How did you forget?”

Kylian, still in shock, “No, I know it’s today. I just…I don’t think she’ll be playing tonight.”

Hakimi chimes, “Maybe she’ll just watch, but no she’s definitely here.”

“How do you know?”

Hakimi and Sergio both furrow their brows at their teammate. His sudden different behavior was not going unnoticed. Sergio lets out a nervous chuckle, “This picture is from today, Kyks. Are you okay?”

Kylian scoffs and then lets out a restrained chuckle, “Of course.”

Sergio nods at him hesitantly and then scrolls down to read the article. Kylian watches as his eyebrows furrow and his heart screeches as Sergio reads it aloud, “‘She’s expected to play in tonight’s exhibition match, and it will definitely be a sight to see her and Kylian Mbappé on the same field. Just four years ago, the two of them were expecting to tie the knot, but suddenly called it off, breaking the hearts of many of their fans…’”

Heat pools around Kylian as both of them look at him. He fixates his eyes with one of the medicine balls that lay some feet in front of him, not daring to look at the two of them.

Hakimi nudges him, “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Kylian coughs, “We didn’t work out.”

“You fucked it up?” Sergio asks. His voice is blunt.

Hakimi speaks again, “So you were just never going to say that you had a whole fiancé at one point?”

Kylian sighs, “Yeah, I fucked it up, and it’s not something I’m proud of, Achraf, why would I tell you that?”

He shrugs, “I mean, I could’ve helped you or something.”

“It was four years ago, we didn’t know each other by then. Can you guys please just not say anything? We don’t talk about this anymore,” Kylian’s voice is firm.

Sergio and Hakimi glance at each other, their faces betraying Kylian. Kylian lets out a sigh and shakes his head.

Hakimi talks first, “How long were you guys together?”

Sergio then: “This is an engagement though, how could you have stayed quiet this whole time—”

Kylian rolls his eyes, “It was an engagement. Not anymore—”

“Did you cheat?” Sergio asks.

He groans loudly, “God, no. How could you say that?”

Sergio shrugs, “I mean four years ago was what…2019? You had to still be clouded from the World Cup.”

“I didn’t cheat on her, okay?” Kylian knows he can’t walk out of the session no matter how badly he wants to, so he rubs his face and plops down on the floor, stretching out his hamstrings. Luckily, the three of them were a bit far from the rest of his teammates, so they couldn’t hear much of their discussion.

Hakimi nods his head, “So you did something worse?”

“Like stopped showing up?” Sergio guesses.

Kylian suddenly hates himself for befriending two people who are already married—and Sergio was years into his happy marriage.

“Or, forgot something?” Sergio guesses again.

Hakimi groans, “Never forget a birthday.”

“Or an anniversary. I have my phone set to remind me months before.”

Hakimi laughs, “That’s smart. Kylian?”

He sighs, “I forgot our date nights…and our anniversary. And stopped showing her affection.”

Both of them quiet down. Kylian had yet to cool himself from the prior nerves he got from when Sergio first said your name, and their laughter-turned-to-silence wasn’t helping.

Sergio furrows, “You just threw her to the curb?”

Kylian looks at him, angry with his choice of words. He then looks at Hakimi and Hakimi looks disappointed. His face reminds Kylian of how someone feels when their younger sibling’s hearts have just been broken. Full of protection for someone he had never met.

“I didn’t mean to, but yeah, our lives got hectic months after the World Cup…that I just lost it. I couldn’t manage my time, everything was moving so fast. Dates were coming up before I even realized it, and then she was gone.”

The two of them are quiet again, Hakimi definitely couldn’t relate and Sergio was searching for some good advice.

Sergio coughs, engulfing the silence, “You were just a kid at that time, Kylian. Your recognition exploded and you didn’t know how to manage it. I wouldn’t place all the blame on your shoulders if I were you.”

Kylian shakes his head, “It was my fault though.”

“And the worlds,” Hakimi states.

“You young guys don’t know how to handle it until it happens,” Sergio advises. “You guys will think you do, but you don’t. Everything moves fast after you blow up, but you can never forget about the people who stayed by your side.”

Kylian nods absentmindedly. The advice would’ve been helpful four years ago, but he listens either way.

“Head up, you have a girl to catch,” Sergio says, getting up and patting Kylian’s head as he passes him.

------

Kylian wishes Sergio’s words didn’t give him a surge of encouragement because here he was rehearsing the speech he was going to tell you once he got the time. He cringed as he thought of it. What was he even supposed to say?

Warm-ups had gone swiftly. He had seen you warming up from afar and the glimpse of it alone had his heart faltering between beats.

He knew that you would probably have to defend him, so it made him nervous thinking about you so close to him. The closest the two of you had ever been in four years.

The sound of the whistle was the only thing that got him out of his mind. He had a performance to put on. One that he knew would be cut short by half-time to let the youngsters play, so he had to give it his all since the stadium was sold out.

He tried to keep his gaze off of you, knowing that he would probably freeze and choke up the moment you looked at him.

Seeing Hakimi get the ball back, he knew it was time to start sprinting. He sprints around you, nearly tripping on his feet as the smell of your shampoo swarms his nose. It was still the same smell.

He hadn’t realized you were so close to him. He sprints down the line, and you’re following him.

You couldn’t lie and say that you wanted to throw up, seeing him now brought back all the memories of the two of you. And the funny part was that only the happy memories were the ones you remembered and thought of the most. You didn’t think of the bad parts—not that fast at least—until you had to remind yourself why the two of you didn’t work out.

He gets the ball passed to him, but he has to go through you first to get in a cross. He can’t help but to smirk, a nervous laugh escaping his mouth before he can even comprehend that you stole the ball away from him. You kick it to your teammate, slowing down to a jog. You feel him jog beside you.

“Good ball,” he says, jogging past you. His voice sends you chills. He turns around to face you and a ghost of a smile litters his face.

The game goes on. You and Kylian interact only briefly. When he sprints past you and you know there is no way to catch up to his speed, you let out a groan. He’s chuckling as runs past you and you have to fight back a grin.

The halftime whistle blows and you walk to the locker room, a smile finding your face as you clap hands with your new and some familiar teammates.

You find your way to the restroom, having already heard your coach’s words and line up changes. The restroom in the locker room was crowded so you decided to go to the one down the tunnel.

“Hey,” a voice calls out and you freeze. Of course he was waiting for you. You turn around slowly, Kylian already wearing his wind breaker as he gives you a nervous smile, “Are you playing the second half?”

You shake your head, still shocked at how much he’s grown and his presence. “No.”

Kylian motions his head to an elevator, “Want to come up with me?”

“I should probably tell my coach.”

He waves it off, “I already told him.”

You raise your eyebrows, “What?”

“Let's go upstairs to the media box, I want to talk.”

You almost want to laugh at his bluntness. Your eyebrows are raised, “Kylian.”

He walks towards you, his walk full of confidence as a smile tugs on his lips, “What?”

“I don’t think that’s a good look from me to my teammates.”

“They think you’re with Sergio Ramos right now talking about defense strategies,” he laughs. The sound of his glorious laugh and the crinkles besides his eyes almost make you want to hug him. Almost. After all, this was still the man of your first everything since you were sixteen.

“He’s in this too?” You ask.

He nods, “Just come on.” He presses the button for the elevator, holding the door open as it opens immediately. He holds out his hand for you with a growing smirk.

God, did he look so handsome. That glint in his eye used to make you so weak in your knees and it wasn’t failing now.

You grab his hand and the touch makes your nerves radiate throughout your arm and hand. You silently hiss and his eyebrows twitch but then it goes away. He had felt it too.

The elevator closes and he grins, “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” you say, stuffing your hands into your windbreaker. You were suddenly glad that you decided to change completely because Kylian still had on his grass stained shorts and socks. You stifle a chuckle.

“It was fun beating you,” he snickers. He settles into the corner of the elevator and doesn’t hide his eyes as they skim down you. “Although you did play well, we may need you on our line actually.”

You laugh, “Oh, shut up.”

He hums, “Music to my ears.”

You roll your eyes. Both of you completely ignored the elephant in the room and you were glad. It was nice to see him again. The person you were talking to was who he was before the World Cup. Before he got too in his head. It makes your heart swell to see him happy again.

The elevator door dings open and he leads you to whatever room he was planning. It’s small with a single table and chair. The walls are painted blue and one of them is a whiteboard. A large window shows the view of the field below.

“What is this place?” you snort.

He laughs, “A small media room. Sometimes they do interviews in this room, but new coaches, never the players.”

“And that’s it?”

He smirks as the two of you make eye contact, “Sometimes a hideout the guys and I go to when we get sent off.”

“Like a red card?”

He nods, “Yep.”

You shake your head, chuckling. He pulls out the seat and motions you to take it. After you sit, he sits on the table, his legs dangling as he looks at the field. He’s sitting across from you on the table and has his back to you. The players were starting to make their way back onto the field.

“I promised—well Sergio—promised to have you back down there within twenty minutes,” he says, his eyes still glued onto the window. “I—” He lets out a shaky laugh and it makes you laugh at his nervousness. “They’re upset with me.”

“Who?”

“Sergio and Achraf.”

“Achraf?”

He glances back at you, “Number 2 on the field. Hakimi.”

“Oh, yes, okay I know him. Why are they upset with you?” your eyebrows furrow.

He rubs his neck, “I told them what happened between us.”

You nod your head slowly although he can’t see you. Well, might as well rip off the bandaid now. Time was ticking.

He looks down in his lap, “I’m sorry, chérie. I didn’t really mean to tell them, but they read an article and it said that we were in a relationship. They started asking a bunch of questions.”

“Wait, there's an article?” You’re already on your feet as you round the table. You don’t even have your phone on you to search for it.

He shakes his head, “It’s not bad.”

“You read it?”

He nods and stands up. He grabs a hold of your waving arms, settling them, “It’s not bad. It was talking about your accomplishments and then only mentioned me at the end. Said that it was going to be a ‘sight to see’ us on the field together after we called off our engagement four years ago.”

“It mentioned that?” You didn’t want the media’s attention to be on your previous relationship, it should be on a team.

He nods, his hands still on your wrists, rubbing circles onto them. “It was brief. Not a lot about you and I.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Where were you?”

He gives you a faint smile, his hands lingers on yours as he takes a seat on the table right beside you. He lets go of your hands, “Why did you come back?”

You sigh and rub your palms on your sweats. He wasn’t going to like the news. The media hadn’t even caught wind of it yet. “I’m getting married.”

Kylian can’t help the reaction he lets out. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open. His eyes are on you and you watch as they go from shock to hurt. He looks away immediately, his head looking down as he covers his mouth.

“He wanted to move here, got a job, and then hoped I would follow him.”

Kylian looks up, his eyebrows creased, “You wouldn’t do that though. You would never give up your dreams. Tell me that’s a lie.”

“It’s not.”

“For a guy?”

You sigh, crossing your arms. It was a bit out of character. “I’m back here because PSG needed a defender.”

He stands up, his head shaking, “Tell me the truth.”

“I am.”

Kylian stands only a foot in front of you, he has to look down at you to talk. His voice is serious, “So what happened to your dream?”

“It was to win the Champions League with PSG. I never got to do it,” you say.

Both of you silently think about that night of your break up. The next day, your team had played horribly against Chelsea, losing 3-0. You wish you could say you played well but you hadn’t at all. Kylian had come to that game, watching in the same room you both stood in now.

He sighs, “You won one with Barca.”

“That wasn’t my dream though.”

“I know,” he gives you a meek smile. “I just—there has to be more to the story, chérie, I mean help me understand.”

You palm your forehead, you should’ve known he was going to want to talk about what you were doing here back. You had left that season to Barcelona after the Champions League, wanting to get out of the city you grew up in. But also wanting to get away from him.

“Is that all you brought me up here for?” you ask.

He shakes his head, “I wanted to see how you’ve been.”

“I’ve been good, Kylian. How have you been?”

“Miserable,” he mutters. “Even more now.”

“Mmm, I’m sorry about the World Cup.”

He waves you off, “I was miserable before that.”

“Why?”

“Because I lost you,” he agonizes and you stop yourself from expressing your annoyance.

“Kylian—”

“Does he make you happy?” His arms flop down next to him as he awaits your response.

You muse, “Yes.”

“Everything you wished I gave you?”

You bite onto your lip. Kylian was one of a kind when the two of you first started dating, almost nothing could ever top his morning cuddles and kisses he would give you. He always knew which muscles to massage before your training sessions. Or how you liked your coffee. Or how you would always like to run yourself a bath after strenuous workout sessions. He’d have the water ready for you when you’d get a home.

“Chérie?” He raises his brow. His hand goes to your cheek and he brushes the delicate skin. The both of you almost melting at the contact. You lean into his touch instantly.

“He’s a gentleman.”

“That wasn’t my question,” he whispers. “Why are you here, mon amour?”

You feel him brush away the tear before you even notice it’s there. You open your eyes and his eyes flutter with concern. You step back, wiping away your tears, “I should head back.”

His arms are around you before you can stop and you break down into him. Your head digs into Kylian’s strong shoulder as you sob into him. He still smelled of sweat and outside, but you didn’t care, all you felt was him. He kisses your head as his embrace tightens, pulling you closer to him.

This felt like home. His scent. His arms. The feeling he brought to your chest, you hadn’t felt this way in four years.

He holds you for a couple of more minutes until your crying dies down. He kisses your forehead when he peels you away, “Tell me. I’m not going to judge. I can take the criticism.”

“He wants to have kids,” you frown.

Kylian sneers, “What a jerk.”

You laugh through the tears and he gives you a small smile. You cross your arms, wanting Kylian’s warmth back. “I don’t even want to have kids right now. I’m playing so well and then I’d have to stop. I’m too young.”

He chuckles. He knew he shouldn’t have found this situation comical but it was. You had told him before how you would only want a kid now—when you were both young—or when you were both older, that there was going to be no in between. So he knew you weren’t going to give this man children until years later. This makes the ache in his heart ease, knowing that he would never treat you this way.

“I’m being serious, Ky,” you groan. “I’ve told him all this already and it’s like he doesn’t care. He can’t even see me halfway.”

“You’ve called off one engagement before, why not go for a second?” He teases. He says it so nonchalantly that you jab at his shoulder.

“Stop it.”

“Okay, okay,” he swipes the smile off of his face. “So you’re here because he wants kids?”

“He wants to settle down, and said that he always wanted to live in Paris.”

“Is he famous?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to do that again.”

He clutches his heart, “Ouch.” You don’t respond and he takes a seat back on the table. He folds his arms, looking up at you, “You told me that you didn’t want to be held back. Isn’t that what’s happening now?”

“How am I being held back?”

He shrugs, “You want a Champions with PSG. Not kids.”

“We can have kids in the future.”

“He wants them now.”

“Well,” you sigh, “it’s still an ongoing discussion.”

He huffs.

You keep going: “I missed Paris. I wanted to be back here with my family. My parents and siblings are getting older. I have a niece who I only see on the holidays and I feel like I’ve missed out on her entire life. I practically have!”

He nods his head slowly, but you can see the way the glimmer in his eyes diminish. He was upset. He exhales, “So it’s just a sudden win-win scenario for you? That it’s easy? Two birds in one stone?”

“What do you mean?”

He stands, he looks disappointed. “You come back here to get married. Maybe win a Champions League. You have your family around you. And then you settle down with this man and have kids.”

You didn’t understand the problem. That was exactly what you had planned. You didn’t see anything wrong with it.

“Kylian, it's been in the news about me possibly transferring for months now. He read about it in an article, and then brought the idea up to me, and then I told him that yeah, I’d think about it. Then the next day, he gets a job here and then I suddenly have to think between two decisions.”

He raises his arm to stop you and you raise a brow at him. He doesn’t bat an eye. “You gave up your life in Barcelona to follow him. Not for you. For him. You would’ve never thought about moving back here if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not true,” you cross your arms. “I wanted to move back here.”

He shakes his head, “Maybe you did, but it wasn’t for your family.”

“How could you say something like that?”

“I know you, chérie. Your ambition is too high to ever stop to follow someone. Your family has never held you back, no matter how much they have tried to persuade you. Hell, even I tried to persuade you before. When you have your mind set to something, it’s set. Your niece was born four years ago, a little after we broke up, and what? You barely miss them now?”

You scoff. Kylian’s words were harsh. A brutal blow to you and your return.

He’s shaking his head again, “This man took a job without even asking you! And you were fine with that? He’s never even lived in Paris.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” he scowls. “How is this any different than when you would wait for me to change? Instead, it’s as if I had never changed and you just dealt with it. Are you kidding me? You would have never put up with that—and you didn’t.”

“He can actually keep his promises, Kylian. He remembers anniversaries at the very least. That’s already more than what you did.”

A ripple of a sarcastic laugh escapes him, “Our anniversary would be next week, and when I proposed to you, that’s in three months and two days from now.”

“You remembered that a bit too late.”

He sighs, his hands settling on the top of his head, “I just—you’re making a mistake with this man. He wants a kid, chérie, he wants you to stop playing. He’s already got a new job that I assume pays better than his last. He wants you to be a mom.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Your irritation and annoyance only grows into silent anger. “If you think your words are going to somehow make me leave him and go back to you, you’re dead wrong.”

Kylian’s gaze moves to the pitch. It was at the 60th minute. His rehearsed speech was long gone and time was dwindling down. His mind couldn’t stop thinking about what to say next. He didn’t like the idea of you coming back home under these circumstances.

You wipe your face, “And what does it matter to you anyway? You and I aren’t in a relationship, Kylian. I don’t owe you anything.”

