#strangling tree au

[mediumsizedpidegon]

I'm writing fic about Indra, and have changed canon in a few minor ways to make everything worse. It's great! Indra's standing there like

the WHOLE time and there's only so long things can go on like this :)

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 10

part 1 | part 9 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

When they get to Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s mom is sitting on the couch, eyes unblinking as she watches the TV.

There’s just static on the screen.

“Steve?” she slurs when she finally realizes they’re there. Sways a little when she stands. There’s a dreamy quality to her voice, a blank look on her tired face: agreeable but distant, a smudge of campfire smoke curling far over the trees.

Double-dosed her pills again. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Stevie, baby, it was just awful.” She reaches out for him, and he wishes he could find comfort in the way she cups his elbows with delicate hands. Wishes he could lean into her touch and offer comfort in return, but her tone is so dull and mild that bile rises in his throat. Chemical calm bullshit, and Steve has had enough.

“Ma, just…” he sighs, shrugging her off. Scrubs a hand over his face. Too young and too old for this. “Just go home, okay?” The street is quiet again, all the neighbors tucked back in their houses now that the show has run its course. He doesn’t think anyone will notice her stumbling across the road. “Get some rest. I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Sure, baby.” He leads her to the door, and she turns there on the threshold, eyes glassy and unfocused; looks through him like he’s a ghost. Then her gaze shifts around the room — the hats, the mugs, the clutter; the lived-in explosion of color that Steve’s annoyed he likes so much — like she’s just seeing it all for the first time, and absently, she murmurs, “This place is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Mom.”

“Hmm?” she asks, but she’s already drifting out the door.

Steve’s face is on fire. He stands there for a moment, just staring dumbly out into the dark. What the hell is wrong with her??

Behind him, Eddie snorts. "Oh, she’s on the good shit, huh?”

Steve whips his head around. Eddie’s eyes are full of mirth, his dimple peeking out, and it startles a laugh out of Steve. He thinks maybe he’d take offense if he weren't so busy being mortified.

But also, like.

It is a little funny.

Or maybe it’s so unfunny that it circles back around.

“Jesus, man,” he huffs, “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why she…”

“S’fine,” Eddie says with a casual flick of his wrist. Seems like he means it. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, just sort of eyeing Steve up. Assessing. Running his tongue over his lips. They're big, for a guy's. “…You want a beer?”

“Fuck.” That sounds so nice. “Yeah. Please.”

“Have a seat.”

Steve takes the offer when Eddie nods at the couch, too tired to do the whole song and dance of ‘oh heavens no, I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Who’s got the energy for that?

The couch is old. His skull thuds against the un-cushioned back when he sinks down into it, but he’s too tired to care. Worn out as the lumpy springs under his ass, the frayed fabric beneath his arm. A wave of exhaustion rattles his bones, reverberates in his teeth. He thinks he could sleep for sixteen years.

Eddie clears his throat when he comes back with the beers, a sudden cautiousness about him as he hands Steve an unopened can like Steve might claw him in return.

"Sit down," Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna bite."

Eddie makes a strangled noise. The springs bounce as he plops onto the seat beside Steve, sitting sideways with one leg up on the couch between them, his arm resting on the back. "So, ah...." He gives a wavering chuckle; pulls a lock of hair across his face to hide himself. "Is this the part where I formally apologize for trying to knife you?"

Ugh. No the fuck it isn't. Steve’s too drained for it, absolutely at capacity for more serious shit this evening, thanks; and besides that, it was...

Whatever. It's old news.

Instead of giving a real answer he reaches into his pocket, snicks his own knife open and pretends to brandish it at Eddie, asking, "Eye for an eye?"

Eddie's eyes go huge. "Dude, what the fuck??"

"Just fucking with you," Steve laughs, lifting the can up to his mouth. "But there; now we're even. Shoulda seen your face."

“Ah—!” Eddie’s jaw drops in offense. “Ex-cuse you!”

God, of course he’s more dramatic than all the kids combined.

Steve jabs the knife into his beer, pops the top and starts to chug, throat working as he gulps the whole thing down in four big sips. It tastes like frothy, bitter piss, but it's cold and it soothes the scratch in his throat.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. "Well, goddamn, Harrington."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" "You're not?"

Steve grins and wipes his mouth.

—

They get drunk pretty fast (Eddie refused to be upstaged in his own house, so one shot-gunned beer became two became four), and somewhere along the line the conversations get weird; hilarious and dumb. Saying shit just to say it, chipping away at the ice wall between them with bare fingernails.

Eddie hollers some shit like: "What are you even talking about?" and his arms fling out wide, almost spilling his beer. "The deep sea is so much scarier than the mountains!"

"Are you joking?" Steve throws back. "The mountains have, like, giant cats and shit! Birds of prey with wingspans the size of your van."

"Yeah, and the deep sea has eldritch monsters that live in volcano vents and hunt with no eyes and eat their young for fun or whatever the fuck. You ever heard of an anglerfish? Or a phantom anglerfish? Tell me that shit isn't right out of a Lovecraft story."

"A what story?"

"How am I the one who hasn’t graduated yet?"

Then later:

“Dude, Batman? Seriously?”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective!”

“He’s a greasy little weirdo. You only like him because of your whole…” Steve gestures at his tattoos.

“Whatever, Spiderfan.”

And later still:

"Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill... Shit. Y’know this would really be easier in a town where so many people hadn’t died."

Steve grimaces at himself; expects Eddie to call him out. It’s too insensitive, too soon.

Eddie just cracks a grin and suggests, "Fuck, marry, revive?"

—

They talk for a long time. Eddie's kind of charming when he's not being a dick. A nice smile, deep laugh lines. Steve can almost see why the kids are so obsessed with him. He's never met someone so animated; feels like he's talking to a Saturday morning cartoon. The conversation mellows out after a while, and he doesn't realize he's dozed off until Eddie shakes him awake.

"Hey, man," he says, voice just above a whisper. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to crash on the couch, but, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, your back is probably gonna hate you for it."

Steve rubs his fists against his eyelids and blinks himself awake. Feels jittery and weird, yanked out of the start of a bad dream. When he looks up he sees that he’s got his shoes up on the couch; and there’s dried drool on his chin, and all at once he feels embarrassed, off-balance and panicked like he missed the last step down a steep flight of stairs. Of course he's overstayed his welcome. He's being fucking rude. "My bad," he mutters as he jumps up off the couch. Stands up way too fast, makes his vision tilt and swirl. "I'll get out of your hair."

Eddie reaches for his arm. "Dude,” he says, “you're fine. You can stay if you want.”

Steve moves out of his hold. “Nah, get some sleep; I’ll see ya around.”

Eddie frowns at him, a little furrow between his brows, and somehow Steve feels like he’s in the wrong, like Eddie isn’t the one who just kicked him out.

Like maybe Steve’s just running away for a second time in one night. Always back and away, this guy.

Who's the fucking coward now?

—

part 11

y'all know the drill, tagging whoever commented on yesterday's installment provided your tumblr settings let me <;3 @thealwithnoname @violetsteve @manda-panda-monium @stuftzombie @bronwenmarie @aliea82 @slowandsteddie @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @ahsokatanoss @steveshairspray @hallucinatedjosten @estrellami-1 @ppunkpuppyy @stevesbipanic @silver-snaffles @yourmom-isgay @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @zombiecreatures @im-a-disgrace-to-humanity @faery-god @hotluncheddie @runninriot @a-little-unsteddie @teatimeeverybody @newtstabber @pearynice @hellion-child @cuips-not-cute @steddieas-shegoes @steves-strapcollection @loguine-linguine @griefabyss69

[songmingisthighs]

Wanbelyn

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. lxxx - broken face

neurosurgeon!hongjoong × reader

genre : dad!au

rating : mature; crude jokes and filthy language

wc : 2.3 k

buy me coffee ?

where love and peace is held, i never expected for this to happen. i planned and i planned, i expected, and i hoped, but it was never you. you held what i wanted hostage to make room for you, the thing that i needed but has no means of acceptance. deny me, live your best life.

To say that you rushed into the gym was an understatement because you practically flew through the door, almost breaking it in the process. You even ignored San who was beaming when he saw you, trying to go in for a hug only for you to push past him whilst yelling 'SORRY, MY BABY NEEDS ME MORE'. Hell, you didn't even take notice of Yeosang who had to console San for being ignored by you.

When you got to the classroom, your eyes zeroed in on the very familiar tuft of hair and not because of the fact that he was the only one there.

In a flash, you dropped to your knees and cupped Kijoong's face who was surprised when he was suddenly spun around. "Kijoong, are you okay?" you asked worriedly, the first aid kit you had hauled with you left on the floor as you tried to look for signs that his face was, as San said, broken, "Did you fight with someone?" you asked, still looking for signs of injury.

Now fully realizing that you were there with him. Kijoong grinned widely and jumped into your arms, wrapping his own shorter ones around your neck and trying to climb you like a tree. It was then that you realized that Kijoong was perfectly fine and perhaps you had fallen so absolutely stupidly to San's words. You risked getting a speeding ticket only to see that Kijoong was perfectly fine and that confused you more than anything. "Kijoong, did you get hurt?" you asked again, still wanting to make sure as it would greatly affect how dead Choi San would be. Instead of telling you if he was okay, Kijoong proceeded to tell you about what he had been learning in school and in class with San.

In a state of confusion, the door opened and at first you thought that it was San which would have been nice since that would mean that you could spare his staff from seeing the strangling of a lifetime. So it took you by surprise when you saw Hongjoong standing there, looking as surprised as you.