He looks at you, “He doesn’t make you happy. I know it because you were happy with me, before I fucked it up. You don’t look like that right now. You don’t have that glow.”

You snort, “And you’re supposed to bring that all back?”

“I can if you let me.”

“Hilarious. I’m done here.”

He steps forwards to you, a hand settling on your waist and you don’t move, frozen by his sudden touch. His eyes glance down to your lips and then back towards yours, “Just think about why you came here. You know the real reason only. The reason you gave me was full of shit. You and I both know it. I know you want to win the Champions League with PSG, but the only reason you were transferred is because you asked for it. Barca would have never let you go just because.”

He stops, his gaze growing more firm, “And say that yes, you wanted this dream to come true because it happened in Barcelona. I get that. I know that. But what happens when you win it? When you retire and realize that you don’t actually love this man the way you think you do?”

“I lo—”

He shakes his head, “No you don’t. You’re waiting. You’re hoping that something changes. That your feelings towards him change. I know that because you have that look. That same look when you were waiting for me to change. Waiting for me to snap out of it and realize that I had fucked everything up.”

He eyes the clock on the field: 64. He was out of time. Fuck.

You stare at him, lost in his words. This was what he wanted. For you to doubt yourself.

His hand presses against your cheek and then he drops it, “I’m not like the person I used to be. I do remember things now. I don’t ever forget because of what happened between us.”

He lets out a small chuckle, “I definitely won’t pester you to have my kids right now. I won’t compromise on your dreams. I won’t ever make you doubt my intentions. I promise to never make you feel this way, or the way you felt when you left. I’d never tell you to stop chasing your ambition, even if it takes years that we never have kids. Because let's face it, PSG has some growth to do.”

He gives you a meek smile, “My heart was only ever yours to have. And I'd love it if you met me at my penthouse, but only come when you’ve broken up with this jerk. You can come whenever you want, your dresser and empty space in the closet waits for you.”

Kylian takes your face into your hands and presses a chaste kiss on your cheek, lingering his face in front of yours as he pulls away. Both of your breaths are faltering and heavy.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers. He releases you and leaves the media room.

You’re left alone with his looming words replaying in your mind. You had a life-altering decision to make. Especially because he read you well. Read right through your lies.

--

(Part Two)

[spdrwdw]

How much for a crying absolutely depressed and stressed reader overwhelmed and just..

With a Miguel who comforts them even tho they’re failing because they know they should have done better but they were mentally in a hell hole

Like

I just need a hug

Help

(Don’t go to uni kids…)

I'm sorry you're stressed out, dear 💔 I know uni can be overwhelming and stressful. But you got this! You made it this far, I know you can keep going. Have some Miguel to give you comfort and also know that I am rooting for you! You got this! Same for anyone else who is burnt out and overwhelmed. We can get through it!

Art by onicli on twitter

Pairing: Miguel x f!reader

Warnings: none, just Miggy comforting you during a stressful time, no use of y/n

Summary: Miguel finds you stressed and depressed and tries his best to comfort you.

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

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Miguel made his way to your shared apartment after a long day of keeping the multiverse intact and anomalies at bay. It was exhausting at times. It really was. Sometimes he would regret even coming across the multiverse, however, he knew it was fate. He had to be the one to find it and keep everything in line. Plus, he had to keep you safe. You were the most important and precious thing in his life. 

Slipping in through the bedroom window, he noticed how quiet it was. Eerily quiet. But after a second of concentration, he could hear something coming from the living room. It sounded like muffled sniffles and choked sobs. His eyes widened and he immediately busted the bedroom door open, removing it from its hinges. 

You jumped up and let out a yelp in surprise before seeing your boyfriend awkwardly holding the door in his hands. 

“Muñeca?” He blinked when he took a better look at your current state. You were wrapped up in one of your warm, fuzzy blankets. Used tissues were scattered all over the couch and floor. At first, Miguel thought you were sick. But, then he saw the tears that stained your cheeks and the back and forth rocking you were doing. 

Gingerly, he placed the door against the wall.

“Baby, what’s the matter? Hmm? What’s wrong?” He asked as he made your way over to your side in an instant, scooping you up into his arms as he sat on the couch. 

“Ven. Ven aquí, muñeca,” he cooed softly just before you began to burst into tears again, hiding your face against his shoulder. 

“Shh. Shh. Hey, what is it? Why are you crying?” He asked as he rubbed your back, trying to soothe you from whatever it was that was bothering you. 

You simply shook your head as you let out broken sobs. 

“I-I can’t- I-I-I can’t do this anymore,” you choked out. 

“Can’t do what?” He asked, puzzled. At first, he wondered if it was about you two. Was there something going on between the two of you that Miguel wasn’t aware of? Was he neglecting his girlfriend? He had been rather busy these past few days. With working at Alchemax and being Spider-Man and all that jazz. Or..was there an important date that he missed? 

Shit. Was it yall’s anniversary? No. That’s next month..

 “Come on, baby. You can tell me. I’m here for you. Let me know what it is that’s bothering you.”

“I’m just so stressed out. W-with everything. I am trying, Miguel. I really am,” you sniffled. “But, I feel things have just been crumbling all around me. Failure after failure. It feels like I’m burning on fumes. 

First, it was that work assignment I had that didn’t seem to be up to my boss’s standards. I worked so hard with research for that damn thing. I stressed over that assignment! I put up with many sleepless nights due to it. And he just tossed it in the trash! Didn’t even spare a glance at it! 

And then with school. I sometimes wonder if doing grad school is worth it. Like, is it really going to benefit me? All these assignments. All that research and pages and pages of reading and writing just for the professors to glance at it for five seconds and put a big fat F on it because the topic isn’t Nobel Prize worthy or something. It’s just too much and I feel like my brain is going to explode!” You sobbed as you let out a heavy sigh, feeling the tightening in your chest constrict your breathing. 

“I just wish I could figure things out, you know? I feel like I don’t know what I am doing with my life. I don’t know who I am or want to become…and..I just want to know my place in this world.”

Miguel lightly tightened his grip around her, upset that his girl was feeling this way.

“You don’t need to figure anything out. There is nothing to figure out. You know who you are. You know your place. You’ve been working so hard to get to where you are and I am so proud of you for it, muñeca. I know things haven’t been going well, and that’s okay. It’s just a little bump in the road. That’s all. 

We all have our highs and lows. I know I do. I swear I have gray hairs now due to all the stress. But, I push through it, you know. I always see the light at the end of the tunnel.” 

Miguel continued to rub your back before tilting your head up and placed a kiss on your forehead and began to wipe your tears away.

“And I have you to anchor me. You keep me grounded and keep me sane. I push through because I know that you will always have my back and help me get back up should I fall. 

And I am here to do the same with you. I will support you. I will let you cry on my shoulder. I will pick you up when you fall. But, I won’t let you suffer with anything on your own. No matter how big or small the issue. I will be by your side.” 

You sniffled before nodding your head, closing your eyes when Miguel kissed your moist cheeks before placing soft kisses all over your face and lips. 

“I think we both could use a break. From work. From School. And from protecting the multiverse. What do you say? Let’s play hooky and do whatever we want for a day or two,” Miguel suggested, a soft smile on his face. 

“Really?” You asked him, letting out a shaky breath as you tried to calm your nerves. 

Miguel nodded his head as he scooped you back up and carried you to your shared room, settling you onto the bed. 

“Just take slow, steady breaths, baby. Everything is going to be fine and you’ll get out of this slump. Okay? Don’t stress about work. That assignment is over and done with. Move past it. And school. You got so little left to go! And in the end no one is going to care if you got an F or two. Just keep doing your best. Okay?” 

“Okay,” you nodded your head as he helped tuck you into bed before he dissolved his suit and began to get his pjs on. 

He removed his gizmo, placing it on the nightstand and turned it off. Miguel almost never turned his gizmo off, so, seeing that he did made you feel a wave of relief wash through you for a moment. At least you knew he was serious about spending the coming days with you.

As you waited for him to get ready for bed, you stared up at the ceiling, eyes glossing over with tears threatening to fall. You knew you shouldn’t be crying. There was no reason to cry. But, you just couldn’t bear another failed school assignment, or another stressful work project. You felt like a failure. Like an imposter as you try to navigate through your field of work and study. 

“Hey, hey. What did I just say, hmm? No more tears. No more worrying,” Miguel frowned when he saw your glossy eyes as he climbed into bed. 

Wrapping his strong arms around you, he pulled you close to him and peppered the crown of your head with kisses. 

“I know. I know. I just can’t keep my mind from going back to it all,” you apologized. 

“I understand.”

And Miguel did. He understood completely. He had been in those slumps many times before and he was sure he would fall into another one again eventually. But, like he had told you before, he had you to help him keep it all together. 

“Just know that I am here for you, baby. You can rant to me about anything. No worry is too big or too small. But, just know that you’re not alone. I am here. I am always going to be here.”

You nodded your head as you tried to wipe away a stray tear that had managed to fall.

“Thank you, Miguel. Really. It means a lot to me,” you told him, giving him a small smile. And it did mean a lot to you, knowing that you had him by your side to support you. Knowing that he was cheering you on. It meant a lot.

“And you can always tell me about anything, too, Miggy. While I may not understand all that multiverse jumbo, you can talk to me,” you assured him.

Miguel smiled, a slight gleam in his eyes. “I know, muñeca. I know you’re here for me. And that’s what keeps me going. Your love and your support.

Now. Let’s get some sleep, okay? Tomorrow is a new day and a fresh start. Leave all that worry behind.”

“Okay,” you nodded, nuzzling yourself closer to his warmth.

"Oh..don't forget to fix the door, please," you suddenly reminded him.

Miguel let out a chuckle, tightening his grip around you a bit. "I won't baby. Promise."

His strong heartbeat began to lull you to sleep, for morning would bring you a new day with no stress. And you couldn’t wait.

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[dyaz-stories]

how long will I slide? || Eun Hyuk x Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings & tags: angst, big spoilers for s1 of sweet home, that should be it?

A/N: Written for day one of @neohumanmonster's fandom event, Turning a New Leaf. Prompt: The Other Side. He's the one I had an idea for for that theme, but I actually haven't watched s1 of Sweet Home in a couple of years, so I hope this feels in character for Eun Hyuk, and that it's not too incoherent for the setting of s1!

Eun Hyuk has eyes everywhere in the Green House apartment building — as much as he possibly can, at least. He’s used to studying efficiently,to taking as much information from a page as possible in a single glance. He’d never thought his abilities would be used in that way. That he’d end up sitting in front of footage coming from surveillance cameras, making sure not to let anything go unnoticed, because that would be the best way for him to be helpful to the people around him.

Oh, he doesn’t just do that. He’s taken up most of the tasks that require organization, wouldn’t trust others with it, if he’s being honest, but this is where he spends the bulk of his days. In front of a screen. Staring. His books forgotten and gathering dust in a corner of the room.

He doesn’t get distracted. If his eyes linger when you appear in front of ones of the cameras, it’s just because you’ve been vocal about thinking that other solutions were needed, and he doesn’t want you to endanger everyone by trying to put one of them in action. That’s all there is to it. He doesn’t have time for anything else anyway.

So when one of his screens flickers, he notices immediately. His mind starts running through the possibilities as he leans toward it, all of them bad. Any kind of system failure would be disastrous. Loss of electricity would be close to a death sentence. A camera being destroyed could mean that the monsters are getting better at finding them, smarter, which would mean they’re evolving.

And the last possibility, that he’s having a hallucination because his monsterization symptoms are progressing…

Well, he coldly evaluates, it would depend. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, if the residents could evacuate before he loses control completely.

When the screen lights back on, and he’s met with his own eerily smiling face and eyes gone completely black, he’s almost relieved.

Good, he thinks. I’ll be able to help as long as the cameras work.

“Will you?” his other self asks as it spreads to the other screens like a virus, voice coming out like a screech through the speakers. “Are you sure you’re helping them?”

He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that the monster knows how to get under his skin, and yet he sits straighter at the question.

“Of course I am. Without me—”

“Maybe if they’d run when they wanted to, most of them would be safe right now,” the monster says, admitting out loud a fear that’s been eating at Eun Hyuk since the very start of this forced confinement. “Maybe you’re killing them by making them stay here. And really…” It laughs, high-pitched and maniacal. “Using that kid when you’d never have the guts to step out there by yourself?”

“I would,” Eun Hyuk protests, even if he’s aware that there is no actual argument happening here. “But I’m not the same kind of infected person as him. And I’m doing my part here. It’s not like…”

“Like you’re sending a kid out to be tortured only so he can be ostracized here? Sure looks like it.”

“It’s not,” Eun Hyuk repeats, weaker this time.

The monster opens its mouth to speak once more, when there is a soft knock on the door.

“Eun Hyuk?”

It’s you, and the monster’s face lights up as Eun Hyuk’s heart rate picks up.

Out of fear, surely. He doesn’t want you to know about his issues.

“Well how about that?” The monster practically purrs. “The thing you won’t let yourself have. Won’t even admit how badly you want—”

Eun Hyuk’s not really thinking when he picks up one of his notebooks to throw it at the screen. It bounces without any effect, of course, and the monsters starts laughing once more, until that’s all Eun Hyuk can hear, while it gets louder and louder and louder and—

The door opens behind him.

“You weren’t answering—”

“Don’t—”

You freeze in the entrance.

“Don’t what?”

He knows before turning around. Of course he does. Rational, human him is deeply aware that there is no way for you to see the things that his mind is creating.

“…come in before I tell you it’s okay,” he finishes with an even voice. “If you see something you shouldn’t, I don’t want to have to deal with everyone else’s panic.”

You click your tongue at him, and he immediately hates himself for saying it. He doesn’t even mean it. You clearly have everyone’s best interests at heart, even if you believe in a very different way of handling people than he does.

“Well, I just noticed you hadn’t eaten your share yesterday,” you say, and it stings that your tone is biting, particularly when he knows how soft-spoken you can be with others. “I was bringing you something to eat.”

“You should let someone else—”

“You can’t let yourself go weak,” you reply, pushing the food in his hands and folding your arms over your chest. “You know how much people rely on you here. We may not see eye to eye, but the last thing they need is to start worrying about you and thinking you’re not able to lead them anymore.” There’s a second of silence before you add, almost as if you can’t help yourself “Also, you know I already think these rations are too small. You really shouldn’t go a day without eating at least that.”

 He glances down at what you brought. True, it’s meager, and yet he feels a smile forming as he looks at it, at the acknowledgement that you were worried about him, even if you didn’t phrase it that way.

“Thank you,” he says.

And just like that, you soften. There’s part of him that finds it ridiculous, how you’ve given him a million second chances, how he’s let you down every time, and how you keep affording them to him still. The other one is so, so infinitely thankful for your kindness.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He sighs.

“As okay as I can be,” he answers, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think anyone is doing good.”

You nod gravely, then brush your hands over your jeans.

“Alright. Well then, I’ll leave you to—”

His hand shoots out to grab your wrist before he can hold it back and before you get too far away. You turn around to look at him, surprised and a little confused.

“Can you— would you mind eating with me?”

He could justify himself. Tell you he doesn’t like eating alone, even if he’s been doing it since his parents died, tell you he needs another set of eyes on the screen while he’s eating, tell you he needs to talk to you about one of the residents. He doesn’t, though. You read him a little too well, could probably tell that he’s lying. And he hopes that, with that big heart of yours, you’ll just…

“Sure,” you answer.

You grab a chair, pull it so you can sit facing him. As you sit down, your knees brush against his. The gesture feels surprisingly comfortable, in a way that he hopes doesn’t bring too much color to his cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It gets lonely in here,” he answers, which technically isn’t a lie.

There’s a wrinkle on your forehead as you study him, one that forms whenever you’re concerned.

He’s more used to seeing the one between your eyebrows directed at him, the one that’s there when you’re annoyed.

“You can always ask me to keep you company,” you say, and his heart skips a beat. He’s sure you didn’t mean it like that, tries to pretend that it’s the monster that stirs his mind in that direction, but he knows, deep down, that that’s not the truth. That he’s actually desperate to know that someone like you could see value in someone like him.

But the truth is, if anything, you see value in everyone but him.

It doesn’t matter that you’re looking at him with these eyes, that you’re sitting with him, that you brought him food. You’re kind. You’d do that for just anyone.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells you flatly once he’s gotten himself back under control. “Thank you for doing that.” Then, after a moment, “Anything I should know about what’s going on out there?”

You start answering, soft voice describing all sorts of meaningless details that you’ve noticed and apparently care about. Eun Hyuk keeps his back to the cameras. He still sees, from the corner of his eye, the monster taunting him. But as long as you’re here, so real, so soft, so human, he knows he can resist its pull.

Too bad he doesn’t know how long you’ll stick around for him.

first time writing for eun hyuk and it was quite interesting to do! also i think i need to try my hand at writing him before s3 comes out lol. i hope you enjoyed it! reblogs and comments are strongly appreciated and keep me motivated and writing :)

more writing for sweet home

[calliopefiction]

Misplaced

Misplaced is a fantasy romance interactive fiction WIP, wherein your choices not only determine your own fate, but that of an entire kingdom. Let me take you an adventure filled with both whimsy and tragedy alike.

The current public demo goes up to the end of Chapter 6, available here: https://calliopefiction.itch.io/misplaced

The demo on patreon goes up to the end of Chapter 7: https://www.patreon.com/CalliopeFiction

The Story:

For decades, the human kingdom of Gaiapeia has been fighting against the fae living in the surrounding lands. How this conflict started depends entirely on who you ask.

You are the child of Lady and Sir Grahm, a noble familiy who has been serving the crown for generations. Eager to follow in your father's footsteps, you have been training for years to become a knight worthy of being Prince Az'Lean's Champion - his right hand, his closest confidant, the one who protects his life from the growing danger of the fae.

When the time finally comes and you are chosen for the position, it's a dream come true. You couldn't be happier. But just one day later, on your 21st birthday, a terrible truth is revealed to you.

You are a changeling - a fae child that was smuggled into a human family with only one purpose: to gain the prince's trust and use it against him.

A war between humans and fae is surely brewing and the outcome depends entirely on you.

Features:

Customize the appearance of your MC, play as non-binary, female, or male and romance whoever you like however you like, including the choice for asexual or queer-platonic relationships.

Enjoy the story without having to worry about stats - you will be a competent knight no matter what. There is no failure or success, only different choices and their outcomes.

Shape your personality, and your trustworthiness, with your actions. Other characters' disposition to you will change depending on how they perceive you.

Pick a side early on, play the long con, or refuse to make a choice at all. There are multiple split paths that will feature the same romancable characters - but their relationship to you might vary greatly (including villain romances).

Romance:

Vynn (nb):

Vynn is one of your fellow knights and a long-time friend. Unlike you, they aren't a knight by choice and don't care much for fighting. You get the feeling they'd much rather be a bard if they could, seeing as they love playing the lute, spinning epic tales and generally being a source of levity. They are fiercely loyal and good-natured, though there is that bit of resentment that will never quite leave their heart.

Prince Az'Lean (m):

Az'Lean is your prince, the one you are sworn to protect. At a glance, he is the very picture of a fairytale prince: charming, chivalrous, and powerful. He is an excellent fighter, loves animals, and prefers to be treated like an equal. Anyone who cares to look will soon notice the darkness lurking beneath that shining exterior, festering ever since the death of his mother.

Lady Meave (f):

Maeve is a powerful dryad who was sent to educate you on the ways of the fae. She is usually playful and soft, but can get eerily intense at times. As much as she cares about decorum and courtly things, she finds joy in the simplest things and easily turns into a giggly mess. For all her humour, you can never quite tell if she is being serious. Sometimes it feels like she's just playing with you.

Thianne (f):

Thianne is a sorceress and one of Az'Lean's most trusted advisors. She is intelligent and hard-working, though sometimes at the expense of her own well-being. Although she comes across as abrasive and rude, she is always willing to help those who need it. Her dry sense of humour and brutal honesty have endeared her to just as many people as they have made her enemies.

Lester (m):

Lester is a half-fae servant, working in the castle. As with most half-fae, his presence isn't entirely welcome and his reasons for being here seem complexer than he lets on. Lester is known for his mischief and his crude humour, often pulling pranks that border on malicious. Despite the way he presents himself as laid-back and uncaring, it's clear that there's a lot he isn't opening up about.

Warnings:

This story contains potentially triggering content. There will be graphic depictions of violence, death, discrimination, body-image issues and mental illness (including panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and paranoia). Discretion is advised.

Support:

Thank you so much for showing any interest in this project at all! If you would like to receive biweekly update posts, participate in polls, and get access to bonus short stories, consider supporting me on patreon: https://www.patreon.com/CalliopeFiction

[cat-mentality]

It's funny really, how much the children have taken from their adoptive parents.

How looking at them is something akin to looking in a mirror.

Chayenne who is eerily similar to Philza with the same blue hair and blue eyes, the same nose, but whose smile is all Missa's. Who loves deeply, like them both, who likes cooking and avoids larger crowds, who has no time for people's bullshit, who likes stories, farming potatoes and training with his weapons.

Ramon whose tiny smile is a carbon copy of Fit's, something precious to be cherished like the gift it is. Who is clever and resourceful and focused on what really matters, hardworking to a fault.

Leonarda with Vegetta's purple eyes and Foolish's cheekbones and nose. Leo who is creative and protective, who will defend her loved ones with everything she has, who wants pretty things and nice buildings in her name, who enjoys the good things in life.

Dapper who is his father's copy, who proudly display the demonic traits many hide in shame, the midnight skin, the white eyes, the little horns. Dapper who is clever, who likes to play with the obscure, who collects animals, who is fiercely protective of her loved ones.

Tallulah who may as well be Wilbur's copy as well, the same curly brown hair, the same big dark eyes, whose smile is just the tiniest bit crooked, exactly like Phil's. Tallulah who loves music so very deeply, who is passionate and puts her heart into her projects.

It's tragic really, how much the children have taken from their adoptive parents.

How looking at them is something akin to looking in a mirror.

Chayenne who is the oldest. The little warrior, his father’s son in bravery and courage and protectiveness, Chayenne who has taken the role of the protector without having to be told.

Chayenne, who is his fathers’ son. Who hides his insecurity and his fear because he cannot allow himself to appear weak or scared because all the siblings are looking at him for comfort, for guidance. Chayenne who takes every single thing gone wrong as a signal of his failure, of his weakness, who fear every single day that his siblings, that his parents, are going to look at him and see the scared little boy who cannot save his siblings, who failed them so many times and just keeps on failing.

And that they will realize he is not worth their time or their love.

Chayenne who is his father’s son and cannot put those insecurities into words, who cannot talk about them because they are his burden to care, because his parents and siblings have more important things to care about, because he is the oldest and he is not suppose to give them reasons to worry, he is supposed to be strong and reliable.

He has never been taught to be honest about his fears, he has watched as his father takes on the responsibility of taking care of another child by himself without a word of protest, he has watched as he father held his emotions close to his chest and he has learned to do the same. 

Chayenne like his father Missa, who believes he is not worth of their love unless he proves it with his actions, who is scared of failure as much as he is scare of trying, who struggles with what he truly wants to do, with the childish urges to just have fun, to just ask for a hug or to cry in the embrace of a loved one, and the believe of what he thinks he must do, stay strong and brave and keep his siblings safe so that they do not share his pain, so that they know they are loved and appreciated and that they are safe with him.

Leonarda who shares her pa Foolish's loneliness.

Leonarda who has so very few people she feels like she can trust, so very few people she believes would even care to look at her twice, and who has lost, on multiple occasions, those people, who has felt alone and scared too many times to count.

She hides her feelings deep inside even when it hurts, can't bear to expose them to the world because she knows how easily the world will step on them, how easily they will laugh at her or even ignore her pain because they are so very used to not thinking about her at all. Leo who clings to her loved ones with protective fierceness, even with jealousy, because she has so very few of them.

Just a child, a child like the others, yet most of the time people don't seem to take her seriously, just like they don't take her pa seriously, Leonarda who just like her pa Vegetta feels like she must step up as the protector, that she has to take charge into protecting the one person who has always seem and understood her, who will put him above everyone else because she knows that they will never be anyone's else priorities.

Lonely little girl with her lonely silly father, waiting for a ghost, surviving on memories.

Dapper who is the victim of sins that don't belong to her. Dapper, forever burdened by actions they didn't take, a child punished by the sins of the father. A child, who will gladly take the burden of pain if that means his sister and father will remain safe and unharmed.

Dapper who trusts very few people, Dapper who like her father keeps her plans to herself, who wants to fix things with his own hands, who doesn't want others to be sucked into their plans, who doesn't want anyone to ever be hurt for their sake, Dapper who loves so very deeply but who like the man who raises him do not know how to trust, how to let others help.

A child, so familiar with death. A child, so understanding that everything comes to an end, so utterly aware that her time is counted and all the implications of it. A child, like her father, so connected with death, a child who does not fear death, but rather the consequences of his passing will have on the ones he loves the most. A child, who never puts himself as a priority in his plans, a child who always thinks about the bigger picture, who hides her pain and his fears because they are not as important as getting the results.

Ramon who is so serious, so comically serious, a child who tries to behave so much older than his years. Ramon who doesn't like to be sentimental, who doesn't like to talk about mushy things, who doesn't even call Fit "dad" even if he has loved him since the beginning.

A child forced to grow up so quickly. A child with adult's fears. A child who wants to make plans for his father in case one day he wouldn't be here to take care of Fit anymore, who wants him to have other people.

Ramon who will show his love in little gestures, in short phrases he will pretend he never said after, who like Fit tackles emotions like dangerous mobs, who don't know how to tame the storm that breeds inside his chest, who doesn't know how to express the vulnerability that lays inside him, who would rather kill that part of himself. Ramon who loves, heavens, how much does he love, and he will show it in his actions, he will show it by putting himself in front of his sisters when there is danger close, he will show it by watching their favorite movies without complaining, he will show it by helping his father, he will show it in silent companionship, he will show it in tiny little smiles.

Ramon who loves so much, so deeply, Ramon who doesn't believe he has done anything to earn the same love back, Ramon who thinks he has to give and give and give to deserve the love that he has never realized is freely given. Ramon who is too much like Fit to recognize his own importance, his own worth, Ramon who, like Fit, doesn't think he could be loved simply by who he is.

Tallulah who understands her papi now.

That recognizes she was just a silly little girl when they met for the first time, who dreamed of the impossible. Stupid for ever thinking that her love alone would be enough, that she could love enough for both herself and Wilbur.

She couldn't, of course she couldn't. Wilbur didn't belong to the Island, like herself he was too big for this place, unable to lay down his roots, a leaf in the wind just passing by with no intention of ever building a home, or staying in the same place for too long.

It's not his fault, she tries to tell herself when rage builds a nest inside her heart, it's not his fault his calling is elsewhere, it's not his fault he cannot stand to be locked up, that he has the freedom everyone else dies and kills for. He tried, he warned her, but Tallulah had been alone and afraid, a silly little girl who believed in fairy tales, who believed she could be loved as fiercely as she longed to love another.

(That is something they share as well, not that Tallulah knows it- They love deeply, herself and Wilbur, they cling to love with desperation, trying to fill an unending void that lives inside their hearts, an emptiness that comes from never feeling like you are someone's priority, that comes from never fitting anywhere.)

Her love alone could not hold them together exactly how no one's love can hold her together now.

Tallulah who is her father's daughter, who is shaped not by his presence but rather by the empty spot he left in her heart, one that cannot be filled by anyone else, no matter how much they may love her.

Children, forced to grow up too fast, too quickly. Children who learned so much from their parents.

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER TEN — THE NEW FACE OF FAILURE

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: a surprise visitor shows up at nancy wheeler's house during your sleepover. eddie has a run-in with steve harrington and gets some hard-to-choke down news from a teacher. things with your newly released convict father seem to be going... eerily well. content warnings: does excessive yappin count. cussin! shitty dads! allusion to past physical abuse! drugs and smoking! heavy pettin! lovesick and scared about it edlacy! word count: 11.6k

Dear reader, 

For the first time in forever, I have nothing smart to say. I mean, really. For the first time in forever, when things have reached a previously unprecedented crescendo of shit-hitting-fannery, when my life has truly shown every possible sign of being headed toward complete ruin, when it’s not just opposite day but bizarro world incarnate, I feel…

Good. 

Because I’m looking at him. 

And he’s looking back at me.

And Nancy Wheeler is yelling for him to get in the goddamned window. 

Eddie Munson has no business standing outside the Wheeler’s garage with a fistful of pebbles, cautiously flicking them at a second story window, yet he is. The soft pelting noise had made your neck jerk up from where it craned over Nancy’s nails, painting them a springy green and go, “Do you hear that or is it my paranoia talking?”

See, when you woke up that morning, you knew you had two phone calls to make. Instead of using the traceable line of your house phone, you’d snatched a handful of quarters and booked it to the payphone at the edge of the lot. You’d almost stopped at the Munson trailer, tossing your own rocks at Eddie’s window, but thought better of it– there was always a chance that the newly exonerated (sort of) Ray Doevski would be peering through the blinds, taking a Rear Window affect to his newly instated house arrest. 

Yeah. House arrest, and you were sure that the same crack had run concurrently through the minds of you and both your parents– we’d hardly call this a house. But Ray was ordered to stay put, and even had this nutty gadget tagged to his ankle, this new fangled monitor that they were just rolling out. 

“Always on the cutting edge, aren’t you, Daddy?” 

With shaking fingers, you thunked in Eddie’s number, which he’d scrawled inside the cover of a Flannery O’Connor short story collection you’d been carting around a couple of months ago. It was one of those days that came up every now and again, where you couldn’t quite keep the lid on feeling blue. The weight of everything came down on you in an avalanche, leaving you unable to throw your pithy remarks into conversation with him or with Ronnie like you usually would’ve. Pretty much silent, pretty much staring a hole through the middle distance. He grabbed the book from you in the library during free period, your free period which he wasn’t even in, and whispered, “Just in case that curse gets lifted and you get your voice back. I’m sure you’ve got, like, a laundry list of barbs you’ve been dying to unload on me all day.” 

You remembered the way his eyes softened as he slid the book back to you, pressing his ringed hand against the cover for a couple seconds longer than he needed to. 

“Or just… for anything, y’know. We can just talk. About nothing. If it helps.”

At the time, you fought the instinct to put your hand over his.

“Won’t Wayne care that I’m calling?” you’d crackled, voice weary from underuse. 

Eddie shrugged. “Not if you pretend you’re Gareth.”

And that was exactly what you were hoping you wouldn’t have to do, shivering in your thin sweater as the dial tone to the Munson’s droned out. What if Wayne answered? What if you couldn’t rightfully approximate the voice of a balls-half-dropped freshman? What if he knew it was you, what would he do? 

Well, you needn’t have worried, because you apparently had a future in impressions. You squeaked out something about being the aforementioned Emerson looking for Eddie (at this ungodly hour of the morning?), something about Hellfire. 

“Gareth the Great! What’s the problem, the Arcane Brotherhood finally scoop your ass? Need me to come bust you from their tower? I told you, goin’ all Fear and Loathing in Luskan is gonna cost y–”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, it’s me,” you chattered, but even through the worry, a tiny smile pulled at your lips. 

 “Uh. Disregard everything I just said.” His voice had an early-morning static to it that you wanted to stay tuned into. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

“Hi… are you… shivering right now? Need me to come warm you up, because I’d be more than happy to cr–”

“Eddie, I’m at the payphone–”

“--what the hell are you doin’ out there?”

“--will you shut up so I can tell you? I don’t have a lot of time, so I need to cut right to the chase.”

“Sorry,” and this breathy little laugh runs through his voice that nearly knocks you clean out. God. What you wouldn’t give to hear that breathed into your ear instead of through some handset flaking rust. “Please, cut away.”

But, uh, yeah. That other thing. 

“My father got out of prison some-fucking-how–”

“Wait, what? Like he esc–,” you listen as Eddie drops his voice to a hiss, “Like he escaped?!”

“Oh my god, let me finish! –but, psh, no. Ray Doevski is a man of manicured hand, alright, he’s not tunneling out of anywhere. It’s all apparently legally above board, but… he’s– he’s at home. He’s in the trailer… He’s there right now.”

The fear in your chest was beginning to make your breathing feel white hot, hard to get out. Walls closing in. Your dad is at home. He is in your trailer. He is there right now. Five minutes alone in your room, a flick of his eyes over your belongings, he’ll know everything– everything that you’ve done–

You didn’t even notice that your breaths were turning into low, panicked gasps until Eddie’s voice broke through the receiver again. 

“Lace, stay put. I’m comin’ out there.”

“Eddie, no!” you barked down the phone, and a couple of birds scattered from the powerline overhead. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure collapsing into Eddie’s arms would have put a temporary stopper on the panic, you weren’t awarded such luxuries in this life. Figures. “I’ve got to get back to have some phony-ass breakfast with them in, like, now and you cannot be seen near me. Not here, okay?”

What Eddie crackled back with was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart chamber. It wasn’t a plea, or a demand. He simply said, brimming with a bright resolve, “Say the word and I’m there. Right next to you. Hear me?”

You had never heard anyone sound so sure about you before. 

Well, Eddie’s valiance was rivaled only by Nancy Wheeler, who you phoned up next. Karen Wheeler answered in a chirpy voice that even sounded blonde, her voice pitching higher when you announced who was calling. 

“Oh, Lacy! Of course. I’ll grab her for you, sweetie.” A little too goddamn knowing-sounding for your liking. 

But Nancy was all firm edges, picking up on the tremble in your voice just like Eddie had. “Well, you’re coming over. Obviously. Pack a bag– we need to put in serious work for that Streak article you’re finishing, right? Might even be an all-nighter. I’ll order pizza.”

With your dad shackled to the trailer and your mom reluctant to leave his side, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to prevent you from swanning off to the Wheeler residence. Had to stay true to your commitments, after all, something your dad constantly impressed upon you. But when you reminded him of this as you hitched your overnight bag over your shoulder, heading out to Nancy’s waiting car, he met you with a serene smile. 

“Of course, honey. Do what you need to do.” No argument. No pushback. Not even a snide remark. That chilled you to the bone. 

You attempted to distract yourself from… well, the whole meal of it, by allowing the Precious Moments-themed decor of the Wheeler household to wash over you. The house is warm and chintzy inside, with shoes piled up by the door and laundry overflowing in baskets. Nancy’s bedroom is just as achingly normal in tones of pink and cream, a sanctuary and a strangle between girlhood and growing up. She’d shyly batted a couple of stuffed animals away from the bed that had seen the throes of her and Steve Harrington. Her Tom Cruise poster hangs opposite a pinboard of college brochures. Barbara Holland’s memorial card on her mirror. 

Guilt and innocence and upward mobility. 