"(y/n)?" God, it had been a while since you heard him call your name, "What are you doing here?" he asked, confused but slightly hopeful for some reason. "I- San told me Kijoong got hurt and I got here as fast as I could. What are you doing here?" "Picking Kijoong up?" that was stupid of you to ask and you really wanted to kick yourself for that. "But also, San told me Kijoong got in a fight with a kid and I needed to sign an incident report? I just saw him outside, he told me to get the story from Kijoong first so I came here." As if on cue, after Hongjoong was done explaining his being there, the door suddenly closed and locked, surprising you and Hongjoong yet again.

Just as you rushed to try to open the door, Yeosang's head popped up from the small window with San above him. "Kang Yeosang, what the hell do you think you're doing?" you hissed, trying to open the door which of course didn't happen as it was locked. "I did nothing, San was the one who locked you in," he smiled innocently only to receive a smack on the shoulder from San. You turned your attention to San and glared at him, "You have exactly 5 seconds to open this door, Choi San, I'm not kidding I will whoop you," you threatened, oblivious that Hongjoong was looking at you with amusement and affection, as if you were the most adorable being on earth and it didn't go unnoticed by your two friends outside. "You can't scare me (y/n)," San was lying straight out of his ass but he had to keep the facade to ensure that the plan would work, "You two need to talk things out and reverse the divorce because Yeosang and I have created a gaming group chat with Yunho and Mingi and I'm not about to give that up especially since we're going into a competition soon and we want you both to be there!" "Bye (y/n)! Have a good talk!" and with that, both Yeosang and San walked away, leaving you in a room with the guy whom you harboured feelings for but unfortunately had to repress for the sake of his son.

"So..." Hongjoong started, clearing his throat, "Seems like we were lied to, huh?" he stated the obvious. Sighing, you turned around to look at Hongjoong but kept your distance by leaning against the door, "Yeah, seems like it and I have a feeling those two were not the only ones in on this," you huffed. Hongjoong only chuckled as he managed to put two and two together rather quickly.

"How have you been though?" he asked. You didn't know how to answer that because from professional aspect, you were finally getting back on track and you were happy with that. But emotional-wise? You've been repressing everything to the point that you were functioning like a robot in real life, using work as a distraction. Little did you know, Hongjoong wasn't faring any better but he had to kept things going for him as best as he could because Kijoong was depending on him to be okay. You were about to answer when he interjected, "Because I haven't been fine since you left." It genuinely surprised you that Hongjoong was the one to reveal his feelings first. From your experience, something dramatic had to happen between the two of you first before he came clean about how he was actually feeling. The honesty felt refreshing.

"Neither have I," you answered, sending him a sad smile.

Though it was a sad realization for the two of you, Hongjoong couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach when he found out that you were as much as not okay as he had been.

"I missed you. Home is not home when you're not there," Hongjoong confessed, voice slightly shaky as he was trying his hard to not be too emotional. Your shoulders slumped hearing that, feeling bad that Hongjoong felt like that and thought it wasn't your fault exactly, you still feel somewhat at fault.

The two of you were so focused on each other that you completely missed the way Kijoong was staring at the two of you with furrowed eyebrows and a displeased expression. You only took notice of him again when he ran up to you and hit you on the hip with a balled fist. "No!" He exclaimed loudly, surprising both you and Hongjoong who immediately chastised him. "Kijoong!" he called out but Kijoong went for another hit and that was when Hongjoong swooped down to hold Kijoong back but Kijoong was straining against him, trying to get another hit on you. "Hey, no!" Hongjoong tried his best to keep Kijoong from trying to hurt you again but the boy was still going wild in his arms. "No!" Kijoong screamed again, louder this time as he tried his best to get his fists to reach you.

After coddling him due to your own self-blaming, you decided to step in and get to the bottom of the issue. You joined in and crouched in front of Kijoong, holding both of his hands in your own. "Use your words," you stated, looking straight into Kijoong's eyes. Kijoong noticed the serious tone in your voice and he felt something in him, something that didn't make him feel good. He managed to slip one hand out of your grasp and swung, successfully hitting you in the head much to Hongjoong's horror. As the parent, Hongjoong was about to haul Kijoong up and out one way or another so he wouldn't hurt you anymore but you didn't falter. Instead, you simply grabbed his loose hand and held it at the front. "Use your words Kim Kijoong, you know you can," you stressed, maintaining eye contact with him.

Kijoong's chest began heaving and you thought he was about to scream at you but the first thing he did was burst into tears. The sound of his son bawling made Hongjoong let go in worry, wanting to immediately calm him down but he was stopped from taking action when Kijoong spoke up, "Why you left? You left and you made daddy sad," he cried out while trying to get you to let go of his hands but you kept them firm, "Kijoong, what did you mean by that?" you asked, your voice sounding less harsh but it still had an element of seriousness to it. Through tears and sobs, Kijoong looked to you and then to his dad, and then to you again before attempting to speak even though it looked like he was struggling, "Y-you said you leave when I don't need you a-and you ma-de daddy sad," he told you.

Though his words were simple and rather vague, you immediately realize what he was trying to tell you. You did tell him that you would only leave when he no longer needed you and you did tell him that you cared for him and his dad. So obviously in his simple mind, when you did leave when he still needed you and when Hongjoong had to deal with the absence of you, he blamed you. It didn't help that you already blamed yourself for Kijoong's episodes and the decision to leave them, hearing what Kijoong had to say made your heart break.

You were about to apologize and acknowledge that you messed up when Hongjoong grabbed Kijoong and turned around to face him, "Hey, you can't blame (y/n) like that, Kijoong. (y/n) didn't leave us, she was giving us time because she was scared that you'd get sick again, remember? Remember when you had another episode and then again?" Kijoong nodded, remembering both times he had an episode around you, "You remember what you told Uncle Mingi? You remember telling him you didn't want (y/n) to be your mommy because then she'd leave me?" again, Kijoong nodded, his mind clearing up as his sobs died down slowly. "(y/n) is not like your mom, Kijoong. Your mom... She was sick so she decided to go, she couldn't be anyone's mommy and yes, that made me sad but I'm no longer sad about mommy being gone because I had (y/n)." Though Hongjoong was talking to his son, you couldn't help but think that he was probably also talking to you, telling you how he felt about you and how serious he was about his feelings. "I was happy when she was around but then you got sick so we agreed that you should get better first and yes, that made me sad, but that was not (y/n)'s fault, that was my fault too. I'd rather be sad for a long time than to see you sick again and (y/n) also thinks the same way. We didn't want to be apart but we thought we had to."

Hongjoong didn't realize that he was starting to cry too until Kijoon reached up to wipe the tears off of his face. "I'm sorry daddy, sorry for being sick," he sniffled, now thinking that his dad was sad partially because of him. But Hongjoong immediately shook his head and pulled Kijoong into a tight embrace, "You silly little monkey, you don't ever apologize for being sick, okay? You can't help being sick, you have no say in that," then he pulled away, "But you have a say in letting people into your, into our lives, you hear me?"

It was then that Hongjoong turned his attention to you, seeing you looking at him so sadly. A small smile appeared on Hongjoong's face as he reached a hand to softly take yours, immediately rubbing his thumb gently on the back of your hand. "And I want you in our lives (y/n). The distance between us confirmed my feelings that it was never the proximity that affected my feelings for you, it was never the fact that we were simply in each other's lives. I didn't choose to have feelings for you but I was gifted the ability to develop feelings for you because it was you, it had to be you. I don't want to force you nor do I want to pressure you, but I really want you back in my life. You heard what Kijoong sad, I was sad without you," You couldn't help but chuckle and tried to look away when you felt a tear fell from your eye from being reunited with the father and son duo once again, remembering how much you silently miss them but not being able to know if you should approach them again only to know that both of them were missing you too. Seeing the tear, Kijoong reached out again and this time, he wiped the tear off of your face. It may seem stupid, but that moment made you feel like it was proof that Kijoong didn't have anything against you, not anymore at least and you didn't know how to feel about that.

"So, can you find it in yourself to come back to us?" Hongjoong asked, hopeful but he was still allowing you to make a decision.

Your shoulders slumped and you let out an exhale. You took a moment to look at Hongjoong and then at Kijoong, remembering all the good times with them and then also the bad times. The bad times that brought so many emotions and even some trauma back. As much as you were reluctant to give an answer right then and there, you knew you had to because if not then, then you would just postpone and risk ruining things further.

This is going to seem mean, but...

network :

@cultofdionysusnet @sandsofire @kflixnet

taglist :

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[hyperactively-me]

regency era!ghost x reader au (part 2)

oops my fingers slipped again. now all of a sudden i gotta see this little au through.

The early morning sun cast a golden hue across the park, the rays dancing on the surface of the nearby lake. The park was unusually  empty this morning, a tranquil atmosphere sweeping over the rolling green hills. 

Multiple days have passed since your rather unfortunate encounter with the Duke Simon Riley, the tension lingering like a storm cloud over the horizon. It left you seething, yet most of all, you still felt hurt over his attack on your character, even though he knows nothing about you. That’s what bothered you the most. 

But, today, you were determined not to let his condescension overshadow your day, and so you sought solace in the park. As you wandered, you allowed yourself to relax, breathing in the fresh scent of dewy grass and listening to the cheerful chirping of birds. The empty park allowed you to sink further into relaxation, trying your best to let go of the lingering tension. 

You had nearly succeeded in calming yourself down when, rounding a bend in the path, you came face to face with the very last person you wanted to. 

Duke Simon Riley was sitting high atop of a giant horse, his imposing figure cutting a striking silhouette against the misty park. His expression was inscrutable as his gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved, locked in a silent standoff. 

You felt a surge of frustration and anger rise within in you at the mere sight of him, the memory of your initial meeting flooding back with startling clarity. Just as you were trying to forget the whole thing. But, beneath the anger, there was something else simmering; a nagging curiosity, perhaps, or a stubborn refusal to let him dictate your emotions. 

The Duke’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts or feelings. He sat atop his horse with the ease of a man accustomed to command, his posture rigid and imposing. 

The silence stretched on between you, tension crackling in the air like lightning about to strike. His gaze upon you was heavy and unyielding, and for a moment, you felt as though you were drowning in it. 

But then, with a defiant tilt of your chin, you square your shoulders and met his gaze head-on. If he thought to intimidate you with his stoic demeanor, he had another thing coming.

“Your Grace,” you say coolly, your voice carrying across the distance that separates you. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

Simon’s lips twitched ever so slightly, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I could say the same for you, my lady,” he replies, his voice low and measured. “What brings you to the park in these early hours?”

You wanted to laugh in his face right then and there. You barely were able to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes in front of him, choosing instead to maintain your steady composure. 

“I find solace in nature,” you say simply, folding your hands together in front of you. “Unlike some, I rather enjoy the company of birds and trees to that of ‘idle chatter and trivial pursuits.’”

The jab was not lost on Simon, and you could see a flicker of annoyance cross his gestures. But to his credit, he remains outwardly composed, his expression still a mask of impassivity. 

No longer wanting to be the object of his hard gaze, you pivot on your heel. The moment you do, and of course, this could only happen to you, your foot catches on a hidden root, causing you to stumble forward with a gasp of surprise. 

With a strangled cry, you tumble to the ground less than graceful, the skirts of your dress now mangled by the dirt. Pain shot through your ankle as you hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from your lungs by the impact. For a moment, you lay there, dazed and disoriented, the world spinning around you. 

To your surprise, a shadow fell over you, blocking out the sun. You turn, looking up to see the Duke reigning in his horse, his expression unreadable.

Without a word, he dismounts the steed in one fluid motion, landing beside you with a grace that belied his imposing stature. Strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly to your feet as if you weighed nothing at all.

“Are you hurt, my lady?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly with the smallest hint of concern. 

You shook your head mutely, too stunned by his sudden appearance to form coherent words. His proximity sends a shiver down your spine, and the way his large arms feel around you sends heat straight to your face.

You meekly look up into his brown eyes, and any hint of anger and frustration now evaporates with every passing moment. You find yourself lost in the intensity of his gaze, his eyes holding you captive. There was something magnetic about them, something that drew you in despite your best efforts to resist. His hand lingers on yours, his thick fingers pressing into the palm of your gloved hand. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Simon’s expression softens ever so slightly, the shift barely perceptible. You could’ve sworn his eyes flicker down to your partly open lips. All he does is nod in return. 

Finally, you quickly step back, straightening your dress and trying to regain your composure. “Well, I- I must go home and change,” you say stiffly, mortified by your clumsiness and the fact that he had been the one to help you. 

Simon does a once over of the skirts of your dress, now covered in dirt. “It appears so,” he states gruffly. 

“Try to watch where you're going next time, my lady,” he states plainly. 

You freeze in your tracks, his words like a slap in the face. How dare he speak to you in such a manner after just helping you up?

Swallowing your pride, you turn back to face him, your jaw clenched with barely contained frustration. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace,” you reply through gritted teeth, your voice laced with icy politeness.

With that, you pivot on your heel and march away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words had affected you. As you walk, your ankle throbbing with each step, you can't help but seethe with anger at the Duke's insufferable attitude.

But amidst the anger, there's a small flicker of something else. A stubborn determination, perhaps, or a newfound resolve to show the Duke that you were not someone to be trifled with. Whatever it was, you were determined to prove him wrong, no matter the cost.

part 1 < > part 3

[vodika-vibes]

Hello Vod'ika, congrats for your followers!!

If possible (in advance sorry for my English) I wanted to ask you a Crosshair x Jedi!Reader (angst with happy ending from Cross view?) in a soulmate au (you can't hurt your soulmate kind of au) where chipped!Crosshair supposelly killed reader (then much much later he founds her again, maybe fallen-scarred or something but not heartshoted dead) (they where crushing each other but tightliped/proud/nothing officially stated)

Noble Maiden Fair

Summary: She was his. And He was hers. They were both just too proud to admit it, even to each other. When the order came out, Crosshair shot her. A blaster blot between her eyes. She fell. She died. Crosshair handled the guilt by staying on the move, by not thinking about it, about her. And then he murders an Imperial Officer and his only option is to run, not to his brothers, who abandoned him, but somewhere else.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x Reader

Word Count: 1849

Prompt: Soulmate AU - Soulmates can't hurt each other

Warnings: Some angst

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: Thanks! And thank you for your request! I've been bouncing between ideas on this one, and I finally had one that I liked, so I hope you like it too!

“Welcome!” Crosshair frowns at the large Trandoshan man standing just off the landing bay, “It’s been quite some time since we’ve gotten a visitor! Are you the person bringing the seed delivery?”

“Aa, that’s me,” Crosshair replies as he straightens from where he’s checking that his cargo is still in one piece. Honestly, the demotion from soldier to delivery boy annoys him to no end, but it’s better than the alternative. “You’d be the mayor then?”

“Oh, no. Not me.” The Trandoshan says with a laugh, “We’re a bit too small of a community for someone like that. I’m Grrog.”

“I…see.” He doesn’t, not really. But NatBorns have always been weird, “Anyway, where do you want the stuff?”

Grrog gestures to a flat cart near the door, “We’re going to have to make a couple of trips! I hope you’re not on a time crunch.”

Crosshair sighs, “You don’t have any droids?”

“Oh no! Awful things, droids.”

“Of course.” He rips off his work gloves and throws them inside the ship, “I guess we’d better get to work then.”

The Trandoshan looks thrilled and almost bounces over one of the massive pallets of seeds. “Look at it all! Ooh, the farmers will be thrilled!”

“I don’t just have crop seeds. There are also some seedlings for fruit trees. They’re still inside since they’re a bit more delicate.” Crosshair replies as he walks over to the cart and moves it closer to the pallet.

“Perfect! There’s always room for more seedlings!”

“You really are all about this life, aren’t you?” He asks. 

“Oh, yeah. Most of my people are hunters, but, well,” Grrog gestures to himself, and his wide girth, “I’m not made for hunting.” He jokes, “Fruits and Veggies don’t run away at least.”

“Well, there is that.”

“We have a population of a couple hundred people, from all walks of life. We don’t get many new people, though.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. People don’t want to be farmers, y’know.” Grrog hoists a couple of bags over to the cart, and then straightens with a groan, “The AgriCorps used to run everything here, but they were wiped out to the last.”

“That right?”

“They were Jedi, you know.” He shakes his head, “Could work miracles with dying planets. Such a shame.”

Crosshair doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. 

But, for half a second, he sees her. He sees her smile and the way her eyes crinkle when she’s happy. He hears her laugh; loud and bright and unashamed. 

His jaw clenches, and he roughly shoves the memory of her away. He doesn’t want to remember her…or the look of confused disbelief when he shot her. Or the way his name fell from her lips as she fell into the ravine.

Still, even though he doesn’t want to remember, it doesn’t make the ache in his chest go away. Or the guilt that threatens to strangle him. 

“You alright?”

Crosshair is ripped from his guilt at the concern in Grrog’s voice, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He nods, “Sometimes when I think about the Jedi, the grief threatens to overwhelm me too.” He confides, “You’re not alone there, friend.”

“I’m fine.” Crosshair repeats, “Where am I taking this cart?”

Grrog gazes at him thoughtfully, “It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay to not be okay, friend.”

Crosshair sighs, “You are incredibly nosy.”

“My wife says that it’s my best feature.”

“I don’t like talking about it. Where am I bringing the cart?” Crosshair bites out.

“Alright, alright. There’s a general store. It’s called General Store.” Grrog says, “The employees there know what to do when you deliver it.”

Crosshair stares at him blankly.

“Ah, right! You’ll go through the spaceport, follow the road until you reach the fountain, and then turn left. The General Store is the first shop on the right. If you see the greenhouses, you’ve gone too far.”

“Alright.” Crosshair pushes the cart through the spaceport, easily side-stepping people. Not that there are many people for him to side-step. Honestly, he’s surprised that this place is big enough to have a spaceport. 

But, then again, they probably sell the excess fruit and vegetables to other planets. 

He pushes the carts through the open doors and stops.

The planet is very green. He should have expected it, it is a farming planet after all. But, for some reason, he wasn’t expecting it to be this green.

For a moment, time slips, and he can hear his kitten’s voice.

“I think, after the war, I’d like to retire.” His kitten says as she absently braids a strand of her hair, her voice soft and thoughtful, little more than a murmur to not wake his brothers.

“Retire?” Crosshair asks, his voice just as quiet, “And what does a Jedi do when they retire?”

She laughs, dropping her braid and resting her chin on the palm of her hand, her eyes glitter with an emotion that Crosshair doesn’t dare name, because naming it would mean that he has to acknowledge it.

“Maybe I’ll become a farmer, move someplace green and alive.”

“You’ll be bored in a week.”

“I think we deserve a little boredom, don’t you?” Her smile is warm and soft, and Crosshair thinks, for a moment, that he would burn the galaxy if it meant that she’d never stop looking at him like that.

With great difficulty, he pushes the memory away.

As much as he’d give anything to go back to that night, with her smiling at him like he hung the stars in the sky for her and her alone. He can’t. 

His kitten is dead.

He killed her.

And the Galaxy is a much darker, and lonelier, place for her absence. 

Crosshair heaves out a sigh and grabs the cart again. He’s not going to stay here. He can’t stay here. All he has to do is deliver the seeds and seedlings, and then he can go somewhere else.

Maybe he’ll move to a desert planet. No green at all.