As you looked around, you thought about the photo strips from the mall of you and Tina and Cass and Carol, how they were stuffed away in a box somewhere. You made a mental note to tug Nancy into the next photobooth you both came across. And Ronnie, for that matter. 

Nancy was kind about everything, of course, like she always is; she didn’t push for information about your dad’s surprise return, but you gave it pretty willingly as you cracked into her Cosmo and nail polish collection. Everything but the you and Eddie of it all… that juicy morsel you were saving until the witching hour struck, the customary time for girls to tell secrets at sleepovers. 

But somebody always has to try and get the jump on you. 

Which is how you and Nancy end up hanging out of her window, a beaming Eddie staring up at you from the pavement. 

“What the hell is he doing down there?” Nancy hisses, her eyes panicked and flaring. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” but even through the initial flash of panic, your voice has taken on this dreamy quality that makes Nancy roll her eyes–and rightfully so! “Munson, what say you? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“I–”

Nancy doesn’t even let him finish, just lets out an exasperated sigh and tells him, “Just– come up here, alright? I do not want to answer for what’s gonna happen if my dad catches you in the driveway!” 

Without a second thought, Eddie makes to hoist himself into Nancy’s dinky bedroom window. He falls over the little seat in a jangle of silver and leather and hair and gleaming teeth– “Ow! Jesus!” “Eddie, shut. Up!” Nancy winces, you wince, but as Eddie rolls onto his back and clears the hair out of his eyes, you realize that fluttering in your stomach is not a fight or flight response. 

He smiles up at you, all teeth and mischief. “Hi. Whatcha doin’?”

Oh, no.

You nudge him in the ribs with your foot, way too light for him to yelp like that. Nancy looks like she’s going to kick the shit out of him for real–and you too, maybe.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?” she demands, turning on you. You notice that she’s still holding her fingers aloft, which you appreciate! No one seems to care about manicures as much as you do. It’s nice to finally be seen, for Chrissake. 

“Like I’d bring the heat around your place, Nancy! Come on, currently in a precarious situation much?” 

Hilarious to describe Eddie Munson as heat when he is, at best, a bull in Wheeler’s overstuffed china shop. Adorably so, you have to concede, watching him pick up a little porcelain figurine from her dresser. 

Nancy’s not buying it.

“I plead the eternal fifth!” you exclaim, eyes wide and willing the laugh to stay out of your voice as Eddie peers around Nancy’s stuff. “He operates on his own logic.”

Nancy eyes you warily before her gaze darts to Eddie. “Can you not touch anything? ”

“You have a cat just like this!” Eddie barks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the both of you chorus.

Delicately, Eddie replaces the little ceramic cat with a severely offended look. “Sheesh, ladies, I thought we were friends.” He drops the pretense pretty fast, jerking his chin in your direction with a smile that has I ain’t goin’ nowhere written all over it. “I need a word with the duchess here.”  

“So leave a message!” 

“He can’t–” “--you think we got answering machines in Forest Hills?” “--my dad–” “--life might be different for all you up here on Maple–” “--will have him taken out by sniper rifle.” “--you know this woman used a payphone for the first time in her life today?” 

A squinting Nancy lets this settle in the air for a second, like a stink bomb that’s just been deployed. I mean, you don’t know if she can see it exactly, but the charge between you and Eddie isn’t exactly subtle. Changed, maybe, from will-they-won’t-they to they-did-and-it’s-hazardous. Realization soon dawns on her. 

“Oh, you–ohhh,” Nancy nods, and chirps another, “Oh!” 

Then, a thunderous hammering that just about brings down Nancy’s bedroom door. The three of you lurch and freeze. Your hand instinctively goes to grab Eddie’s arm, fingers finding the soft leather. Your lashes flutter.

“Nan-cyyyyy!” 

That high-pitched, middle-schooled, reedy little tone? “Oh, shit. It’s just Mike.” 

“Mom said you were getting pizza so you have to get a pie for me and the guys! Wait,” some juvenile sounding muttering, “Two pies!” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Nancy snarls, in the way only an older sister can, “I… am going to go out there and run interference and you– five minutes, okay?! I’m–” She goes so far as to set a timer on her watch. “I mean it.”

Both you and Eddie make noises in the affirmative, him sidling closer and closer to you as Nancy moves out of the room. But she pivots, nailing you both with pointed index fingers. “And don’t– don’t you even think about it. You two are not subtle, I will know!” 

“Wheeler, I resent that perverted implication!” Eddie hisses, but his fingers are already walking themselves over the curve of your ass. You’d say something if you weren’t desperately trying to keep yourself under control. 

“Mike, quit yelling the house down like an asshole!” “Who is that? Have you and Lacy got a guy in there? Gross, are you sharing a boyfriend or something?” “Shut up, don’t be disgusting, I’ll kill you, get downstairs!” 

Soon as Nancy’s door clicks behind her, you wrestle an easily malleable Eddie down to sit on the bed and climb right into his lap, thighs planting either side of him. Your body is completely abuzz now that you’re alone with him again, physical form melding instantly to the heat of his body. Eddie’s gaze darkens just a touch, like he’s dimmed the switch inside his head from mischievous to slightly dastardly. “Oh, shut up!” you say, and catch your mouth on his.

“I didn’t say shit!” Eddie breathes in return, falling right into your rhythm. 

“You heard the chief,” you struggle through desperate lip smacking; that lived in taste of him, cigarettes and sweet soda, makes your head feel all baubly on the stem of your neck, “Five minutes,” Eddie’s hands web into your hair, your knees sag into the comforter, “Explain yourself.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Eddie’s mouth clicks sweetly against yours, words a bullshit mumble against your tongue. A heady mix of relief and desire flood you as you brace your hands around his shoulders. 

“Don’t lie,” you say, tinge of a whimper creeping in as Eddie’s grip starts to harden, indenting the flesh of your thigh. “I’ll kill you.” 

Looking at his grin is one thing, but feeling it against your neck as his mouth embarks on its own journey is something completely different. “Prom–”

“Eddie, how did you even know I was here?” A light, mindless slap comes down on his shoulder. Your breathing is becoming troublingly labored, head becoming troublingly spinny as Eddie’s teeth graze your collarbone.

“Rudimentary guesswork!” he gasps, coming up for air that’s soon stolen by the ready plushness of your mouth. “Okay. Okay. Fine, I saw Wheeler pick you up in her goddamn station wagon and–” Eddie’s voice cracks a touch as your hips press harder into him, “--put two and two together?”

“And you came here because…? Expound, already!” Your furious, air-starved hiss is a stark contrast to the way your lips keep chasing his.

“I wanted to c– I needed to come–” he swallows your stupid blooming smirk with another kiss, “Shut up. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I couldn’t sleep. Could you sleep? I couldn’t sleep, just kept thinkin’... Kept… hnm, thinkin’ about you… About you like this… ‘n last night…”

As he babbles, your heart jackrabbits. Christ, you want him so bad. You’d listen to him like this for hours–talking like this alone, open and wanting, is enough to get you off. Eddie’s easing your skirt up your ass, rucking that fabric up slow like he did last night–but you want more than last night, if that’s possible, you want all of him, and for longer and for good–

You want him so badly that you forget where you are. Eyes snap open to catch direct iris-on-iris contact with Nancy’s Tom Cruise poster, hung strategically in view from her bed. 

Nancy’s bed. Nancy’s room. Nancy’s fucking Tom Cruise poster.

“Shit,” you say in a strangle, right against his cheek. “Shit, what are we doing?” You rear right back, getting a good look at Eddie’s ruffled demeanor, his blush-high complexion. That intoxicated look he’s wearing just from feeling you up.

Someone looking at you the way Eddie is right now feels completely, totally brand new. Ardent and urgent, untouched by influence. 

You’re almost positive that your gulp is audible.

With a couple of rapid blinks, Eddie seems to come back down to earth. 

“No. No, you’re right, um– listen, at the risk of completely humiliating myself–”

“More than you did crawling in that window? This is crazed.”

Eddie pauses a beat, a genuine look of offense constricting his features. His hands have moved from your ass to your waist, and don’t shift. 

“Hold on–Doevski, are you marking my dismount?”

You assholes just can’t help yourselves, can you? Mouth twitching at the corners, you harden up your gaze.

“I’m just saying, if you weren’t wearing ten tonnes of regalia, you might be able to make a more subtle entrance–”

“--who died and made you a hellenodikas?”

“Oh! Pulling out the Ancient Greek mythology on me now, huh?”

“I would never… pull out on you,” Eddie says and manages to hold his stone faced expression for a grand total of half a second before both your faces split in two. See, you hate him for this; that he can keep perfectly in time with you, and has since the jump. 

You’re the first to move. You edge yourself off Eddie’s lap, his hands mournfully side along your legs as you move.

“C’mon. Montague moment’s over. Kick rocks.”

He gives you one good, solid nod and mockingly straightens himself out before attempting to worm his way back out the window. Crouching half in-half out, he pauses. Some remnant of a smile he smiled at you about a million years ago flickers across his face.

“You know, Lace,” Eddie says, “you keep throwin’ me out of windows like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

The door of the record store. The hot blast of stoned realization. Your fingers around his wrist. 

Knees working faster than your brain, you bend to Eddie and meet his mouth again. The kiss is soft and gentle, devolving into several little pecks around his smiling cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. To tide you over. To be continued.

“Eh, I don’t like you,” you mumble, tips of your noses brushing. “That much.”

“Yeah? Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”

You watch Eddie’s dismount (an easy six) and nervous jog all the way ‘til he’s disappeared through the shrubbery of the Wheeler’s. Soon as he’s out of sight, you’re almost positive that you catch a flash of burgundy paintwork zipping past the driveway, but it’s too fast to tell. Weird. 

Nancy near slices your fingers clean off as she noiselessly returns to the room, slamming the window shut. For as enraged as she’s trying to look, this girl with her half-painted nails also bears the familiar expression of someone baying for gossip. 

“Spill everything. Right now.” 

—

Eddie is a living, breathing, stink bomb of a cliche. He’s walking on air, he’s signed a lease on cloud nine, he’s all Gene Kelly’d out and still tap dancing down the locker lined steel trap of Hawkins High. Push back his curling bangs and he’s sure that PROPERTY OF LACY DOEVSKI is etched on his forehead, by the delicate hand that wields your fountain pen. 

Dude’s a goner. Lights out, KO’d, hit the bricks gone. And he only has himself to blame. 

If it were anyone else, he’s pretty sure it’d be different. Easier to stamp out the flame of hotheaded lust beneath his sneakers like a bag of dogshit on fire if it was some other right-side-of-town type girl. If it was just about being his diametric opposite. But it’s not. It’s you, sharp and silly and sexy, a total turn on even when you’re doing your best O’Donnell impression to sic him into studying. The you that he’s been slyly slipping into the NPCs of Hellfire, in ways that make Ronnie’s eyes roll (but she still tries to flirt with them, and that weirdly makes him a little… jealous? That dwarf is slick when she wants to be). The you that sometimes make a cameo appearance at his lunch table when you’re not holed up in the newspaper room, sat with poise and pith that the rest of the gaggle of nerds just don’t know what to do with. 

Eddie can’t count the amount of times he’s wanted to crawl across that table and kiss you. And he’s been close to doing it. Couple times. Remnants of sloppy joes on his hands and knees.

But now he can kiss you, at least in private anyway, because there’s still a roadblock or two you have to navigate. And so what! What’s a little challenge when you’re this blissfully, head fuckerly, heartburningly in l—

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.” 

This particular dagger comes straight out of the maw of Hawkins High’s crown jackass, Steve Harrington, whose shoulder Eddie’s just accidentally checked. Now, Eddie’s never cared much for Harrington, but never thought much about him either—the feeling, outside of scoring a baggie or two, is apparently mutual. But the glower Steve is sporting says anything but nonchalance. 

“Jeez, Harrington,” the grin Eddie’s sporting makes a full meal out of a plate of shit, “If you like me so much, you can just say so. No need for the whole pullin’ pigtails routine.”

Steve stares at him for a good, hard second or two— so rigidly, in fact, that it nearly makes Eddie’s face falter. Who pissed in this guy’s Cheerios? Because, even if he double counts on his fingers, Eddie’s sure it wasn’t him. 

“I,” Steve starts, pretty dumbly, “I’m havin’ a party on Friday. You should come.”

Eddie knows an order when he hears one, but it’s usually couched in something like, You got any good stuff, man? Y’know, phrased in the strained way popular kids do when they pretend not to hate his guts for half a second. 

He knocks a mocking two fingered salute off his forehead and Steve’s grimace deepens. “Be there with bells on, sire.”

Up the hallway, one of the classroom doors creaks open. 

“I don’t have all afternoon, Mr Munson.” 

Steve looks past him to the imposing, near-six foot figure of Ms O’Donnell, impatiently tapping her shoes against the linoleum. Eddie’s smirk flattens into a tight line.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in high demand! As you can see.”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response and takes off toward the exit. 

“Quit gazing after the quarterback and get in here,” O’Donnell demands. And who is Eddie to deny her, Amazonian Baba Yaga that she is? 

“Ms O’Deeeee, you call yourself a Hawkins Tiger?” he says, turning on heel, “You oughta know that Harrington is one of our finest ball players. Loves to play with balls, that one.”

“You can attest to that first hand, can you?” O’Donnell snarks, settling down behind her desk and gesturing Eddie to get comfortable at the top of the class. 

Oh, Iris. She’s right on his level, when she’s not tearing him a new asshole, scholastically speaking. 

Her name may not be Iris either, but tomato potato. Eddie slumps down into the desk like a graceless, clinking cat.

“I know you didn’t bring me here to talk about my extracurriculars. That would be a breach of propriety on your part.”

“Sure as hell I did not.” O’Donnell removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, as she often does not even thirty seconds into an interaction with Eddie. “I’m missing my granddaughter’s recital for this, I want you to know that.” 

He’s pulled out the there’s no way you’re old enough to be a grandmother line half a dozen too many times for it to fly again. Not that it ever did— look at this woman, with her tented fingers! She has a clear sight line right through his bullshit. 

“I appreciate that you value my education more than some pipsqueak with a cello.” 

“The problem is that you don’t,” O’Donnell sighs. There’s a note of defeat in her voice. “Eddie, we need to talk.” 

In all the years O’Donnell has been on his case (four consecutive), she’s never addressed him by his first name. Eddie shifts in his seat a little, good mood not quite punctured yet. But askew, slightly. 

“They finally found out about our clandestine little tryst, huh? Well, you can tell Higgins and the school board that I’m—“

“Shut up.”

He does. Right up.

“You understand why I push you so hard, don’t you?” O’Donnell asks him, and instead of some smartass response, Eddie clams. Ask him honestly and he’d say she’s a past-prime faculty lifer in desperate need of a power trip. That’s the narrative he’d always gone with anyway, the reason she’d always single him out and make an example of him and insist on the repeat exams he’d rarely end up passing anyways. Like, just flunk him, okay? Get the humiliation over with. 

“It’s because I know your situation,” she tells him, “And I know you’re better than it. By a goddamn country mile.” 

That knocks him. He blinks. Huh?

“You’re bright, you know. If you only allowed yourself to be,” O’Donnell nods, leafing through a manila folder in front of her, “If you could only find some way to focus, you’d be a halfway to decent student. Might even make it to college.”

“Don’t be too generous,” Eddie scoffs, arms folding over his chest. He can feel the defense rising. 

O’Donnell stares at him over the rim of her glasses. “Oh, I’m not. Because the reality is, you’re too far gone. I’ve done all I can to try and drag you out of the sandpit of shit you’ve managed to fall into, but our time is coming to a swift and brutal end.” 

A beat.

“Christ, who died and made you my guidance counselor—“

“You’re not graduating, Eddie.”

A cold sear runs down Eddie’s spine. “Um.”

Alright. Alright, look. It’s not like he hadn’t expected this, in some way or another, but again, if he is really honest… Eddie had expected some eleventh hour miracle that ended up with him with that diploma in his hand. Walking the stage in that godawful green gown, scooting down the line to take his place beside Ronnie and… and you. 

First Munson to ever do it, at least in the proud township Hawkins. Something solid to his name, finally. A GED that wasn’t necessarily a ticket to college, but proof that he could break the family curse of not following through. He didn’t need to be valedictorian or anything, he just needed… 

“But—but,” begins the scramble, “I’ve been doing… better, right? Like, I’ve gotten my grades up… not massively but a little!”

And he had. Fact is, these last handful of months, he hadnt just been dicking around with you and Ronnie after school— you’d actually gone out of your way to slice off some of those legendary brain smarts and slide them his way, bumping him up a letter grade in at least three subjects. 

You’d said something similar to O’Donnell.

You’ve got something, y’know, beyond all the hair and regalia. This system is rigged to fail anyone who surrenders to being, like, a bad test taker— so you just have to game the system and make it work for Eddie Munson. Right?

Then you’d poked him in the cheek with your number two pencil and he’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned, brain lingering on that little touch for days. 

That was before. Before your bedroom. Before Wheeler’s bedroom. Shit, before Granny Ecker’s closet. 

“Now, Eddie. Jesus. You’d need a miracle to get you anywhere close where you need to be to get out of here. Look, I am telling you this because I—“

“Why? Why do you even care? You’re the one that’s been failing me half the time.”

“Yes, because you’ve been failing, smartass! Think I’ve got a choice in the matter?” O’Donnell and her high Midwestern fury shuts him up again. “I’m telling you this because… well, it’s time to weigh up your options.” 

“Which are none.”