Not that it’ll help. After all, it won’t change anything. 

He still killed his soulmate.

There’s no coming back from that.

Several hours later, all of the seeds and seedlings are off of his ship, and Crosshair is filling out the last of the paperwork with Grrog. Not to mention, adding some additional fees since he had to unload the ship on his own.

“You sure you don’t want to stay? This place is a lot more welcoming than the rest of the Galaxy.” Grrog offers with a grin.

“I’m sure.”

“You might like farming.”

“I can just about promise you that I won’t.” Crosshair fills the last bit of information on the datapad and then hands it to Grrog, “This looks right?”

“Hm…yep. All of the information is here.” Grrog replies as he scrolls down the information, “Though some of the counts are off, I think. Let me get a count.”

Crosshair rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, “As you like.”

There’s the sound of a bell behind him as the door to the General Store opens. Grrog beams at the person who just entered, “There you are! We go the seedling shipment in!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

A voice, soft and female, and so achingly familiar that Crosshair drops the toothpick he’s about to put in his mouth. His head snaps around and he stares, stunned, at the woman standing in the door.

It’s her.

Her hair is longer, braided over her shoulder, and she’s wearing more casual clothes than he’s ever seen her wearing before. 

But it’s still her, his Kitten.

She turns her head slightly and catches sight of him. Her eyes widen, likely just as surprised as he is. Though she doesn’t look afraid, she mostly just looks confused to see him there.

With seeds.

Which, okay, that’s valid.

Grrog vanishes into the back of the shop, and she hesitates, before she turns and walks over to him. 

“Crosshair,” Her voice is soft, and her eyes scan his face. “This is new,” Her fingers, still slightly calloused from years of lightsaber use, brush against the scar on his temple.

He stands and he lightly grips her chin to tilt her head back, “I shot you.” He breathes out.

She meets his gaze evenly, “Yes.”

“You don’t even have a scar.”

She hesitates for a moment, “I figured out what our soul bond is.” She finally says.

Crosshair is silent for a moment, “We can’t hurt each other.”

“No, we can’t.”

He releases her chin, “That’s convenient for us, I suppose.”

“I…” She pauses and then reaches up and presses both of her hands against his cheeks, “We didn’t talk about it. About us. And I know it’s because you were ashamed or—”

“Proud. Not ashamed.” Crosshair corrects, “I was too proud to admit what everyone else already knew. Proud and…a little afraid.”

“Why would you be afraid, Cross?”

“Because. You were so good, Kitten.” He brings his hands to cup her face, “You’re so good and I know you deserve better than me. You always have. Someone as good as you are.”

“I don’t think that’s your choice to make.” She says slowly, thoughtfully. “Not when I’ve been choosing you since the first time we met.”

Crosshair sighs, “You should hate me. I tried to kill you.”

“You didn’t, though.”

Slowly he leans in and bumps his forehead against hers. Crosshair can feel her breath against his face, warm and alive in a way that he never thought that he would feel again.

“I’m sorry.” He says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please—”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Her voice is soft, yet there’s steel underlying her words, “You did nothing wrong. You and your brothers are as much victims of this war as we were.”

“They made us as weapons,” Crosshair says, his voice thick with grief that he’s never had the chance to put into words, “They made us to be weapons against the Jedi.”

“That’s not your fault.” She whispers, “It’s not your fault, and I can’t think of a single Jedi who would blame you for it. Not when they learned the truth.”

Crosshair shudders, and his forehead falls to her shoulder. 

Gentle arms slide around him and brush through his hair. “Come home with me, Crosshair.” Her offer is soft and warm and so, very, tempting. 

Nothing would make him happier than following her home and making her home. But he can’t put her in danger. He can’t.

“The Empire—”

“—will hunt me whether you’re here or not.” She interrupts, “Don’t leave me again, Crosshair. Please?”

Crosshair melts on the spot, “You don’t play fair, Kitten.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply. There’s nothing for him to say. So, instead, he pulls her into a kiss. A kiss that’s been a long time coming. It feels like a missing piece of his soul snaps into place, and his arms slide protectively around her.

He’s never going to let her go again. Ever.

[rocknroll7575]

Rising Dawn au

Pyrrha having a mental breakdown after realizing what exactly her “Destiny” cost her: HAHAHAHAHAHA! So THIS is what I was destined for, to lose the man I love to another woman, to lose my team, to lose any source of happiness and never regain it!?

Oz: Ms. Nikos you must remain calm-

Pyrrha: YOU ARE THE LAST PERSON TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! I NEVER WANTED THIS! I NEVER WANTED THE BE THE FALL MAIDEN, I WANTED TO BE NORMAL, I WANTED TO BE HAPPY, BUT YOU HAD TO CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE, IF I HAD KNOWN THIS IS WHAT WAITED FOR ME I WOULD HAVE JUST LET THE WORLD BURN!

Oz: Ms Nikos- *gets fireballed into a wall*

Pyrrha: you don’t get to say anything to me anymore, I’m done, you and Salem and kill each other for all I care, I don’t have anything to lose anymore, you and Theodore made sure of that.

2 Years Later:

Pyrrha stumbled backward, her vision blurring as her back hit the rough bark of a Forever Fall tree. She let out a strangled gasp, feeling the searing pain from the deep gash in her side where Gillian's dagger had struck. Blood poured from the wound, warm and relentless, soaking through her fingers as she clutched at it desperately. She slid down the tree, her legs giving way beneath her, until she was seated at its base, breaths coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

Gillian, too, was struggling to stay upright. She clutched her own bleeding side, the wound painful but not as dire as the one she had inflicted upon Pyrrha. With a groan, she sank to her knees, the adrenaline that had fueled her attack ebbing away.

Jaune, who had been unconscious nearby, stirred and groaned, slowly coming to his senses. As his eyes fluttered open and the fog in his mind cleared, he saw the chaotic scene around him. His gaze locked onto Gillian, who was visibly in pain, and he immediately scrambled over to her.

"Are you okay?" Jaune asked, his voice laced with panic as he began to heal her wound, his hands glowing with a soft, golden light.

Pyrrha watched through half-lidded eyes as Jaune focused all his attention on Gillian. The pain in her side was nothing compared to the ache in her heart as she saw him so tenderly caring for the one who had struck her down. For a fleeting moment, she imagined herself in Gillian's place, with Jaune's concerned eyes on her, his touch healing her wounds. But the fantasy shattered, leaving behind a burning resentment that surged up from the depths of her soul.

"I fucking hate you," Pyrrha spat out, her voice weak but laced with venom.

Both Jaune and Gillian turned to look at her, confusion and anger written across their faces.

Pyrrha looked at Gillian, her voice trembling as she spoke. "You... had the strength I never did. You only cared about what mattered to you, not what others wanted or expected. You broke free from the chains of others' expectations, something I never managed to do," Pyrrha confessed, her eyes reflecting a deep-seated sorrow.

Gillian, still clutching her side, watched Pyrrha in silence, her expression unreadable.

"I never wanted any of this," Pyrrha continued, her voice growing softer, more pained. "From the beginning, I never wanted to fight or become the Fall Maiden. I only accepted because I thought it might have been my destiny, and because I believed that's what Huntresses did—what heroes did. They took upon themselves the greatest burdens."

"Pyrrha..." Jaune muttered, his voice filled with anguish.

Pyrrha let out a bitter chuckle, tears streaming down her face. "I thought my parents would be disappointed if I didn't become a fighter, so I trained and fought, despite hating every moment of it. I believed everyone would be disappointed if the 'Invincible Girl' wasn't the savior, the selfless hero they made me out to be. So, I chose to become the Fall Maiden. And what did that get me? Nothing but pain."

She paused, her voice cracking as she continued, "Here I am, dying alone... alone..."

Jaune's face twisted with grief as he reached out towards her. "Pyrrha, you're not alone," he said desperately, trying to bridge the gap between them.

But Pyrrha shook her head, the pain in her eyes mingling with a profound sense of resignation. "I feel alone, Jaune. I've always felt alone, carrying the weight of everyone's expectations. I thought I could handle it, but I was wrong."

Gillian, despite the tension between them, looked at Pyrrha with a newfound understanding. "You didn't have to carry it all by yourself, you know," she said quietly, her own voice betraying a hint of regret. "We could have helped you if you let us."

Pyrrha's eyes softened, a sad smile playing on her lips. "Maybe... but it's too late now." She closed her eyes, the strength finally leaving her body as she leaned back against the tree, her breathing becoming shallower.

Jaune felt his heart twist in agony as he listened to Pyrrha's final words. Her revelations struck him deeply. He had always known that Pyrrha disliked the fame and the pedestal she had been placed on, but he had never realized the extent of her true hatred for it all.

Pyrrha's gaze drifted upwards, her eyes tracing the fluttering descent of the forever-red leaves that fell around them. Despite the pain, a gentle smile touched her lips, and she let out a weak chuckle. "I... I wish I had done something more beautiful with my life... like painting," she said softly. "I loved painting since I was a little girl, but I stopped pursuing it... even though I still loved it."

"Why did you stop?" Gillian asked, her voice tinged with sorrow and a touch of surprise at her own curiosity.

Pyrrha's eyes grew distant as she recalled her past. "Because it was never about fighting, or victory, or saving people. My family wouldn't have allowed me to pursue it. But I liked it because it never felt forced. I wanted to be a painter."

"Why?" Gillian's question hung in the air, carrying an unspoken depth.

Pyrrha stayed silent for a moment before answering, her eyes still fixed on the trees. "I saw this painting of the Forever Fall forest once, and it felt like a window to another world," she began, her voice soft and wistful. "It was so real, so vivid. It seemed like I was there, in that part of the forest, simply enjoying the view and taking in its beauty."

She paused, a faint smile touching her lips as she continued. "I wanted to create something like that—something that could make everyone stop and look in awe. I wanted to create something beautiful enough to inspire another young girl, just as I had been inspired."

Jaune's heart ached with sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry," he replied, his voice choked with emotion.

"Don't be..." Pyrrha said gently. "Now go... go back to your daughter."

"Pyrrha—" Jaune began, his voice breaking.

Finally, Pyrrha tore her gaze away from the leaves and looked at Jaune. Her eyes were filled with a serene acceptance. "Go, leave me in this forest," she told him. "Dying here isn't so bad... It's... beautiful."

Jaune struggled internally, torn between his desire to stay with her and the painful understanding that this was her final wish. He knew that staying would only prolong her suffering and deny her the peace she sought. With a heavy heart, he nodded.

"Alright," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He turned to Gillian, who was still clutching her wound. Carefully, he picked her up, continuing to heal her as they moved. He cast one last, lingering glance at Pyrrha, his eyes filled with unspoken words and profound sadness.

Pyrrha watched as Jaune and Gillian disappeared into the distance, her heart heavy yet oddly calm. Now alone, she turned her gaze to the breathtaking scenery before her.

A soft smile graced her lips as she took in the beauty around her. It was a familiar feeling, one she had experienced all those years ago as a little girl when she first saw that painting of the Forever Fall forest.

As she continued to stare at the landscape, Pyrrha felt a deep sense of peace. She wished she could have captured this moment on canvas, immortalizing the vibrant hues and serene atmosphere. The thought brought a bittersweet ache to her heart. How she longed to have spent her days creating art, sharing the beauty she saw with the world. It was a dream she had never allowed herself to pursue, but in this moment, it felt almost real.

Pyrrha leaned back against the tree, her body growing weaker but her spirit soaring. She let the tranquility of the forest wash over her, filling her with a profound sense of fulfillment. She had fought hard and lived a life of courage and sacrifice, but here, in the heart of the Forever Fall, she found a piece of herself she had long forgotten.

With a final, contented sigh, Pyrrha closed her eyes, her smile lingering as she drifted away. She imagined her soul melding with the forest, becoming one with the place she had always loved. In her final moments, she found peace, knowing that in some small way, she had become part of the beauty she had always longed to create.

[ruh--roh-raggy]

To Be Human (Monster! William Afton x Fem! Reader Beauty and The Beast AU) - Part I

Hello hello! First and foremost I would like to wish a huge belated Happy Birthday to my dear friend @yellowbunnydreams this whole AU is dedicated to her 💜💜💜 If you like princesses and castles and ball gowns and Will being a giant fucking monster definitely give this a read, I think this story is going to be very fun! If you would like to be added to the tag list please let me know!

WARNINGS: Mostly plot/set up, Will's kind of a dick, kidnapping I guess but not really, it's a Beauty and The Beast AU there's going to be some underlying themes of Stockholm syndrome if you squint. Not proofread, sorry for any grammar and spelling mistakes!

You can find my Masterlist here!

Word Count: 2,849

Part II (TBA)

You squeezed your legs harder against your horse’s sides, promoting him to run as fast as he possibly could. Tears sting your eyes as you race through the forest, sharp branches snapping at your face, your haste not allowing you time to care about watching out for them. The heavy gallop against the damp, muddy earth, quickly turned into loud, clattering hooves that fell against the cobbled path that formed at the opening of the tree line. The dark castle twisted up into the black sky, its gnarled, jagged appearance not much different than the branches that tangled the perimeter of the clearing. Your body instinctively jolted as a loud clap of thunder rang out across the courtyard, a crack of lightning illuminating the night. You found a small spot of shelter to tie up your horse, pulling the hood of your cloak as far forward as an attempt to stop the rain from pelting you in the face. You were already soaked to the bone, your dress clung to your body, your hair fell in long stringy tendrils across your face. You hurried up to the large castle doors, having to throw your full weight against it in order to get it to move. The creak that came from the ancient hinges was nearly deafening as it echoed through the grand foyer inside. “Father!” You call into the pitch black room, barely being able to make out the shape of the grand white marble staircase that took up a large portion of the space. You hurried inside, pushing the door shut behind you with a strangled groan. You knew what you were doing was dangerous, being so careless left you with a major possibility of losing your life. Your father had been taken captive by the tyrannical monarch who resided in this palace. “Please, answer me! Where are you!” You continued to call.

At this point you didn't care about what could happen to you, you were more concerned about what had happened to him. You raced up the stairs, nearly slipping in the water that streamed off your body, leaving small puddles in your wake. You continued to call out for him as you ran through the halls, your voice echoing off the grand arched ceilings. You hear someone shout your name from deeper inside, your head snapping in the direction of a door you hadn’t noticed. You ripped it open to reveal a winding stone spiral staircase that seemed to lead up impossibly higher into the castle. The heavy wrought iron handle slammed against the wooden barrier, the loud bang echoing through the halls. You could hear thunderous footsteps hurrying in your direction, someone was coming. You hurried in the direction of your father's voice, your hands wrapping around the thick metal bars as you saw a cell with a single candle inside. He calls your name again, this time in a soft harsh whisper. “What are you going here? Leave before he finds you.” His eyes darted down the stairs. “My darling girl, I love you too much to have you resolved to a fate like this. Leave me, take care of yourself.”

“I'm not leaving here without you.” Your voice trembles as you speak.

“You have to, if he catches you I'm not sure either of us will survive.” He explains quickly. “Go.”

“So, this is your insolent little brat.” A voice growls from the darkness.

“Your Highness she came-”

“I don't believe I ordered you to speak, farmer!” The voice snarls. “I thought I was being generous, allowing you to pay off your debt for stealing from my prized garden. Now you're responsible for another trespasser.”

“I'm here to take his place.” You step in front of your father, blocking him from the Monarch's view.

“Absolutely not-”

“This is your last warning farmer, step out of line again and it'll be your head.” He snaps. “Now, as for you.” You could feel him sizing you up despite the fact you couldn't see him. “You want to take his place, hm?” Your eyes widened as he stepped into the dim light. You scramble back, his monstrously tall form too close to you. A white linen shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders, thick, light brown fur streaked with grey flowed out of its deeply plunging neck. His fingers were tipped with sharp, black claws, fur matching his chest seeming to cover every exposed area of skin. Long ears swooped towards the back of his head, tied at the nape of his neck like a ponytail. The soft rounded muzzle of a rabbit was a stark contrast to the intimidating energy that rolled off of him in waves. Darkly lined silver eyes studied your much smaller form from his towering advantage. “Your father promised me servitude for the rest of his pitiful life just so I wouldn't take it away from him, is that something you're willing to give up?” His eyes narrowed, you swore you caught the faintest sight of sharp canines situated behind his squishy nose.

“If it means you'll let him go, then yes. I'd do anything.” You make your best attempt at sounding strong, you could see from the sneer that stretched across the creature's face that it wasn't working. He scans over your shaking form, your hands balled into tight fists at your side.

“You're free to go, farmer.” He quickly takes the heavy wrought iron keys from his very pocket and tossed them at you. You yelp at the sudden action, stepping to the side and letting them whizz past you and clatter to the floor. “It’ll be nice to have a new pet around for a change.” He spits before turning in his heels and disappearing into the darkness. The moment he was out of sight you scrambled for the keys, slotting them into the lock and ripping the door open. Your father crushes you in a hug, cradling your head against his chest as you break down into tears.

“I'm sorry, you got into this mess because of me and I am so sorry.” His voice cracks as he attempts to comfort you. “I'll bring others, we’ll get you out of here, you just need to buy yourself some time.”

“I'll be okay.” You sniff, wiping harshly at your eyes. “You just focus on getting out of here and back to town, but do not come back with the others.” You lower the volume of your voice, attempting to check around for the beast that lurked effortlessly amongst the shadows. “I will find a way to get myself out of here. It's too dangerous for anyone to come save me.”

“I'm not going to leave you here with that monster.”

“You don't have a choice.” Hearing you say this out loud, your father knew you were right. “If we disobey him, he would kill us both before we even had a chance to argue. Now come, I brought Etienne, he should have enough strength to get you to the next village from here.” You tried your best to remember the way you had come, winding up getting stuck at a few dead ends before finally stumbling into the massive foyer once more. You both looked around, the beast was nowhere in sight.

“Come, if we hurry we can get out before he-”

“Now, now.” Your blood ran ice cold at the sound of the voice. “You've both made it so far, I'd hate to have to take drastic measures.” Your breath caught in your throat as he dragged a long claw across your neck, pausing over your pulse. “Leave this place and never come back. If you do, I'll kill her and make sure you're not around long enough to tell about it.”

“Go.” You locked eyes with him, both of you understanding the severity of the situation in an instant. You stood deathly still as you watched your father slowly descend the stairs and slip out into the storm.

“Such a shame.” His claw leaves your throat, his hand harshly squishing your face. “You really are a pretty little thing. Now, you're going to be stuck here, withering away until you're nothing but an old crone.” He chuckles as he pushes your face away with his thumb. “Pathetic.”

“What are… what are you going to do to me?” You stutter.

“There's a lack of good company in this castle.” Your eyes trained straight ahead as you listened to him pad slowly behind you. “Your job is to sit there and to not get yourself into any more trouble.” He says sternly. “When I've determined whether or not you'll be of any use to me I’ll give you a more specific set of tasks.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I'll kill you.” Tears welled up in your eyes at the thought. You stared at the door, a million thoughts racing through your head. ‘Maybe if I ran I would be able to get enough of a head start to make it out.’ You jolted as a warm, soft hand wrapped around your wrist. “I wouldn't act on whatever idea is rattling around in that head of yours.” His lips pulled back into a snarl, now giving you a much clearer view of the sharp canines that filled his mouth. “The more you struggle and resist the harder this is going to be for you.”