“Which could be none. The question on almost the entire faculty’s mind is, why haven’t you dropped out by now? And I’ve got a pretty good stab, I think.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Because, contrary to popular belief, you’re not your father.” 

Eddie has to look away. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I knew Al Munson. My first year here, I taught him. And I was green then, sure, in the goddamn dark ages but even then I knew he was just looking for any easy way out.” 

“And I’m not, huh?”

“No. Because you would’ve dropped out by now.” O’Donnell closes the folder like she’s seen enough. “Eddie, you have something to prove. And it’s worth proving.” 

Far be it from Eddie to believe that any teacher in this school actually gives a shit about him, but the glance he steals to O’Donnell makes a damn strong argument otherwise. 

“So w… what do I do?”

“God knows half the staff doesn’t want you around for another year. Sorry, but it’s true,” O’Donnell rolls her eyes and Eddie feels the sting of his last name, the skid mark of his father’s legacy following him wherever he goes, “I’ll work on it. Starting with Higgins, which should earn me canonization of some kind.”

“Castle in the sky and all that shit.”

Eddie doesn’t exactly nod; defiance is as strong as his white blood cells. He kind of wants O’Donnell to prove that she’s serious about helping him. About caring at all. 

She goes on, tone strict and pushing. 

“But you– keep your nose to the grindstone. Just because you’re not gonna pull through this year completely doesn’t mean that the improvement in the last couple of months meant nothing. I have noticed, by the way. And, uh, keep up the peer tutoring.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”

“Peer tutoring,” there’s amusement dancing in O’Donnell’s words that makes them a little uneven, “Lacy Doevski’s been so kind as to take you under her wing, hasn’t she?”

A shock of heat takes seat on his cheeks. Right. He’d forgotten about that scam you ran like a ride on lawnmower through Kaminsky’s class. 

“Y—yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“Well, keep that something going. It’s good. For the both of you,” O’Donnell clips with a knowing look. “I knew her father too.” 

She dismisses him with a wave and Eddie, feeling like she’d just made him tie up a pair of leaden boots, follows the tug of his deflated heart like a compass. A tread through the eerily empty after-hours halls brings back a memory here and there. Getting caught smoking under the stairwell on the first day of freshman year; a girl named Phoebe lending him a pencil in Biology, which he ended up using to pretend-stab Tommy Hagan who made fun of her stammer (Tommy cried like a bitch, as if Eddie would ever actually do that); fighting against his better judgment and jimmying the lock of a classroom open so he could help Gareth make a new character sheet for Hellfire and getting detention when they were found out, while the freshman hid under the desk so he wouldn’t be caught too. Plenty of little battles lost. But this is the big one–the one that tells him he’s doomed to repeat this adolescent torture for at least another year. 

However, as soon as he shoulders the swinging door open and sees you, bathed in a pool of lamplight with reams of typewriter paper surrounding you, and you pull your fountain pen from your mouth with a tired smile, stitched together just for him… 

KO. The big gold belt. Eddie Munson, heavyweight champion of the world.  

“Hey, Hildy,” he says, sliding down the short handrail into the typing pool, just because he knows it’ll make you roll your eyes and laugh. And it totally does, a croaky little giggle rasping out of your lips. “What’s the scoop?”

“Don’t you dare come any closer.” Your voice, your outstretched hand, makes Eddie freeze in a rigged marionette’s pose. It’s like your words have actual alchemic pull, how powerless he is to obey you and shit. “Let me just…”

“Seriously?” Eddie lets his arms drop, playing with a ball of elastic bands from the desk he sits on as you painstakingly reorganize your papers. “Y’know, I really should have an early preview of this, given I’m the star of the goddamn article and all. What if I object? What if you paint me in, like, an unflattering light? I could sue. Character defamation.”

“You’re taking care of that defamation all on your own, darling,” you yawn, the punch of your words not quite hitting like they usually would as you stagger across the newsroom to him. You’re exhausted–Eddie can see it. The deep shadows under your pretty eyes, new ink stains appearing on your fingers every day. You’re jerky and shaky, overcaffeinated to the point that the drug ain’t even working anymore. You’re working yourself to the bone. It’s been like this for ages; every spare moment that Eddie doesn’t see you, you’re playing catch up for college applications. “But no. Not ‘til it’s cooked and printed. My portfolio needs this article for a lead-in and it has to be bulletproof. Watertight. Unassailable. Other words for–”

“--perfect?” Eddie steps in, tossing the elastics over his shoulder and tugging you closer so that you’re just about sitting in his lap. “In that case, you chose a real winner of a subject.”

“Eddie.”

“No, seriously! Trailer park nobody with a fantasy game club. Wah-wah. I don’t envy the amount of fluffing you probably have to do to make it remotely appealing to… whoever’s in charge of reading that shit.” 

“Admissions board,” you supply. You’re close enough that Eddie can taste your perfume and honestly, he’s doing a great job of not just licking it clean off your neck. “And I know this is one of your self-pity rally cries, and I won’t entertain it. Besides, it’s not just about you. It’s about Hellfire. The whole… well, I’m not saying any more. You’re just gonna have to read it and find out.” 

“But I want my ego massaged,” Eddie pitifully whines, right out his nose. He clutches onto you harder, the pressure of your body against his alleviating the pressure of his total failure. His breath snags as you, so tired that you’re nearly trembling, kiss him softly. 

“Mm, let’s compromise. I can massage something else,” you hum against his chasing lips, but something saintly touches him before you get the chance to move your inky hand. He uh-uhs you. 

“Much as I appreciate the offer and will immediately curse myself for turning you down the second I get back to the trailer… you’re worn out, Lace. Seriously.” Eddie flicks a lock of your hair out of your face. Were you always like this, even when you were queen bitch? Did anyone ever think to check in on you before? “You been sleepin’? At all?”

“I have a countdown to my future and a convict father taking up residence on my couch. Of course I’m not sleeping. I’m optimizing,” you snit in the sleepiest voice he’s ever heard, your head is lolling against his shoulder. The pout you’re wearing makes Eddie want to bundle you right back to Forest Hills, tuck you up in his grody sheets and not let the rest of the world in ‘til you’ve got your strength back. Just you, him, some records. He’d read to you from The Silmarillion, because that was a surefire way to send you unconscious in seconds. 

“I just need to get this article done and then I’m… I’m good. It’s out of my hands,” you croak.

“Then it’s… NYU’s problem, right?” says Eddie.

“Columbia,” you murmur, “with Emerson as a safety.” 

“Lofty safety.”

“I’m a lofty girl. But you know what? I’m gonna get in.”

A pang in the key of dread hits Eddie in the throat. “I believe that.”

“But you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because of a silly little story I wrote about you.” You curl Eddie’s hair around your finger and he wonders if you can feel the physical sensation of him melting. Dripping all over you like a pathetic soft serve. “It’s so beyond comprehension but… You’re gonna make my dreams come true, Eddie Munson. I can feel it.”

About time I returned the favor, huh? is what he wants to say, but it’s not the time and it’s not the place and he thinks you might be drifting off in his arms. So he just breathes you in, and takes the win.

—

One thing Ray Doevski was always known to do was move. Not so much in a without exercise, the body devours itself kind of fashion, but in a without constantly one-upping oneself, the self devours itself kind of fashion. With Ray, moving was always some new business venture, some new property acquisition. Some other new reason for a cocktail party, so your mom would have an excuse to pretty herself up and you’d make your on-cue cameo, sweeping through the room and waving at all the important people your father had charmed and collected like stamps. And like stamps, the people he tended to collect all got more valuable with age. Ray liked old money, even if your family was on the newer end of the see-saw.

You saw all that for what it was now. Running the big scamola, charming these people out of pocket with that ugly Hawkins High class ring on his finger. Gold, garish, glaring, a glimmering green stone set right in the center. You hated that thing. 

So, to see someone so diligently dedicated to movement and momentum sit docile on the sofa is pretty fucking disturbing. With that ankle monitor permanently welded to his leg, Ray can’t do so much as stand outside for a smoke without the heat coming down on him. Such are the conditions of his parole. It’s a humiliating fate, watching someone so previously well-kempt rot before you. 

And more disturbing still, your father seems… not unhappy about his situation. As far as a man on house arrest goes, he’s not angry. He’s not irritable, he doesn’t even seem that frustrated. It’s strange. He’d even asked you to borrow a couple of your books to keep him occupied. That threw you. He’d never taken an interest in your voracious love for literature before… but boredom does absolute downright Invasion of the Body Snatchers type shit to a man.

He smiles at you from the corner of the sofa as you come in from an evening shift at the bookstore, your worn copy of Answered Prayers by Truman Capote in hand. It sends a cold dart through your tummy. 

“You!” comes a snarl and your elbow is being snatched before you can even regain your bearings. 

“What the f–”

Your mother slams her bedroom door so hard it seems to shake the trailer. It occurs to you that you haven’t stood inside her bedroom in weeks–months, maybe–or even seen inside of it save for the odd glance. Even then, it was always the sad staging of dresses and hose strewn across the bed, glasses with scarlet staining sitting on the nightstand and the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume growing old and flat and stale. But she’d straightened the place up– now the bedsheets sat tight around the corners of the mattress, and Gloriana’s jewelry was tidied away somewhere. No used wine glasses to behold. Like housekeeping had breezed through. 

She told you she worked as a maid once, ‘For about a minute. Before your father rescued me.’

“What’s your problem?” you snipe, rubbing your pinched elbow through your sweater sleeve. 

Your mother exhales a furious stream of smoke through her grit teeth, Dunhill poised, lit and ready. “You have to do something with him!” 

“Me?!” you hiss back. Alarm sets off a roil in your stomach. You’d made incredibly delicate work of avoiding your father since he landed on the other side of the trailer’s formica table, notching it all down to I’m eighteen, I’m about to graduate, I’ve got work to do! All of which is definitely true, but you’d padded it out a little. 

Padded it out with the time you spent with your lips on Eddie Munson’s lips, sure, but…

“Yes, you!” Gloriana spits, “Don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve been skirting around him since he came back. Shouldn’t you be over the moon with yourself?”

“I am. I am over the moon.” Greatest lie you’d ever told. “He’s back! Hurray! We’re all happy families again. Do we get the house back? Do I get my car?”

Your mother’s lip lifts into a little smirk. “Oh, Lacy. Has someone gone and turned your head about Daddy? Knocked him off his pedestal?”

See, your mother’s always had this thing– this seething jealousy about the way you looked up to your father. Not necessarily because you never looked up to her the same way (you’d written plenty in your journal about the vapidity of being a ‘society wife’, as she definitely was– a kind of cornfed Midwestern Slim Keith, an ex-pageant girl from the unremarkable middle point of Hawkins who benefitted entirely from her once-poor husband’s grafting), but because you were there at all. Yearning for his approval and robbing his attention. 

Not like you ever got much of either. 

“You want I should call the cops and tell them he’s been running phone scams from the trailer?” 

Your mom lets out a little huff that could be mistaken for a laugh. “He just sits there, all day long. And when he’s not sitting, he’s curtain twitching.”

Just like you’d thought. Rear Window. Danger zone. 

“This place could use a neighborhood watch,” comes the pith through your nerves, “Has he seen anything good, at least?”

Gloriana rolls her eyes at you, hooded with the pretense of as if I’d tell you. “That’s the other thing. He doesn’t talk. But he does ask questions.” 

“Like?” you ask, after a rough swallow that alerts you to how dry your throat has suddenly gotten.

Finely penciled eyebrows quirk. It reminds you of how much your mother can resemble Ava Gardner, when she puts some chutzpah into it. “Better get out there if you want to keep him from his suspicions, is all I’m saying.” 

As if she knows more than she’s letting slip. 

“Shouldn’t you be over the moon? Aren’t you happy that he’s out?” You turn the mirror on her. Gloriana’s eyelids flicker, as if she’s exhausted by the mere question. 

“Of course I am. Don’t be ridiculous,” she sighs. “But some things… were easier. Before. You and I didn’t need to pretend–”

That we liked each other. 

“Yeah.” You snip right into her sentence because although you’re well aware of the scope of your mother’s feelings toward you, it still stings to hear it said out. She’s still your mom, after all. Or, she should be. 

Standing in this room is making you nauseous. 

“I’ll keep him occupied for a while.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Moments later, you’re tossing a pack of cards on the little formica breakfast table. It used to be a universal language in your household, when your father was still feigning interest in you. He taught you to play cards, and taught you how to cheat at them. You only retained one of those things. Little miracles.

“Want to deal?”

Ray slowly closes the cover on Answered Prayers and rises to the table. 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” he says, a smile playing around his mouth. You resist the pull to roll your eyes, as if he’s bestowing such an honor on you—and wonder when exactly you did stop worshiping him.

Sometime between the last time you’d seen the back of his hand and the guilty verdict, you’re guessing. 

You lay out his hand, and yours. He archly remarks, “Gin?”

“I’ve gotten better.”

“You’ve gotten a lot of things, haven’t you?” Ray says, focusing on his cards. “Lot of things have changed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, I admit, I came on a little… strong that first night I came home.” Strong was one word for it; you’d call it more of a three-hour cross examination delivered while you were trapped inside an iron maiden. You’d shed as little light on the whole Munson situation as you could. He gave me a ride once or twice. We go to school together, what do you expect? “But can you blame me? With you and your mother living in… this place? I had to know. To be sure that you were safe.”

You want to think, he doesn’t give a shit about safety. He gives a shit about treason. About me fraternizing with his enemy’s offspring, or whatever. But the way he says it gives you pause. 

“It’s not so bad,” you shrug, swapping out a card. “It’s cozy.”

We’re not cozy people.

Ray takes a dig into the stock pile himself, regarding you with a curious look. “See what I mean? You seem… more willing to accept your circumstances. It’s interesting.”

The line between Ray Doevski praising and insulting you is like fishing line; depends on what he’s baiting you with. Accepting one’s circumstances was usually Doevskian for accepting failure.

“What, did you expect me to be kicking up tantrums about not having a clawfoot bathtub anymore? Because I’m not,” you smirk, “I’ve even adjusted to the notion of not always having hot water.”

Your mind flashes back to the small, square shower in the Munson trailer and you make a mental note to ask Eddie how his water heated to boiling within seconds. 

“That, I could personally never get used to.”

“Plumbing wasn’t so great in IDOC, I take it?”

“No. But that didn’t register so high on my scale of problems inside.”

“Was it scary?”

“Yes.”

“And were you… in danger?”

A long beat settles between you. Ray shifts in the vinyl-backed seat, a tiny squeak the only sound between him and his apparent discomfort. Chills, again. You get a chill. 

“... yes,” he says, and meets your eyes. They’ve sunk a fraction more than the last time you’d looked into them. Some of the gray shocks in his hair have turned white. Scary, to witness real evidence of your parents growing old. And frightened. “Lacy, I’d done badly by a lot of people. Some of them were even inside with me, and they wanted retribution, and that was fair. I could live with that,” depending on what end of a shiv he was on, you guessed, “But I also did badly by you. Very badly.”

Ah, acknowledgement that their father has lied about their criminal enterprises for the better part of her life–just what every little girl wants. It wasn’t as if you had still staunchly believed the not guilty campaign that your parents had spearheaded throughout Ray’s trial, even in the face of stony evidence. He was guilty; you had to figure out if you cared about the crimes, or the fact that he’d led you to believe he was so much better than he was. 

But this is the first time he’s really copped to it. 

You’re not quite sure what his admission is supposed to do, so you stare at your spades.  

“It makes sense that you don’t trust me anymore,” Ray goes on, “But I love you, and I always will. All I’ve ever wanted is to provide the best for you, the very best I could. Better than that, even– because that’s what you deserve. The whole world, Lacy.” 

Stomach churning, you wish he’d stop calling you that. Your nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. A world apart from the girl he thinks you are. 

“I just feel like you could’ve done that without skimming money off children’s charities,” you hear yourself saying before you register that your mouth is drawling off the words, “And laundering money through those rentals. And… what was it, drug trafficking? I lost count.”

Knowingly, you brace for explosion. Ray flipping the table, scattering his hand and laying an open palm across your face, the dull thunk of his Hawkins High class ring making contact with your cheekbone. That’d be something. Something solid. Something you could point to, that said I know who he is, I tried to stand up to him, I’m not him, please don’t think that I am.

But he doesn’t, so the line of your shoulders tense for no reason. He digs a cigarette out of the soft pack laying on the table and flicks it towards you with a fingertip. His right hand, ring finger bare. He’s not wearing it. 

He is wearing a sad grin of humility, shrugging like, well, kid, you got me there. Dead to rights.

He looks like somebody else. 

“So, how’s your life been, Lacy Doevski?” A charm dances around his tone, the way a flame dances around the edge of a photograph that doesn’t want to burn. 

And despite your best fucking instincts, despite the way that nickname falls out of his mouth like upchuck, despite the fact that you should hate him, there’s a change in the lighting around him that you just cannot help but want to engage with. 

“You really wanna know?”

“I really wanna know. Tell me everything. The road to Columbia, how’s that going? The newspaper. This job at the bookstore in town. Your friend, uh, Nancy, right? She seems like a nice kid. I know Ted Wheeler, a little bit. Went to school with him and her mom, Karen. And everybody knew Karen, but, uh, don’t mention that to Nancy!” He steals another card from the stock pile, but doesn’t discard one from his hand. You decide not to mention it. “I want to know everything, Lacy. I’ve been way too distracted with things that don’t matter as much as you. Call this… makin’ up for lost time.” 

Your shoulders shrug into themselves, like when you were a little kid and he’d let you sit on the big leather chair in his office after you’d sat outside the door for a solid hour, begging to come in. The corners of your lips pick up.

“Just about to finish my applications. I’m submitting this writing portfolio–”

“--I thought we talked about business school?”

You seize. You had. An effort in setting you up for a future of undebatable prestige started to sound more like sending you off to the meet market, the more your father talked about it. Business school is where you’ll meet young men of excellent character, Lorelei. Excellent family stock. It won’t hurt if they see that you’re smart, too. 

… why the everloving fu-huuuck would you go to business school when you spend every spare second of the day giving yourself carpal tunnel and preaching about that Woolfe chick, Lace? Nope, you need someplace with climbing ivy and people whose dissenting opinions on cliterature you can cat fight with. Eddie Munson, leaning over the counter at the Bookstore and shedding light on your secret desire to bury yourself in novels and pretention with his ever-burning flare of perception. 

Cliterature? you’d asked, brow an arch. 

Classic literature. As written by the fairer sex. Bronte and broads.

Well, Jesus Christ. Who died and let you lead the third wave of feminism, Munson?

“Um…” You hadn’t prepared a good defense for this. You felt a stab of nausea.

“It’s okay!” your dad chuckles, tapping you on the wrist in reassurance, “You changed your mind. That’s fine. But it’s still Columbia, right?”

“God, of course. Couldn’t imagine anywhere else.” 

“Good.” The smile reaches his eyes. “Sorry, your portfolio.”

“Right, uh– I’m just about polishing it off and I’ve got a great lead in, my last article for the Streak…” you trail off. A warning signal travels down your brain stem. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him about Hellfire. You’ve got to keep him as far away as–

“About what?” Ray asks brightly. Picks up a card. Discards another. You see a twitch in his mouth. 

“An after school club,” you blurt. “My, um. My friend Ronnie’s in it. We were… lab partners. Junior year. Dissected frogs together.”

“Yeah, that really bonds people for life, huh?” Ray says. Not a trace of irony. “Well, I look forward to reading it. If you want me to. I know writers can be very precious about their work.” 

And their subjects.

“Uh, well. We’ll see. I might not want to jinx it after I send off my applications.” 

“Superstitious,” he smiles, “Just like your old man.”

“And I have a boyfriend.” The blurting just doesn’t let up from you, eh? Like you have to cover all your bases while Ray is swept up in this gregarious mood. “And he goes to… Ithaca. I think.”

Your father makes a face that stands up to some interpretation of, la-di-da, lookit you! and Christ, you’re nearly sure he’s bought it. College guy… he’d kind of fallen by the wayside since you took that trip to Saturday morning detention. He’d better fucking pick up if you call now, if he hadn’t gone back to Vermont or wherever. 

“Well, look, I’m glad you’ve kept that momentum even given… everything. And I’m glad you seem to be surrounding yourself with good, level-headed people.” People he would have called nobodies eight months ago. People you would have called nobodies eight months ago. “Like Nancy. And this Ronnie. And that you’ve stayed out of trouble, as much as you can.”

You swear you see his eyes flick to the window beside you. In the direction of the trailer across the way, where a warm yellow light glows from the bedroom. There’s a shake in your breath, but Ray isn’t quite done. 

“I’m incredibly proud of the woman you’re becoming, Lacy. And look at that–” His hand slaps down on the table, revealing his melds. “--gin! I thought you said you got better at this, kid!”

“You took me by surprise, Daddy. What can I say.”

—

“Quit that. That’s explosive cargo you’re flickin’.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tap, tap, tap. One of the hinges of this rusty, crusty, dusty old domed metal lunchbox is loose, and you can’t stop toying with it. “This is what you’ve been carrying your motherlode around in?” 

“What about your mother’s load?” Eddie says, scraping the lunchbox a couple of inches away from you on the bench. Still, you reach for it, and he smacks your hand away. “Respect the receptacle, please. It’s a thing of legend.”

“Seems like a dangerously obvious hiding place for a bunch of illegal substances,” you say, brow creased. Had Eddie put any thought into his operation thus far? Because this seems extremely haphazard. He’s always swinging that goddamn thing around school, and one look inside the false bottom could put him away for a long time, if the Reagan administration had anything to do with it. 

“Exactly! Making it the last place anyone would think to look!” Eddie beams, flicking the lid open. “Class A drugs? Why, no, officer, these are my party pretzels. From home.” A deeply tragic baggie of crushed pretzel pieces lands between the two of you. Your frown deepens a degree or two. Eddie shrugs, shaking his curls out a little and starts picking through the detritus in the lunch box. Other than a couple of dime bags, a box of Camels, a lighter and some loose Twizzlers, his load’s light.

“How exactly does one get into the business of selling hydroponics et cetera out of a lunchbox, Eddie?” 

“Why, you lookin’ to diversify your criminal skillset?” That sly poke. You roll your eyes, jiggling your mary jane’d foot and pick up a bag of Mary Jane herself.

“I’m just curious about the trajectory! The more I learn about you, the more it occurs to me that you’re possibly the uncoolest drug dealer in history. You know, stereotypically speaking.” 

“The answer I think you’re looking for is that I’m a big, big boy,” Eddie rasps, taking an exaggerated chomp out of one of the liquorice ropes, “and I contain multitudes. Shit happens. Sometimes it leads to you selling pot. Et cetera.”

“What kind of shit?”

He considers you for a second, but you’re bright-eyed and curious about him. He jumps back from you when you’re like this sometimes, like he just touched a hot stove. You’d give him shit for it, but you did the same thing. The Twizzler waves in your face. “If I didn’t have such a brain-damage inducing crush on you, I’d think you were a narc.”

 “Eddie.” Though your heart does jump like a needle on a scratched record when he says crush. Particularly when he says crush like that. But he could elaborate on that for you later. 

“Fine, fine, fine– I’m not gonna get into the finer points of it now, but… basically, some shit went down with my dad that meant I had to move in with Wayne and working at the plant isn’t actually the cash cow that you’d think it is, and neither is me picking up barback shifts at the Hideout so… I hit up my dad’s friend Rick who said he’d help me out if I ever needed it and here we are. Lunchbox and all. Half ounces for halfwits at horrible parties.” Eddie toughens into this tense line as he speaks, like he’s halfway embarrassed about having to do this. “Means to an end, y’know?” 

You nod, though you want to prod further so bad. “Do what they expect of you until you don’t have to anymore.”

Exactly, Eddie mouths with narrowed eyes, another bite into the Twizzler. “You know what tune I’m singin’.”

Better than the both of you realize, it seems.

“This whole,” you gesture around the circular clearing, the place everyone knows you come to meet Munson to score product, “place does kind of look like the kind of hotspot where one might catch Goody Proctor dancing with the Devil.” 

It’s your first time out here–you’d elegantly skirted the responsibility of ever having to pick up for your group of friends but it’s… delightfully creepy. Whispers cragging through the tree branches. Eddie’s presence knocking you off guard at every turn–well, not you. Not anymore. 

“Rumors are kind of starting to add up. Satanic worship, human sacrifice… girls panties going missing. That’s all I’m saying.” 

A maddened grin peeling over his features, Eddie scooches closer to where you sit, perched on top of the rotting picnic table. “Why do you think I lured you out here, Lace?” His fingertips race up your calf and you spill a giggle, squirming away. “The Dark Lord requires another infernal bride!” He leaps up, ticklish touch attacking your sides ‘til you’re shrieking, not working quite as hard as you could to beat him away. 

“Ed–Eddie, st-aaahap!”

“It’s all cool! It’s no big deal! Just take your clothes off and sign my yearbook! Then, hey presto, the big guy’ll give you whatever you want.”

Eddie’s hands slow to a still on your hips, your uncrossed legs caging his sides. His lids fall, mouth prepping a pout for yours, but you press your thumb into his lips. 

“Whatever I want?” you whisper, eyes narrowing. 

A smirk flickers across Eddie’s mouth, a puff of breath pressing his mouth into your thumb until the tip is wedged between the edge of his teeth. Your breathing stills for a second and you resist pushing it further into his mouth. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, moving your hand across his cheek so he can kiss you full on the mouth. His tongue is needy and searching, making you curve into him just a touch. You can feel the prickle of his stubble coming up. Eddie with a five o’clock shadow… “I’d give you whatever you want, Lace. John Hancock in the Book of the Beast or no.” 

The wettened peaks of his lips go straight for your jugular. You two have shared enough mouth-to-mouth episodes for him to know that feeling his tongue against your pulse is liable to make you do nutty things. 

“Tell me what you want, dahling one,” Eddie’s mouth crawls up your jaw in an approximation of Bela Lugosi, up to your ear, where he knows you’re ticklish too. You feel him smile at your breathy laugh. “Anything you desire, anything beneath the blazing sun and under the heaving mud, anything under the banner of… the Hawkins township, because I don’t have a lot of gas money right now…”

“I want you,” you struggle through a sigh–his stupid mouthy beautiful mouth, “to get rid of that goddamn lunchbox. At least, for illegal purposes. Keep it for pretzels.”

Eddie honks out a nasally groan far too close to your ear and you jerk back. “No! You’re supposed to be all, ‘I absolutely indubitably want you, Eddie,’ and then we’re supposed to, ee-ee,” he thrusts his clothed hips into yours animatedly, “on this very table top. Until you realize it’s covered in woodlice.”

“Well, I can’t fuck you if you’re in prison. I’m telling you, that old tin thing falls apart in the hallway and you’re being tried as a full adult!” Wait, did he say woodlice? 

“You worry too much. S’gonna make you warty. Plus,” he says, unlatching himself from you and tossing his effects back in the tin box, “this is a family heirloom. Al Munson made good on his last straight job at the plant for a grand total of six hours, and all he got was this lousy lunchbox.”

Speaking of Al… 

“Y’know, I was thinking… If it wasn’t for your dad…” Your hands knit in your lap as you pretend to look around for woodlice.  

“‘If it wasn’t for Al’ what?” Eddie’s tone is flat, “Grand theft auto would decrease tenfold from here to Bloomington? Less diner waitresses would have complexes about men who abuse the free refill system? Starcourt Mall wouldn’t have burned down?”

Your eyebrows knit. Okay, pause. “What has he got to do with Starcourt Mall?”

“I’m not a hundred percent, but I have a theory,” Eddie says, arms bound across his chest. “It involves horseshit bombs and the Russian mafia.”

“And you told me my Larry Kline theory was crazy!”

“Well, funny you mention because my idea actually runs kind of concurrent to that–” 

“No, let’s put a pin in that for a second,” you cut him off, “It’s… my dad. I think he might actually be somewhat rehabilitated. Knocked down a peg, maybe? He actually displayed a hint of diffidence, Eddie. I think I … kind of have Al to thank for that.”

Sure, there was an air of initial disconcert to you and your dad’s little game of gin rummy, but the more you ruminated on it, the more it felt… threatless. Your mom had even joined you for a grim dinner of mac and cheese, where the three of you had nearly fondly reminisced on the pasta alla vodka from a restaurant they always went to on New Years Eve in Indianapolis. Maybe that’s what it took; a stint in prison to crack his ego like the Liberty Bell, and now Ray Doevski had to bear the humility like everyone else. Maybe he’d make good on his promise, making up for lost time.

But the disbelief, and, in fact, concern that Eddie is eyeballing your way says something different. 

“Don’t thank Al for anything.”

“I’m just saying. Dad and I actually talked last night, for the first time in… ever, really, and it didn’t feel like he was sizing me up. It was.. He was… nice.”

“Lacy.” Eddie’s shoulder’s sag. He hops up on the table next to you, bringing you knee to knee. The tear in his jeans rubs against the webbed nylon of your tights. When he looks at you, it’s with rounded eyes that could very well have been checking you for brain damage. “I don’t mean to blow out your candle or anything, but coming from someone as well versed in the tales of a crooked father who never really changes as I… I don’t buy this Ray of sunshine bit.”

Your hackles start to raise. Hey. Just because Al Munson was a famed and patterned piece of shit didn’t necessarily mean–

Eddie clocks you immediately, your crunched brow and pursed mouth. His hands go up, requesting pause. “Look. This is your first time at the convict parent rodeo, so I know how it is. Whirlwind. They always roar in in some Cadillac full of promises, right, swearing to make everything they fucked up right by you. But it never sticks, Lace. They’re hardwired to not follow through, okay? At least not on anything that doesn’t serve their own vain little agenda. With Al, it’s always some big dick scheme, something that’s gonna set us, and by us I mean him, up for life. No matter how good it feels to have them back, it– it always feels better when they’re gone.”

His searching eyes dart to his hands, as if he’d said a touch too much. On the one hand, a couple of painful pop rocks explode in your chest. You always feel this way whenever he mentions Al– Eddie’s let you in on glimpses here and there, revealing that he hasn’t quite shucked off the essence of being a hurt kid. It presents you with the super challenging desire to soothe the memory, but you dance around it at a distance. The dad stuff, it’s still sticky for the both of you. But now that Ray is back, and Al is back, you kind of have to talk about it. It figures pretty keenly into… whatever the fuck you two think you’re doing.

Then, on the other hand, a quick flash of resentment burns in you. Yeah, your dad is hardwired–why can’t mine be different? 

“Better?” you ask. 

“Maybe–not better,” Eddie rectifies, his rings knocking against his palm. “But easier. It’s always easier when he’s gone, even if I want him to be there. At least I know what to expect when he doesn’t call or write or whatever, which is nothing.”

“So I should do the same? Expect nothing?” You can’t hide the bite in your voice, and you can’t meet his eyes when he looks at you. 

“Lacy,” he says, searching hard for you in there, “You know what kind of guy your dad is. All the pomp and circumstance in the world won’t change what you’ve already seen. What you’ve already been through. This nice guy shit is a tactic– you…”

A heavy-ringed hand pulls your face to his, forcing you to look him in his earnest, gleaming eyes. 

“You deserve more than that.” 

Confusion with a sadness chaser churns in you. The metallic chill of Eddie’s rings against your cheek. A cooling comfort. Not a harsh sting. Not an open palm. A cradle. 

“I know you don’t believe me, for whatever reason, but you do deserve more than that.”

I still want you to be wrong, a voice hisses in the back of your head. Fucking Medusa rising.

“Yeah,” you nod in his hands, surrendering because it’s the right thing to say. “Yeah, of course I do. I’ll be careful. It’s fine.”

“And speaking of careful,” Eddie’s timbre hits a more suggestive spot, his hand falling from your jaw to your shoulder, “Harrington’s having a party on Friday, s’why I need fresh supplies.”

“Oh, really?” you mumble, mood not immediately perking up.

“Yes, really,” Eddie mocks, grip slipping to your waist. “I was thinking… y’know. Harrington’s house is big. Lotta rooms. Lotta beds…”

“Lot of intimacy at big parties,” you paraphrase Gatsby. “But the last time I was at Harrington’s… Is that such a good idea? Risking a repeat of teenage gladiator?”

“You were hardly gladiating, you were performing The Crab Monologues. Now, Carol, she wa–”

A scowl starts growing on your face. “Not helping your case.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” Eddie grins that bitten, private grin he deploys when he’s just about to lay one on you. “Will you show if I promise to protect you from wild redheaded assailants?”

“I’ll consider it. But that better include that little neighbor girl of yours, too,” you warn, suddenly reminded of the viscous stink-eye that Billy Hargrove’s stepsister had been throwing your way the last couple of times that you passed her in the trailer park. “Orphan Annie has it out for me for some reason.”

“You’re so cute when you’re paranoid.” 

“You have a woodlouse in your bangs.”“Wuagh! Where! Kill it!”

author's notes: christ it is GOOD TO BE BACK!!! if this feels like a part one to something, that is because it very much is, my friends. this was on its way to becoming a 20k+ chapter, which would freak me out actually so i decided to have some boundaries for once and split it in two. get you warmed up for what's to come. it's drama. btw. anyway on with the show - ohhh, you guys i have been listening to so much early-mid 00s emo in order to write this story. i realized that that's my secret weapon, because it's just as melodramatic as these two fucking dumbshits are. points to anyone who knows what the title of the chapter is a reference to (bonus points if they can find it a second time in a past chapter of this story) - flannery o'connor is of course a standard doevski pick for an author, but also a nod to maya hawke playing her in the biopic, which looks exquisite btw - back at it with the extremely rudimentary dnd references! i thought fear and loathing in luskan was fun - eddie WOULD know a ton about ancient greek mythology, specifically the goings on at the olympics, but not because he has any real vested interest in it but moreso because when he researches for a campaign he goes absolutely hard, like me with my 26 tabs open googling 'nail polish shades popular 80s teen girl bonne bell' - kick rocks! montague moment's over! but real quick-- what's munson? it is not hand, nor foot nor arm nor face, nor any other part... belonging to a man :) - yet another hellfire & ice fancast moment, i must present my personal pick for o'donnell-- it's gotta be allison janney, baby. less in the 10 things i hate about you guidance counselor vein, rather in the stepmom from juno vein. - 'hey hildy, what's the scoop?' had to get a his girl friday reference in somewhere, didn't i - answered prayers by truman capote is not only the cuntiest book ever written (capote essentially sold the secrets of his wealthy socialite friends in order to write it) but is also the latest ryan murphy adaptation - we stan jordan baker from the great gatsby in this house alright! that's all for this one! hope you enjoyed it, i know it's heavy on set up but next chapter will see us right back at casa de harrington for another blowout party, so... brace yourselves. please comment and reblog to support the work, thank you hellcats i love you forever

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART I

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,176

Warnings: dark themes and arranged marriage

Summary: An arrangement is forged between two apposing houses to save your world the cost of war.