“So you're just going to keep me as your prisoner until I die alone in that cell?” You spit at him.

“Oh, that all depends on you, my dear.” A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, sending a shiver down your spine. “If I hadn't caught your father stealing from my prized garden with his filthy hands neither of us would be in this mess, now would we?” He grabs you harshly by your shoulder, dragging you up the hallways behind him. “If you want to take the place of a thief you are to be treated like a thief. You can either behave and accept the consequences and make your time here much easier on yourself or you can scream and cry and carry on like I'm expecting you to do. But trust me sweetheart, I am not a very patient man, it would do you well to be in your best behavior if you want to continue to have any hope of ever getting out of here alive, do I make myself clear?” You're roughly shoved to a stop, your shivering form now standing in front of the same dimly lit prison cell that had previously held your father. You stumble slightly as he shoves you inside, the door slamming loudly behind you.

“I'll bring you a meal in the morning, until then I don't want to hear a sound out of you.” He gives you a warning look before slinking into the darkness. You stood in silence, the only sound came from your shaky breath bouncing off the walls. The slow squeak of the hinges closing on the door below signaled that you were left alone. You took a few steps backwards, your shoulders bumping into the wall before you slowly slid to a sitting position. A steady drip of water splattered against the floor overhead, the soft squeaking of the rats that poked around curiously just outside of your cell made your skin crawl. You were in a complete state of shock. Just this morning you were harvesting berries from the garden to make preserves for the market in town, now you weren't sure if you would ever see the light of day again. What felt like days had passed when in reality it had only been a couple of hours. You huddled into the back corner of your cell as you heard the door open once more. You perked up at the sound of two voices you didn't recognize bickering from the stairwell below.

“I cannot believe he would do something so… so… revolting! To lock anyone away up in this old tower, especially a lady-”

“Sunny, you're acting like His Royal Highness is some sort of lap dog. Just be happy she’s still alive. The last time someone stole from his garden it didn't end up nearly as pretty.” Two tall figures stepped into view, the hallway too bright for you to make out any defining features. “oh, look at her, the poor thing is terrified.” The female voice of the pair coos.

“Honestly,” her male counterpart snaps, “for a king he has absolutely no manners!” A heavy key is slotted into the lock, the door quickly opened as one of the figures steps inside. Long white sleeves billow down his stick thin arms, a red velvet vest embroidered in gold thread molded perfectly to his torso, a pair of striped pants in matching colors ballooned at his ankle. Golden points whirred around your saviors face, a permanent smile carved into the features of what you were assuming was a mask. “My dear girl, are you alright?” He cautiously offers his hand to you, not wanting to startle you by moving too quickly.

“Who-” your brow furrowed as the second figure stepped into the light. You're met with the sight of a long snout tipped with a shiny black nose, her long, multi-colored hair tied into a long braid down the middle of her back. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sundrop,” the jester smiles warmly at you. “And this is Roxanne.” He motions to the wolf behind him. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, what might your name be? Our lovely little captive.” He helps you to your feet, Roxanne keeping her distance from you as you mumble out your name in response to Sundrop’s question.

“You do know you're going to get in a lot of trouble if you take her out of here, His Majesty is not going to be pleased.” Roxanne shoots Sundrop a warning expression.

“And when did you become so uptight? You're really going to let her freeze up here just because he's having a bad night?” He argued with her.

She sighs, shaking her head in response. “No, no that wouldn't be right.” She picks up the candle, holding it out in front of her to light your path. “Let’s bring her to Moon, he’ll have a better chance of keeping her hidden until you can figure out a plan to explain yourself.” You found yourself tucked safely in between the two of them, both of them surveying every darkened hallway and slightly ajar door as they led you through the empty castle halls. You eventually came to a stop in front of a wooden door that looks no different than the other hundred you had already passed. Roxanne reaches out, softly tapping against the barrier with one of her claws. There was a loud crash, followed by some muffled cursing as whoever was inside made their way over.

“Roxanne, I thought I specifically told Sun-”

“I know you're busy, but this is urgent. Your brother,” she shoots an accusatory look towards Sundrop, “has decided to get himself directly involved in the King’s affairs.” There was a tense silence as Sundrop stared back at whoever was on the other side of the door, still blocked from your view.

“You can't be serious.” The voice sighs before letting out a small sound of distress. “What was it this time? Knocked over one of the busts in the hall? Trying to get back at him for calling you unfunny-”

“That has nothing to do with it and you know-”

“Gentlemen!” Roxanne cuts off the argument before it has much of a chance to get started. “You can fight later, it's only a matter of time before he figures out that she's left her cell.” The hidden figure clambered into the hall, paling when he saw you standing alongside the others.

“You took one of his prisoners?” He whispers harshly in Sundrop’s face.

“I am not just going to leave a poor young woman up there to freeze to death. I will do whatever the King asks of me but I will not let him torment an innocent bystander.” He instantly rebuttals. “He’ll come around, I just need to warm him up to the idea.”

“Or he'll dismantle you the moment he gets his paws on you.” His brother scoffs.

“Moon, you know as well as I do, what that man needs is a companion. He's spent so long locked up in this god forsaken castle for so long that all he has left is us.” Moondrop’s gaze drifts over to you, his expression softening as he studies your terrified features.

“You are to go smooth this over at once. I'll keep her here with me in the meantime.” Sundrop thanks his brother excitedly, Moon pressing a comforting hand in between your shoulders as he guides you through the door. “Make sure he understands that this was your doing and not hers.” Moon warns before hurrying you inside, leaving your fate entirely in the hands of these three strangers you had just met.

Tag List: @yellowbunnydreams @zoey5252 @loudchaosking @weirdoartist21 @residentevilbeast @lokanda @emmbny @yukkkiki @dij-ology @maria-moll (if I missed you or you would like to be added please let me know!)

[yes-i-write-fanfiction]

Hey, remember that ask about humans are cute au with the kidnapped baby, can you do it for the autobots please. Also, I have a feeling that soundwave kidnapped the baby from the autobots.🤭

Raoul's sister was going to kill him. Slowly and painfully.

Now look, that sounded bad but honestly? He deserves it, he really does. Because what kind of fucking idiot loses a baby!?

This idiot, that's who.

Now, the day had started out great. Raoul and his little niece, Clara, had been strolling around town. Well, he'd been strolling, she'd been in the stroller that he had been pushing. Anyway, semantics. It had been sunny outside, the sky littered with small, fluffy white clouds that drifted on by in the gentle breeze. An ideal day day for taking your baby niece for a walk. Raoul had practically been on his knees, asking, no, begging his sister to allow him to take Clara out on a walk.

Please please pleaseeeee, it will be their first uncle/niece outing and will be a great memory! Not to mention that Clara barely knows him. They never hang out! How is he supposed to be the super fun awesome uncle he's meant to be if they never hang out?

His sister, either tired of his pleading or deciding that it was a great idea, finally gave him the okay, trusting that at the end of the day her brother would bring back her daughter. Neat! Raoul could totally do that!

He shouldn't have jinxed it.

Like Raoul said, the day started out great! Clara had been a real peach all day, happy as a baby could possibly be. Really, she was an angel. Didn't get fussy even once, not even when a truck blared its horn while passing by or when old ladies stopped to coo and fawn over her. She had taken it all like an absolute champ. One of the ladies had even allowed her to pet her dog! Kids love dogs! Great. Fantastic! Clara had been so happy. Raoul's sister would love to hear about it once she was done strangling him.

So far so good.

They had then gone to the park to watch the ducks. Another great hit, as Clara had clapped her hands and made some happy sounding gurgles. Raoul had even had the foresight to bring some bread to feed them, allowing them to get a closer look. One duck had practically taken the bread straight out of his hand, something which had made Clara squeal with glee. Man, Raoul had been so proud, feeling like the Best Uncle in the World.

After all that excitement, Clara grew drowsy and the Best Uncle in the World decided that it was now time for a nap.

Taking a seat at a bench that was conveniently placed in the shade of a tree, Raoul had tucked his niece in. She fell asleep after just a couple of minutes of him softly rocking the stroller. Awesome kid, really.

Now, here's where he messed up.

You see, Raoul may have fallen asleep. Just for a minute, he swears! He hadn't meant to, it just... happened. One second he was flashing a smile at a group of girls passing by and the next he was startling awake with a loud, snort.

He had looked around, mind still fuzzy from sleep and eyes bleary. He smacked his lips. Stretched. Checked the stroller. Yawned. Scratched his neck- Wait. Raoul turned his head so fast that it gave him whiplash.

The fucking stroller was gone.

Jumping to his feet and spun around in circles, Raoul desperately looked for the yellow stroller and his niece, hoping that maybe it had just rolled away on its own. The ground was flat but it was still a possibility in his mind.

Nothing. Zero. Nada. Zilch. It was just Raoul and a couple of waddling ducks. And unless ducks were organized kidnappers, they were just as confused as he was.

Now, Raoul would have liked to say that he reacted calmly and with grace. That he had immediately gone to the nearest police station and asked for help, organized a search party. Maybe found a phone booth and explained the situation to a 911 operator. That would have been the smart choice.

Raoul had never claimed to be a smart man.

What he did instead was spend about half an hour, running around the park like a headless chicken, screaming his niece's name while checking the bushes, searching the trash cans, even climbing trees just in case a bird had taken her. Strangers passing by had given him odd looks, with mothers telling their children not to stare at the strange man.

Not his proudest moment.

30 minutes later and still no Clara, Raoul finally decided that he needed help. And who you gonna call when you lose your niece in the park?

Your best friend of course.

Tracks arrived only minutes later with several autobots in tow. Raoul rushed towards him and the moment Tracks transformed into root mode, he slung his arms around his friend's leg.

"You gotta help me, Tracks! I can't find her anywhere!" he cried out, practically hysterical. "Someone took her and I am the Worst Uncle in the World for letting it happen!"

Feeling sympathetic, Tracks gently patted Raoul's shoulder and flashed him a reassuring smile. "It's going to be alright, pal. If someone really did take her then we'll find them real quick. She'll be back before you can say 'Vector Sigma!'"

For a moment, Raoul's felt hope surge in his heart. Then Bluestreak had to open his stupid mouth.

"Uh, guys? You might wanna look at this." The autobots and Raoul gathered next to Bluestreak who pointed at a footprint on the ground. A very big footprint. Raoul made a noise halfway between a squeak and a scream. "Unless we're suddenly in the business of stealing babies, I think we've got a decepticon problem on our servos."

"Bluestreak, shut up."

Raoul would have agreed with whoever said that but he was too busy imagining for what nefarious purpose the decepticons would kidnap an innocent baby. Ohhhh, his poor niece!

Meanwhile, back at the Nemesis;

"We should paint the nursery red. Like true decepticon optics!"

"You fool, that's the color of human blood! Not to mention the autobot symbol. Do you want them to grow up to be an autobot sympathizer?"

"Then let's go with purple!"

"The walls are already purple, idiot!"

"A different shade then! How about a softer lavender?"

"Booooring! What about orange?"

"Like the Ark? Pfft, fat chance!"

"I still say we paint it green."

"No, blue! Then we can paint little clouds too!"

Soundwave shook his head at the bickering between his fellow decepticons before once again focusing on the infant in his arms. Waving one big finger in front of her face, he felt his spark warm up with joy as she laughed and reached out to grab him. Such a fierce little child. She would fit right in with the decepticons.

[feyclowns]

Are Cosmo and Jorgen related in your AU? I've seen people say that they're distant relatives in canon (I think)

sure are! in cosmo rules [S7/E33] (iirc) it's stated cosmo and jorgen are cousins. now in my au cosmo and jorgen are a liiiiittle more distantly related..

but they still are. sometime i'll make a nice tidy family tree. but this'll do for now. nana von strangle's son married a carina cosma, and took her name (as surnames are generally matrilineal especially in high-end fairy culture)

athena didn't marry a fairy with close fey lineage so their daughter, euphemia (mama cosma) ended up as a larger-than-average fairy, and euphemia married into a low class family so by the time cosmo and ezra came around you wouldn't know they were related to the von strangles at all unless you were REEEEEALLY into the failed end of the cosma lineage

[its-in-the-woods]

Down the Rabbit Hole Chapter 15

Chapter one here, two here, three here, four here , five here, six here, seven here, eight here,nine here, ten here, eleven here , twelve here , thirthen here, fourteen here

master list

Pairing: Walton Goggins x You

Rating/Warning:  As always minor get out. Like why are you even here leave. Alcohol use, pool sex, exhibitionism if you squint, anal play, teasing, edging, fluff, cuteness, sub/dom themes, older man/younger women, DP kinda, overstimulation, fingering, pnv,

Synopsis: Updated synopsis, Sunday comes in and it's time to try something new.

Note: These are going to be spaced out going further as I have a fallout AU I want to start releasing. But these will still be coming out every 2-3 days <3  Thank you for all the love and support it's greatly appreciated!Keep reading

*Plot will be coming after this.. maybe.. kind of.. sort a.. there will always be fluff and some angst I got ideas. *

Walton is diving into the pool like the two of you are not stark naked in the backyard. There are fences, hedges, and trees that aptly cover you both but it still makes you feel a little unsettled. Pushing that out of your mind as you sip on a mimosa that you’d asked for, little liquid courage never hurt anyone. You take a breath and let yourself go under the water, the cool water is a balm against the LA heat. You sit under there for a moment. The only thing you could hear was the water and the steady beat of your heart. Opening your eyes you see Walton gracefully swimming by, you push yourself off the bottom of the pool and follow him down to the end. You pop up for a breath and let your tiptoes touch the bottom as you wade over to him. He dives under the water, feeling him wrap himself around your middle pushing you up and out of the water with a squeak. You flop back into the water, surfacing with a gasp, Walton laughing in the background.

“You’re such an ass,” You grumble and swim back to him. He grins and pulls you against him.

“Like you won’t have done the same to me,” He chides, blowing raspberries on your shoulder. You splash water at him, which gets you dunked again. 

He pulls you out and you glare at him before you push on his shoulder so he is also submerged. A mad stream of bubbles breaks the surface, as the two of you wipe water off your faces. You come over and kiss him.

“You were saying?” You can’t help but tease him, he grins, kissing you more. The water makes you lighter and you easily wrap your legs around his hips. 

He groans, turning so you are deeper in the water and he can pin you against the side of the pool. Lips start to trail along your neck, down over your shoulder to your collarbone. The fact he likes that spot so much, he nips there and you groan. A near Pavlovian response has your head tipping back and hips rolling as he holds you in place. You can feel his reaction to that movement, and do it again. He fumbles a little, but you wrap your arms around his neck leaving your own trail of kisses. You make sure to not leave any marks on his skin, despite wanting to. His hands find your face and you are kissing him deeply. You lick at his lips, as he sucks yours into his mouth, the taste of mimosas drifting in. The kissing has sparked the heat in your stomach, and it’s getting hard to ignore the fact that he is getting hard beneath you. Walton ruts up against you, dragging his swollen cock through your folds. You whine in the back of your throat as he pushes his tongue in. His rubbing against you is not enough in the water. 

“So needy this morning,” He grins as he continues to move slow enough that you are barely getting any sensation from it. 

You bite your lips, trying not to come back with a sassy remark, trying to riggle down onto him. Unable to let go of his neck as you’d risk slipping completely off of him. One of his hands slips down between the two of you, and his fingers easily find your opening, as he pushes himself inside you. A strangled cuss comes out as he stills, you want him to move so bad but he won’t. His eyelids flickered closed as he steadied himself, the stretch making you clamp down around him involuntarily. His finger starts to move against your bud, it’s sensitive and at the same time, the water makes it almost not enough. You keen, burying your face into his neck as you do your damnedest not to beg him. 

He stills and you are already on the edge, “Don’t stop,” You push out, pouting a little when he doesn’t do what you ask. 

“What if I want to stay like this?” He murmurs against your ear. “Just have you full of me for the whole day.”

You can feel your face going red, your cunt fluttering around him at just the thought of him keeping you full all day. His hips stutter a bit at the sensation, knowing that you are both on the edge. A game of chicken is being had, and you aren’t sure if you will win this time. Licking your lips you grab his face and pull him hard against your mouth. You might be pinned but that did stop you from moving your hips as much as you could. His hands grabbing your hips, he’s holding on so tight it’s verging on being painful. Trying to stop you from moving by pulling away, but you are following him, his mouth is gone so you are licking across his jaw down his neck. Feeling his resolve start to crumble as you taste his skin, a groan leaving his lips. 

“God, damn.” He cusses and you grin back at him. You’re back against the side of the pool and he’s bitten against your collarbone. You turn to let out a groan as he finally starts to move, eyes rolling as he pumps into you. The sound of the water is ridiculous, but you don’t care who hears you now, just that he is moving. Hands gripped onto his back, digging in as your head tips back as you enjoy the ride. 

Then he’s moving away, “No,” You grumble, you feel him leave as you slip off of him. 

“Got to learn,” Walton grins, kissing you as you mumble under your breath. “You don’t get to make the choices here.”

Wrinkling your nose you huff, “But -” His fingers touch your lips, eyebrows up. 

“Another rule, so to speak,” He licks his lips watching you squirm under his gaze. “I decided when and if you are allowed to come.” 

The way he says the last word makes you shiver, and nod your head. 

“Use your words,” He whispered, fingers running over the mark on your collarbone. 

“I understand,” You say quietly, eyes focused on the water droplets running over his shoulder. “I may not like it though.”

He chuckles, his hands find your hips looking down at you, “Well, I am pretty sure we can come up with ways for you to listen.”

You swallow remembering how red your ass still was this morning, “I will do my best,”

His hand reaches and rubs over your ass, damn man could read thoughts. “I am sure you will. For now, why don’t we get out of this pool.” 

You do as he asks, floating to the end and walking out. You get to the top and watch him come out of the water. The droplets flowing over his tanned body has your mouth dry, and the way he moved up towards you left your heart pounding. As he came right up to you, his eyes flowing over you much the same as yours had looked at him. 

“Like something you see?” Walton drawled, his big hands running up your ass to rest against your lower back. 

“Might get myself in trouble if I say anything,” You lick your lips, as you lean against his hand. 

“Better get us inside then,” He grins, gently pushing you towards the door.

***

You’re laid out on the bed face down, as Walton massages something into your muscles. His hands work down over your shoulders, moving along your spine. Making you feel like a melted stick of butter. As much as you had enjoyed the teasing this was nice. The man loved to take care of you, he had paid extra attention to the marks around your wrists and neck. 

It had started with you just sitting on the edge of the bed as he ran his hands over your hands up your arms, over your elbows, and around your shoulders. Then he had you lay back moving to work on your scalp, down along your neck over your shoulders. His thumb’s playing with the marks on your collarbone. He shuffled you so that your head rested on his lap, with a promise you won’t try anything. Hands run down across your breast, purposefully avoiding your nipples. He goes down across your stomach over your ribs, then along your hips before going back up in the same direction. 

You flip over when he asks, and now he has gone down your legs completely ignoring your ass. It does feel good, his hands are strong and easily kneading into each knot and strained muscle that covers your legs. Then he pushes your legs open, you suck at your cheek trying not to make your movements too obvious. His finger moves up and tracing along the different lines of bruises that now mark your butt. He has straddled your thighs, the heat of his body, adding to your heat. 