Fear is the mind killer.

It snakes inside of you, twisting and strangling until bitter death. It’s an escapable pit of darkness. A place where light fears to tread and all life suffers. You feel it now, the deep ripple of dread as it slows your precious breath.

The laces of your corset are drawn tight, narrowing your passages even further. Your humble servants dress you in silence; their faces veiled in sheer fabric. They don’t dare speak on this occasion. It's ritualistic. The way they prepare you in lavish fabric and accessories the color of gold and deep crimson.

It marks your arrival.

A fiery sun, rising upon a dark and desolate planet; far from the one to which you were born. There is no green on Giedi Prime. There are no vast oceans or scraping mountains. Their world is shrouded in black and white, a monochromatic wasteland.

Metallic toxins ruin this world, while great machines plow the surface; devouring its resources like a hungry beast. You’ve not stepped foot on this sphere, and already you can feel the shift. It's quick to form a haze over your mind.

This is no place for you.

This isn’t the future you envisioned, but rather the one to which has been so cruelly dictated. It’s a strategic alignment that only the Bene Gesserit would dare to conjure. The task has been assigned, and now you must survive. Failure is unthinkable - unacceptable.

There is only the union.

A pact to save your world the cost of war.

Walking the grand gangway of the starship, your father lead at the head of the envoy; a steady hand rested on his sword. Gurney stood guard on your fathers’ side, whilst your servants trailed at yours. The rest of your family – your lady mother and older brother – had remained on Caladan.

It isn’t custom to have them in your company. It’s the father’s duty to relinquish the daughter, as an act of traditional and good faith; but this is merely a transaction. This is a trade of life for peace, and as much as you despise the fact, your opinion has no meaning in the era of entitled men.

Maintaining your line of vision, you try not to allow your gaze to wander too far from the site of your own kin. This place is foreign and cold, and it wreaks of violence. The instant you detected the small huddled committee of Harkonnen officials, all waiting for your arrival, you shivered in realization of your pitiful reality.

“We welcome you to Geidi Prime, Duke Leto.”

A particularly lanky man stood eerily emotionless as he received your house; dressed head to toe in black layers. It’s a stark contrast to his otherwise hairless and pale skin. It didn’t take long at all for you ascertain the being’s true nature. You could sense it. A twisted mentat who serves logic to his master.

“Where is he?” questioned your father, voice absent all formality and kindness. “Why is the Barron not here to greet us?”

“He awaits your arrival in the hall,” gestured the mentat. The way ahead is lined with armored Harkonnen soldiers; far from a warming embrace. “This way, if you will.”

The skeptical glance Gurney gave your father only serves to unease you more than you’d prefer. You know that look. You know the two men hold little to no trust for these people. They’re all savages. A race of violent individuals who’ve somehow thrived in their own wickedness.  

Several lifetimes ago, the two of your bloodlines crossed, but it’s hard to image their sinister race could ever be related to the likes of your own. In truth, the Harkonnen’s are the most alien of all the great houses; with their balding heads and pale flesh.

The archives can only tell you their past, but what you see all around is the present. It’s terrifying and with each step you take, you wonder how someone like you could possibly exist in their world. The back of your throat tightens, yet you shift to stand taller as you proceed to walk the grand hallway.

Pride keeps your strong, for now.

Despite the palace’s mega structure, you feel imprisoned within its steel walls; soon to be shackled by a vow. The mentat before you signaled two of the soldiers, bidding them to open the large doors of the hall. The smell of iron and soot wafted into your lungs; tainting them with every breath.

The room itself is expansive and minimalistic; eerily empty despite those occupying its space. The thick stream of light illuminated the foreboding figure which sat on the heightened, cushioned throne. You can hardly believe the sheer mass of the Barron, and yet it’s no kept secret.

“Duke,” spoke the deep voice of the Barron. The hulking man gestured outwardly with his hand, in what one could only presume to be a greeting of sorts. “Here you are – at last."

“We expected to be greeted on arrival,” replied father; clearly unimpressed with our reception to the planet. “We’ve travelled light years – and yet here you sit.”

“And there you stand, Cousin. Do we not greet each other now?”

The tension is palpable, and the seconds of silence feel more so like eternity. The duke’s bitterness hardly went unnoticed, and whilst others would try to correct themselves in fear of their lives, your father remains headstrong. The man's a pure representative of your family’s values, but he forgets.

This is their planet.

These are their rules.

It’s best you learn fast now, lest you shatter. If your family could offer no comfort here within your new life, then that leaves only yourself left to care. As the daughter of a duke and offspring to the sisterhood, your mind and body is its own protection.

The Bene Gesserit have governed you since you were a babe. They’ve showed you things few ever witness. They’ve taught you their ways, and now they’re to be the pillars of both the survival and success of this alliance. You are your only strength and weakness.

Observing the room, there’s only those of your own envoy and the close confidants of the Barron. Particularly, it’s hard to mistake the broad and brooding man standing to the left of his glutenous uncle. Rabban appears stiff, if not livid as he glares distantly at your father.  

Wide fists clench noticeably at his sides, displaying his obvious displeasure of the situation. Rabban can be described as simple minded, but a brute. He uses sheer force to conquer, and for that reason, he’ll gain nothing of any real value. Power is more than strength.

“Come,” spoke the Barron. “I want to see her.”

“Where is he?”

It drew you to realize your father’s pointed absence of the man in question. You’ve only ever known your suiter by name and reputation. Feyd-Rautha. Ambitious and psychotic. You wouldn’t know his face to pick it from the rest.

“Is it your nephew’s intention to insult my daughter, or was he simply not made aware of our arrival?”

The Barron gave a low groan, his tongue tisking against his grey teeth whilst he leant into his throne. A clear sign of impatience. This is the Barron's most inner dominion and so far, your father has only defied his every will and word without hesitation.

Stepping forward, you moved with steady purpose upon your intention to diffuse the rising hostility. Gurney is the first to stop you with an outstretched hand, only for your father to intervene. Despite his reluctance, the duke knows this is an alliance even he can’t afford to break.

Amusement shone in the Barron's eyes upon your willing approach. Ascending the slabbed staircase, you watch as the silk donned man rose eerily from his seat. The mechanical and unnatural elevation of his large body caused you to stop.

“There you are,” he grinned as he hovered closer. “Bold, just like your father.”

The Barron's thick limbs reached out, slowly lifting the veil that sheltered your face. In all these years of residing within each other’s existence, the two of you had never met until now. Gazing up at him, you saw his pale and wrinkled face morph from intrigue to impassive.

He gave a low hum, “And so we meet.”

The way his eyes roam over your face and body feels more analytical, rather than that of a perverse nature. You aren’t entirely sure if he’s disappointed or curious. The room turns silent, and everyone waits with bated breath for what the Barron will do next.

“You’re prettier than I imagined,” he announced. Hovering away from you, he slowly sat himself back onto the cushioned seat of his throne. “No matter the sort, beauty is a rare site to be had on Geidi Prime. It certainly doesn’t last for long.”

“She's to be unharmed,” interjected your father. The protectiveness in his voice is further stated with the underlying hiss of a threat. “As soon as she’s with child, Aurelia’s to be escorted back to Caladan.”

“Nonsense!” boomed the Barron. “If your daughter is to marry my nephew, then she’s to remain on Geidi Prime.”

“If?”

Turning, you faced your father to see his angered expression. Despite the intimidating and strange aura of this planet, the site of your father is still apposing. Standing in full uniform, you know with time and familiarity that the duke won’t accept or backdown.

“My nephew can be stubborn. Youth is so often irrational.” Shifting in his seat, the Barron sighed whilst narrowing his gaze. “As suited as she may be, your daughter isn’t the only hand of worth within House Major.”

“I see,” scoffed your father. “Then you’d willingly allow yourself to break law and dishonor the name Harkonnen? The Benne Gess –.”

“Witches and spies!” cursed the Barron. “I’ll not have them dictate the future of my house!”

“And I’ll not have you shame mine! Feyd-Rautha will take my daughters hand in marriage, as agreed. House Atreides holds not only political power, but the largest arsenal in the whole of the empire,” he boasted with intent. “There is no other of worth.”

Immediately, your gaze lowered with his proclamation. It's difficult to hear your father defend your house, whilst also acting to secure a marriage neither of you desire; but he does it for the people. It's his responsibility and your duty, but even still, you can't help but feel betrayed.

“Then you have my word. Let our houses be united once more," smirked the Barron. The mentat was summoned forward, “Piter will escort Aurelia. I won’t bore her with the concerns of politics."

As quickly as you arrived within the Barron's presence, you were now dismissed from the huge hall. Daughters aren’t privy to such discussions, but you know to what it will most likely pertain. You know there’s terms and conditions to matches as important as this one.

Lowering your veil once again, you headed down the steps to the awaiting mentat; who’s now no longer nameless. Piter walked steadily in lead, and whilst you couldn’t interact with your father in this moment, the two of you locked eyes in passing.

Despite the tragedy of your new circumstance, he'll always have your best interest at heart. At the very least, he’ll fight for your comfort and safety within the confines of your new home. He’d never travel the galaxy, let alone leave you behind if he didn’t think you would be safe.

“This way.”

Piter turned the corner, and soon you felt as if you were being burrowing into the bowls of the abyss. There's no windows this far into the heart of the palace. You’re cut off from all aspects of nature, and all that’s left is a labyrinth of metal and synthetic light; producing a warm yet sterile glow.

“This one’s for you,” he spoke monotonously as we stopped outside of a doorway. “You’ll be called upon later in the evening.”

Piter went to leave before you decided to speak, “Where is he?”

The man showed reluctance before turning to face you. Clasping his hands, those dull eyes stared into you as he asked, “Whom do you refer?”

“What are you, if not calculative?”

The mentat's face shifted at your taunt. Stepping forward, he appeared serious. “The two of you have yet to meet, but certainly enough you will.” Piter waved a hand over the doorway consol. “Embrace what peaceful moments remain.”

A quick turn, and you stood watching as the mentat traversed back down the lengthy corridor. Piter’s words leave a bitter taste in your mouth. It's a warning. Perhaps even a threat. You've heard too much to think it's not.

Despite the sheer vastness of space, it’s whispers which travel the fastest. Feyd-Rautha is a name that’s passed by your ears on more than one occasion. Stories or truth. You’ve heard the court recount his cunningness and brutality.

You've heard him in your dreams.

It bleeds you with fear, and fear is the mind killer.

[wandashousewife]

“Dear Child.” (Chapter Four)

Pairing — Wanda x Reader

Synopsis — Your father was notorious for going on failed tinder dates for years after your mother had left for her own reasons which she never told you. You never actually thought your father had a chance in the vast sea of relationships until you found out that one of his friends knew a European woman a couple years older than you who wanted to marry him. Strange.

Warnings — Failure dad, absent mother

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

As the hours stretched into the evening, the adventures with your friends continued unabated, each moment infused with the vibrant energy of youthful exuberance and boundless possibility. From the bustling corridors of the mall to the neon-lit confines of fast food joints, and finally to the serene expanse of the beach, the journey unfolded like a tapestry woven from the threads of shared laughter and cherished memories.

Despite the chill in the air, the allure of the bioluminescent lights dancing upon the ocean's surface proved irresistible, casting a magical spell over the tranquil night. Against the backdrop of the shimmering waves, the world seemed to take on an otherworldly charm, enveloping you in a cocoon of wonder and awe.

Sitting in a blanket under the starry night, you and your friends enjoyed each other's company. It was a chill night, one you'd expect for the beginning of winter. But you barely registered it, focusing more on your own thoughts. The sound of waves crashing against the shore could be heard in the distance, a soft background melody. And despite the darkness, you could make out the silhouettes of your friends as they laughed and chatted, their voices carrying on the wind.

You had been wondering how Wanda was doing so you decided to go home early. The cold mist in the air made your face feel a bit prickly as you walked back home under the night sky. The sounds of laughter and the waves rolling onto shore seemed to get louder the further you traveled.

When you got home, however, it was eerily quiet. You wondered if everyone was asleep but decided to check the living room. That's when you saw Wanda sitting in front of the TV, in her pajamas and wrapped in your hoodie.

“Hey Wands,” You smiled. She had always hated that nickname, thinking it as something childish, but that’s why you loved using it!

A bright smile crosses her lips, her cheeks turning a soft rosy pink. She seems a bit embarrassed by the nickname, but she forces herself to laugh it off. “Hi.” She turns away, her hands fidgeting idly with her sleeves. There was a brief, awkward silence before she breaks the ice. “I… did you have fun tonight?”

“Yeah, we went to a lot of places. But you wouldn’t know any of them since you’re such an old woman.” She lets out a quiet laugh at your teasing. “I might be an old woman, but at least my back doesn’t hurt from sitting on these chairs like someone’s mother.” She turns to face you and smiles, her gaze focused entirely on your form. The two of you stare at each other in silence, a hint of playful teasing in the air.

Wanda can’t help but notice how your eyes seem to linger on her in an almost flirtatious way. It’s as if you are undressing her with your eyes, taking her all in.

“What are you watching? Fifty Shades?” You teased again. She scowls, her cheeks turning a warm pink. She clears her throat and tries to laugh it off again. “No, I’d like to continue having my eyesight thank you very much.”

There’s another pause in the silence. Wanda glances away, her fingers toying with the fabric of your hoodie. She can’t help but notice how you were eyeing her up and down again. She looks away, her voice barely audible. “Do you think this… sweater does make me look like an old woman though?”

“Oh no, I was just joking. Why? Has marriage finally ruin your sense of humor?” She laughs softly, covering her lips to suppress the noise. The teasing comment felt different to her than all the others you usually make. A hint of insecurity creeps into her features. She knows you're joking, but still, she can't help but wonder if there's at least a little bit of truth in your words. Because Wanda knows that you've thought about that very thing.

She shakes her head and leans back in the chair, keeping her gaze averted. "No, not really. I was more curious to hear your honest opinion."

“Oh, okay.” There was a deafening silence once again until something had been brought up in your mind. “How is dad? I know he’s been taken certain pills, but how is he in that field?” "He's been better," Wanda whispers, letting out a breath of relief as you asked about your father instead of her. She pauses for a moment, her eyes narrowing towards your form. "He's been taking his medication more regularly, for starters, but most days he seems… distant. I know he's still adjusting to all of this, but it makes me a bit nervous for his health."

She sighs and looks away, running her hands through her hair. "But at least he's trying, I guess."

“Yeah, he said that he wants to try for another kid before he kicks the bucket.”

She freezes in her seat, her heart skipping a beat. She couldn’t help but notice how the color drained from her cheeks and a subtle flicker of irritation danced in her eyes. “What? When did he say this to you?” She bites her lip to suppress the anger, her voice tight and strained.

“Couple days ago, why? Do you not want to have a kid?” She stares at you for a few seconds before responding, her voice a mixture of resentment and hurt. “Of course I’d like to have a child one day, obviously.” She bites back the urge to yell or snap and tries to keep her cool. “But I’m still young, unlike some people I know.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, holding your hoodie tighter. She could feel the blood rushing to her face and a slight blush rising to her cheeks.

“Yeah, well you’re not the only one he’s pressuring.” You sigh, remembering his conversations with you about the future. “He wants me to settle down with some rich dude and have lots of kids.” She raises an eyebrow. "Your dad wants you to settle down?" She pauses and laughs to herself. "Of all people? That's ironic."

Wanda's tone is playful but it's hard to ignore a hint of annoyance when you mentioned your father's desire for you to get married one day. She takes a deep breath, trying to contain her jealousy.

“What what? There must be at least one person who wants to marry me!”

"Yeah, I doubt that," she laughs, teasing you playfully. "No guy is interested in marrying the nerdy virgin who can't even maintain eye contact with them."

Her comment seemed innocent, but there was a sudden shift in her expression as she seemed to realize what she said. Her hands gripped tight the sleeves of your hoodie, and her voice became softer, a hint of worry seeping in.

"I… I didn't mean that," she whispers, noticing how your eyes seemed to widen for a second. "I was jus–“ She shrugs, looking away, her hands slowly letting go of your hoodie. “Never mind.”

“Say it.” Your voice was heavy. Her throat clamps up and she can feel her emotions spiraling inside her. She glances back at you for a moment, her eyes lingering on your face. But then she abruptly looks away. "Nothing," she whispers, avoiding your gaze entirely.

You grabbed her shoulder, gripping it tightly, and stared directly into her. “Tell me.”

She flinches a bit when you grab her shoulder and her breathing hitches. Your sudden, aggressive tone catches her off guard. She hesitates for a moment before finally speaking up, taking a deep breath as she does so.

"I was only going to say that there are definitely people interested in you. I'm sure of it."

Her words felt half-assed at best, like she was telling you what should have been so obvious.

With a softened gaze and a gentle release, you allowed your hand to slip from her shoulder, settling back into your own space with a sense of quiet gratitude. "Oh, thanks..." The words, though simple, carried a weight of appreciation.

She nods slightly, her eyes still not meeting yours. There’s a few seconds of silence between the two of you. Wanda fidgets nervously with her fingers, trying to push away any lingering awkwardness from your sudden outburst. Her eyes dart around for a moment before finally settling on the TV screen.

“So…” She clears her throat and changes the topic, although she couldn’t help but notice how her heart was still beating out of her chest.

“Want to watch a cheesy romcom?”

[tcfactory]

Okay, but seriously, I have a mighty need for a Yue Qingyuan who came out of the cave something less than human. CW for body horror of the "bit like OG form Zhuzhi Lang, but dragon instead of snake and at least one third sword and very, very painful" variety.

They broke his body and the failed bond shattered his meridians and when he was nothing but broken broken broken, locked in the dark with only his terror and Xuan Su for company

he forgot, for a while, that he was meant to be human.

He was pain and regret and more pain and it's not like he could see himself in the pitch black of the cave. Something bled all over the walls, the floor and even the ceiling, and it could very well have been that neither sword nor boy knew how much blood there was supposed to be in the human body and that was all. It would have been strange, but not the strangest thing to ever happen. If some of the marks on the stone looked too much like clawmarks, that was only a coincidence. Some luckily spaced sword slashes, his Shizun insisted when Mu shidi pointed them out the day they came to fetch him.

He eventually put himself back together, after all. Xiao Jiu was expecting his Qi-ge, not whatever the thing thrashing against the walls of the cave was. He sheathed Xuan Su - he didn't remember the heavy scabbard, carved bone and eerily warm to the touch, but the metal inlay matched the sword so surely it was already there. He just forgot about it. His Shizun stared at the bleached bone, his face going pale as a sheet, and ordered everyone not to touch it, as if it would bite anyone who was not Yue Qi.

Xiao Jiu was his reason, the center of his world, so he put himself together to be the best and warmest big brother his Xiao Jiu cold ever want - and he would never talk about the thing in the cave. When he let himself think too long on it he was certain that Yue Qi died in the dark and he's whatever beast of pain and guilt that hatched from his corpse.

He couldn't bear to tell Xiao Jiu that Qi-ge wasn't strong enough to survive, not even for his sake, so he said nothing. Continues to say nothing. Whatever betrayal Xiao Jiu imagines, it couldn't possibly measure up to the enormity of Qi-ge's failure.

It takes a small thing to unmake him, in the grand scheme of things. He is walking with Shen Qingqiu from the latest Peak Lord meeting when something strange tickles the back of his throat. The tiniest bit of suspicious pollen that escaped the Medicine Peak's greenhouse, maybe a whiff of some rare beast Liu Qingge dragged back to show off to his disciples.

It's the strangest sneeze he ever experienced, one that seems to upend the very world, and when he focuses his eyes again Shen Qingqiu is staring at him with a wild mixture of fascination, anger and terror. Only when he opens his maws to ask what startled the other when he realizes that the shell of Sect Leader Yue has unraveled to show the beast he became in the dark.

Xiao Jiu was never meant to see him like this, never meant to discover the beast under the shell, so he never bothered to fix this part of himself. As far as he can tell from a cursory glance (Xiao Jiu makes a noise of distress when the beast tries to turn his head to take stock of himself, so he immediately turns back in alarm) he looks mostly like a dragon, albeit one that someone tried to put through a round or three of lingchi, skin and scales and flesh peeling from where he rubbed it raw against the walls of the cave. Makes sense, he thinks. He hasn't seen it in years, but there is a dragon etched into Xuan Su's blade.

Remembering his sword, he looks around in alarm to locate it.

"It's right there." Xiao Jiu sounds unusually queasy as he gestures towards the beast's chest. He twists his long neck until he can see and oh, there it is, safe and snug, sheathed between his ribs. He breathes deep to feel his lungs expand against it, twists around to see if any movement would dislodge it or not, but it's safe there. It doesn't hurt one bit. It belongs there.

"Thank you, Xiao Jiu." It comes out a little garbled, but he brightens up to discover that he can still speak, right until the moment Xiao Jiu makes a hysterical hiccuping sound. He made that noise before, when a horse kicked his Qi-ge and he thought the hoof had caved his skull in.

"Don't speak. Please." After a moment of silence he rallies anew and swiftly strips off his outmost robe so he can throw it over the beast's head. "And don't you dare take that off!"

It smells like Xiao Jiu, so the beast that was once Qi-ge is content to stay where he is while Shen Jiu turns into a hurricane of action - he drags Mu shidi and his medics over, yells at the disciples until they clear out one of the isolated stone gardens for him, sends runners to Wan Jian and to every peak's library pavilions to see if they can dig up anything useful - and all the while he is bombarding Mu Qingfang with questions, having soon sussed out that their shidi knows something about this situation.

While Xiao Jiu rakes poor Mu shidi over the coals the beast sits placidly among the many senior medics, listening to the Qian Cao head disciple mumble under her breath while she notes down all their findings. So, he's not quite a dragon, after all. Some parts of him are still clearly Yue Qi. That thought makes him smile a little as he looks down at one of his hands, rubbing the dried blood off his shattered claws. He broke all of them, trying to get out of the cave, as well as most of his bones. He is absently aware that he is in agony, but he can't fully comprehend what that means right now, so it's fine. No reason to make the medics worry over it.

The head disciple makes a very interesting noise of disbelief when someone reports that some of his bones are actually swords, apparently. They are not sure what his guts are made of, but based on the sudden, alarmed sounding whispers it's probably nothing pleasant.

They let him take the robe off his head, but they have hastily covered all the surfaces where he might see his own reflection and some of them look decidedly green whenever they look at him directly, so he buries his face back in the soft fabric and lets his world narrow down to the scent of his Xiao Jiu.

He must have dozed off, because when he wakes up all the medics have left. It's only him in the garden and a tired looking Xiao Jiu. He sits up to show the other that he's aware and listening.

"Qi-ge, what have you done to yourself?" Xiao Jiu looks angry and hurt and all the things Yue Qi doesn't want him to be. "All these years. If only you had told me! Didn't I deserve to know?!"

Yue Qi hangs his head in shame. Opens his mouth, but swallows the well-worn 'sorry' down before it could escape from between his cracked teeth.

At long last Xiao Jiu sighs. Then slowly, bashfully, spreads his arms. "Aren't you going to comfort me? I'm giving you permission, just this once. Come down here and hug me, Qi-ge."

Joy surges through Yue Qi and he collapses into Xiao Jiu's arms before he can think twice about it and he's back, he's as human again as he will ever be, two arms, two legs and two eyes brimming with tears as he clutches his Xiao Jiu.

Xuan Su clatters to the ground and Xiao Jiu clutches him right back, long nails hooking into his back like they never want to let him go. "Don't you dare scare me like that ever again! Stupid Qi-ge."

Yue Qi can't promise the impossible, can't bear to lie to his Xiao Jiu. But he murmurs the promise that he will try his best into the silk of Xiao Jiu's robes and that has to be good enough for now.

"We will work on it, together," Xiao Jiu orders indulgently and Yue Qi doesn't remember the last time he was this happy.

For the first time since the caves he feels that maybe the boy and the beast are the same thing after all. They have to be, to hold the same love.

[zoeykallus]

Hey, if it isn’t too much trouble and when you have all the energy you need, would you consider making (preferably fem!)reader x crosshair fic where some bad guy takes the reader and then after she is rescued the bad guy says “I should have killed your little girlfriend when i had the chance” id really like to see how you would express his emotions in this one, you capture all of the characters’ behaviour soooo well i love your works <3 ty for considering

Aloha!

This isn't going to end well.

Crosshair x Fem!Reader Short One-shot - The Fatal Mistake

Warnings: Angst/Violence/Tiny Bit Of Fluff

_________________

Forgive me for making something up that isn't canon (yet).

After Crosshair managed to flee Hemlocks facility, he reunited with you, after months of being missing. The Doctor doesn't take it too well, especially since Tarkin is watching this failure critically.

Hemlocks spies know about you, and he gets hold of you. As Crosshair tries to free you, things turn ugly.

___________________

The Fatal Mistake

After the sound of gunshots fades, it is eerily quiet for a long moment. A deceptive silence that seems almost peaceful. Until a voice familiar to you breaks the silence.

Crosshair snarls, "You're in over your head, Doctor."

Hemlock knows what Crosshair can do, and yet he feels superior, his movements deliberate, slow and confident, like those of a predator. His posture carries the arrogance typical of a bully who feels superior to his victim.

He has you handcuffed in front of him like a shield, he is sure that he holds all the cards at the moment, even if Crosshair has taken out his men, and he is facing the Sniper alone.

"I don't think so," Hemlock replies in his calm, low voice, almost purring, "I have someone very close to your heart here, as you can see, and I intend to take advantage of the situation."

Crosshair tilts his head slightly forward, his gaze piercingly fixed on Hemlock, almost like a bull ready to charge at any moment. There's so much hatred in his amber eyes that even you feel it run down your spine, though you know that hatred isn't for you at all.

"Bringing her into this was a big mistake. If you take her from me, I have nothing left to lose, and I will walk over dead bodies to get her back," he growls.

Hemlock has one hand on your shoulder, with the other he points to the dead on the ground, the bullet holes still smoking.

"Yeah, I saw that. You've always been willing to take lives, even innocent lives, without hesitation, from what I've heard."

Crosshair grits his teeth, avoiding looking at your face for fear of the judgment that might lie within. He is well aware of his mistakes, and they've kept him up many a night.

"Those were different times, different circumstances," he says reluctantly.

Hemlock smiles and says unapologetically, "Tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night. But in fact, I know you hardly slept in the weeks before you were brought to me. Guilt?"

Crosshair doesn't dignify that question with a response, but instead demands, "Let her go."

You listen to the men, nervously. You know that your life or death is being decided here. You feel Hemlock's hand on your shoulder and the handcuffs cutting into the skin of your wrists.

A few minutes ago you thought you were lost, but Crosshair really showed up, he really came to save you. Fear and joy mix. You trust him, you trust that he will do the right thing. You force yourself to take a breath, to trust that Crosshair has the situation under control.

"Tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night. But in fact, I know you barely slept in the weeks before you were brought to me. Guilt?"

"Let her go."

You know about the conflict Crosshair still fights with himself regarding past actions of his. You don't judge him, even though the realization when you first learned some things was a shock.

Crosshair raises his rifle and Hemlock's hand shoots from your shoulder to your neck, pulling you closer to him. He doesn't strangle you, but the grip is firm enough to be uncomfortable. Both men are more than tense.

"Get your hands off her, now!"

"I'm inclined to take them from you just to see how far I can break you," Hemlock says, laughing softly.

You hear a gunshot, you feel Hemlock flinch behind you the next moment and let you go. Hastily, you dash forward and behind Crosshair, who hastily comes towards you and pushes you behind him.

The sniper growls, "There's a reason my name is Crosshair, you should know that, Hemlock. You didn't really think you could use her as a shield, did you?"

Hemlock lies on the ground, one hand, on the side of his neck, looking up at the two of you. He's not mortally wounded, probably would survive this. He looks at you, a biting smile on his lips as he says, "You cost me so much, the respect of my superiors, my project, everything. I should have killed her when I had the chance, only to see in your face how you are breaking inside."

Crosshair growls and slowly leans over him, like a predator sure of its prey.

"You won't get another chance at this"

The muzzle of the rifle tilts toward Hemlock's face. Hastily, you look away as Crosshair pulls the trigger several times at once. You smell burning skin, and flesh, and shake yourself. Automatically, you take a few shaky steps away from Hemlock, who is now lying dead on the ground, to escape the smell.

Crosshair hurriedly follows you, you hear him close behind you, "Are you hurt?"

You shake your head and say softly, "No, just still in a bit of shock."

Very slowly, almost tentatively, Crosshair grabs your shoulder, turns you around to face him and looks at you scrutinizing. His amber eyes roam over your face.

"Are you sure?" he asks gently.

You nod and say just as gently, "Thank you for saving me."

Crosshair relaxes a little, a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, barely noticeable, but you know him well enough to see it. He kisses your temple, long and tenderly, maintaining contact for quite a while, a rare gesture.

"Of course. Anytime, Kitten."

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

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[belovedspector]

I Don't Need a Metaphor for You to Know I'm Miserable

Pairing: Marc Spector x gn!reader (mentions of Steven Grant x gn!reader and Jake Lockley x gn!reader)

Content/Warnings: Reader is dealing with depression, passive suicidal ideation, negative self-talk, and insecurity. Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, use of pet name (baby)

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Please read the warnings! This is my attempt at using writing to work through some of my own feelings (I promise I'm fine, though). Title is from "What's Wrong" by PVRIS.

Masterlist

It’s dark.

It’s dark outside. The sun has set, and the deep, midnight blue of the sky is covered by thick, gray clouds that block the stars. It’s a new moon, too, so there is no light outdoors, save for the flickering streetlights.

It’s dark inside your apartment. All of the lights are turned off. At one point, earlier in the day, the sun shining through the windows had provided enough light, and you never bothered to switch on the lights when the sun went down, taking the daylight with it. There is not even the usual glow of the TV or laptop screen; it is completely and utterly dark, and eerily quiet.

It’s dark inside your mind. It has been all day, from the time you woke up. Bad thoughts swirl through your head like storm clouds, convincing you that you are worthless, a failure, a burden. They tell you that maybe it would be better off if you were not here at all.

You sit on the floor with your back against the side of your mattress. You’ve been crying for hours, and, at this point, you have no tears left. You’re exhausted. You should go to sleep, but the thought of getting up and ready for bed is a daunting one. And, really, do you deserve to sleep? It’s not like you accomplished anything today besides moping around.

Today was not a good day. It’s been a string of bad days recently, really. You’ve been trying to ignore it, hoping the feeling would go away. Today, though, it finally got to be too much, too dark.

You’re tired. Tired of being alive, tired of taking up space, tired of wasting Marc, Steven, and Jake’s time.

Marc.

He’s due to be home any minute now. Surely he’ll take one look at you and decide enough is enough. He can do so much better than you. You both know it.

As if on cue, you hear the sound of him unlocking the door and entering the apartment.

“Baby?” he calls out, confusion clear in his voice. He must know something is off, with the apartment shrouded in darkness and you nowhere to be found. Typically, when he gets home, he’ll find you in the living room or kitchen. “I’m home.”

You don’t reply. You don’t have the energy. You just sit there uselessly, like you have been all day.

“Baby?” he tries again, voice and footsteps approaching the bedroom. It’s only a matter of seconds until he’s crossed the apartment and made it to the bedroom door. He nudges the door open gently.

He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees you. “Baby, I—” Whatever he was going to say is cut short when he notices how you’re sitting, hunched in on yourself and trembling slightly. He closes the distance between the two of you and kneels down on the floor in front of you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks softly.

You just shake your head, refusing to look at him.

“Did I do something?” he asks.

You shake your head again.

He blows out a puff of air. “Okay.” It’s quiet as he thinks, clearly trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with you in your current state.

“Can I turn on a light?” he tries.

You nod. God, he must be so annoyed with you, unable to even answer a simple, yes-or-no question verbally.

He gets up to turn on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a warm, soft glow, before returning to his place on the floor.

He exhales sharply when he sees you in the light. You must be a sight, with red eyes and dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, “what happened? What’s going on?”

You just bury your face in your hands, unable or unwilling to verbalize the mess of thoughts clouding your mind.

He sighs again. “That’s okay, take all the time you need.”

After a few moments, you whisper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I love you,” he says immediately. He says it like it’s obvious, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You almost believe him.

You feel tears stinging at your eyes once again. Your lower lip wobbles and your throat tightens as the first one falls.

“No one loves me,” you argue, but it’s all blubber, no conviction.

“That’s not true,” he says. “I love you. Steven and Jake love you.”

That just makes you cry harder. It can’t be true, what he’s saying. No one actually loves you. People tolerate you, maybe, but you’re unworthy of love.

Marc scoots closer so he can wrap his arms around you.

“Why don’t you hate me?!” you practically scream through the tears, weakly trying to break free of his embrace. “You’re supposed to hate me like everyone else!”

You’re pushing him away; you know you are. You feel like you don’t deserve him.

Marc pulls back a little and just looks at you for a few moments, his face a mix of utter confusion and sympathy. “How could I ever hate you, baby?” he finally asks. His voice is so soft. You don’t deserve him, you think once again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you wail.

You feel Marc’s body stiffen. “Do what?”

You take in a gasping breath, suddenly desperate to get oxygen into your burning lungs. “Everything. Life.”

“Baby—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I’m done, Marc. I’m done,” you say, your body still wracked with sobs.

“Please don’t say that,” he whispers. “Hey, look at me.” He cups your face in his hands and gently turns your head so your eyes can reluctantly meet his. “Believe me when I say, we all love you so fucking much, and we don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“You’d manage,” you mutter, trying to look away.

“No, we wouldn’t,” he says, voice cracking as he meets your eyes once again. “We wouldn’t know what the hell to do with ourselves. You complete us, okay? You’re, like, the puzzle piece we were missing.” He adds sheepishly, “Steven’s the poetry guy, not me.”

There’s something about the look on his face. His eyes are big and round and oh-so-earnest. You can’t help but start to believe him, just a little bit.

“You really mean it?” you ask with a sniffle, voice sounding small to your own ears.

“Yeah, baby, I do,” he says emphatically, pulling you in for a rib-crushing hug.

Everything is quiet, but it’s the good kind of quiet, the comfortable kind.

The silence is broken by the rumbling of your stomach.

Marc pulls back and fixes you with a stern but loving look. “When was the last time you ate?” “Uh, this morning?” you say sheepishly.

Marc tsks. “Let’s get some food in you, okay?”

You nod and allow him to help you off the floor. Your body aches all over from having been huddled in the same spot for so long.

Marc puts an arm around you and leads you out of the bedroom. He flips lights on as he moves throughout the apartment, chasing the darkness away.

You know nothing’s really been solved tonight. You’re probably still going to feel like shit in the morning. It’s still dark, but, here and now, as Marc whistles to himself in the kitchen and you curl up on the couch, things are looking just a little bit brighter.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think.