He’s stopped touching you before his fingers come back colder. One hand spreads open your cheeks, the other finger with some kind of cool gel pushed at your ass. You can’t help yourself moving yourself up on your elbows. It’s a strange but not unwelcome feeling, you’d never really thought of playing with yourself there. At the same time, you could feel how it made you wet. Sucking your lips into your mouth and letting out a little whimper as one of his fingers slips inside. 

“That okay, beautiful?” Walton asks, his voice drops and it makes your spine tingle. 

“Umm.” You swallow, trying to relax against the intrusion. “Just, ahh, never tried this before.”

“Try to relax and breathe, if it’s too much say so,” He chuffed, the desire evident in his voice.

You feel the cold gel again and his finger starts to move in and out slowly. Then his other finger is rubbing against your swollen pussy. The duel feeling makes your mouth fall open, it’s electric. You can’t help but start to push back against his fingers. The finger in your ass pops out before you feel two start to push in. 

“Oh fuck,” You whimper at the feeling, it feels good but also the stretch burns some. The two sensations paralleled themselves like fire and ice. 

His fingers that rub at your folds slip inside, the sensation of both holes being full is so much. You whimper fists clenches are you try not to beg him to just fuck you like this. Body vibrated at the feeling, who knew you were into anal play. He starts to move his fingers in opposite directions, one going in  and one going out. 

A stream of words is coming out of you as he starts to fuck both of your holes. Your eyes roll back as your head falls forward. It was like a small fire had been ignited and it was burning you up from the inside. Your body moving on its own, leaning against the pressure. 

“Holy shit, that feels good,” You gasp out, hands scrambling to clench into the sheet as he starts to move quicker. 

“Mmmhm, so tight,” He growls lips kissing across your ass, licking at the bruises there. 

As soon as it started it stopped, you let out a gasp rolling to look back at him. A shit-eating grin on his face as he uses a towel to clean his fingers. 

“But,” You pout, jaw clenching as he comes over to kiss you, “That is evil and you know it.”

He chuckles, leaning in to hold your face and kiss you deeply, “Patience. I promise it will be worth it.”

“My pussy would disagree,” You huff, trying not to throw a fit over the fact that both of your holes were now throbbing. Not to mention there was no doubt stuff leaking out of you, and not the stuff you wanted either. You go to move and Walton is stopping you, it takes everything in you not to glare at him.

“On all fours,” He clicks his tongue, you hesitate but do it anyway. Partially hating how easily you do what he asks, but you also hoping he’d give you the release you were close to begging for. 

Once in position, you hear the man rustling through the drawer, he had all sorts of stuff stashed in the bedroom. More gel went over your asshole, making you hiss at how cold it was against you. Then something colder. You freeze for a moment, unsure exactly what is going to happen. Walton’s hand rubbed against your lower back, words of praise falling out as he slowly pushed the object inside. You let out a small gasp as it pops in, you can feel the tapered end resting against the outside of your hole. You feel weirdly full and turned on at the same time. 

“Mmm, you took that so well,” He whispered, kissing one of your buttcheeks. “Think you can move around with it in.”

Shifting a bit, it is starkly clear how much you can feel it inside you. The heavy cold weight of the toy pushing against your walls. As you slowly slide yourself off. You unintentionally clench around it which has you letting out a small gasp. 

“Oh that, umm, that is different,” You stand up and wobble a bit, your body is telling you to push it out, but the way you can feel slick between your legs is saying otherwise.  

Walton holds out his hand, and you take it, giving him a quick squeeze, as you try and let your body relax. Standing makes the feeling more obvious, your skin so sensitive to every touch. 

You follow him out of the room, still feeling completely off balance. Your brain is only able to focus on the sensation that is sitting between your legs. He pulls out a chair and you stare at it. The thought of sitting is far from your mind.

“I am not going to be able to sit down,” You swallow, you are sure you are moving like a duck at this point.

“You can stand, whatever is comfortable,” Walton states, the mischievousness in his eyes making your breath hitch.

You move back and forth from your heels to your toes. Trying to find a spot that is comfortable, your feet stick to tile, would it be worse to sit? Your lips are going to be raw by the end of this. Moving some more you can see Walton puttering about the kitchen. The man was never not moving, something you loved about him. Everything he did looked easy, a practice movements he’d done hundreds of times. 

Sweat has broken out on your forehead, you take a few more breaths and work on sitting. You carefully lower yourself down, surprised that it’s somewhat comfortable. It is actually better than standing, the weight not as heavy. Walton comes over and plies you with another drink, which makes eating the quesadillas easier. You’ve almost forgotten about the plug as you relax against the seat. The food is good, you hadn’t realized how hungry you are. 

“Better?” He asks, watching you finish off your food. You can’t help the way your ears burn, as you take a sip of the drink. 

“It’s very sensitive,” You swallow, shifting slightly. It moves and you let out a groan as the pressure pushes inside you. Your hands grab at the table for something to grip on.  “Oh, fuck,” You keen leaning forward slightly to take the pressure off, somehow trying not to look as awkward as you feel. 

“We got a couple of options,” Walton says, rubbing at your back, his warm hands stark against the coolness of your skin. “We can go back to our bedroom, or we can go outside and see how long you can wait.”

You ponder this for a moment, your body tense line of flesh, the sensation of his hand on your skin making your brain foggy. You needed to do something, but going back outside did not sound appealing. Moving again, the plug moves and you’re moving onto your feet. 

“I think bedroom,” You gasp out, brain short-circuiting at the movement, the sensation making your skin tingle. 

Walton has you up and moving, everything feels like too much and not enough. He has you back onto the bed, on all fours. His hands rubbed over your back, then down over your ass. You lean into the touch, your body begging for more stimulation. The plug is pushed on and you gasp, surprising yourself as you push back against it. 

“Please, I can’t wait anymore, please,” Words tumbling out, you’d do just about anything to be able to come

He doesn’t reply, instead working the plug in and out. Another set of fingers slides inside your cunt. 

“Oh fuck, so full,” You gasp body holding still as you adjust to the feeling. 

Walton waits until you start moving against him, and then he moves the plug and fingers. Your whole body is arching into it, sparking as you feel that heat to build. It never had left, just keeping you on edge, just under the surface. 

“Please,” Your voice wrecked as you fuck back onto his fingers. But of course, he is moving his fingers away, “Ugh, no, please don’t stop.” 

You feel his cock push at your entrance, body going still. “Deep breathes, darling”

You can hear the need in his voice, almost as wrecked as you. He holds himself just inside you, hands on your hips, you guide yourself down with a gasp. Everything is so full and stretched and you are seeing stars. He holds you still, you can feel him vibrating against your ass. Rocking forward he slides out of you with a groan. Clear evidence that the sensation was affecting him too. 

You sink back down, and his hands dig into your hips. “Just fuck me already,” You cry out, 'cause you are going to explode if he doesn’t start moving. 

His rhythm is sloppy as he starts to move in and out of you, you can barely move, head falling onto the bed pushing back against him. Your eyes roll, stars shooting behind your eyelids. You can feel how close you are, you just want to touch your clit. It’s throbbing and you know your not suppose to but fuck this sensation is driving you insane. 

“Please,” You whisper, the sounds of your body moving together rattling something. 

He slows down, and you want to yell at him. Then one hand is leaving your hip as his pace steadies. Purposefully going slow hands rubbing over the skin of your stomach, his mouth leaning down to kiss along your spine. The slowness has made the heat build further, as his hand moves down over your mound and then down between your fold. The way he opens you has you close to collapsing his fingers tapping on your clit. 

“Oh you fucker,” You bite out, and if you weren’t a melted puddle you’d be turning around on his teasing ass. 

He leans over his mouth right by your ear, “You want to come?”

You groan, just the word sending spirals down through you. “Yes, I want to come.”

“You didn’t say please,” He teases, his thrust picking up the pace, fingers rubbing all around your clit but not touching your clit. 

Inwardly screaming, you lick at your lips trying to drag out the words that aren’t laced with sass. “Please,” You can barely say it. “Please, let me come, Walt,”

His hips stutter at his name, and you can’t help the small smile at that, “Walton, please. I am so close. Please let me come.”

You can feel him coming close to breaking, his finger falters before starting to work at you the way he knows you like it. You can’t help the noise coming out, your hands grabbing at the bed. You can feel everything so tight and full and pushing just right. The way he is rubbing at your clit is going to send you over. 

He’s pulling you against him, leaning down so you can feel his breath against your neck. “Come for me,” Your name covering his tongue. 

Something animal is pulled out of you as you cry out his name. Coming and shaking as he keeps fucking into you. It keeps moving his fingers against your clit and you’re trying to pull away but he isn’t letting you, hands keeping you where he wants. So over sensitive and overwhelmed. You are so close to calling it, but then you feel it start up again. You shutter as he brings you over the edge. His hips stutter as you squeeze around him, the plug pushing just the right way. The sensation keeps going and going, breath caught in your throat until you feel him coming inside you. He finally stops rubbing you and you fall onto the bed a sweaty mess as he keeps working inside you until he is finished. 

He slips out and comes crashing down beside you, you both a melted puddle on the bedcovers. You slide onto your side, your muscle aching, fluid leaking out of you. So blissed out you can barely think. Moving over you lay your head on his chest. His heart is pounding underneath you. You let out a breath, you can feel how sore and achy you’re going to be. A smile pulling at your mouth, the idea of feeling him for days after makes your heart twitch. 

“That was. Intense.” You mutter hand playing with the hair on his chest. 

Walton nods, eyes closed, and his breath has slowed down. His hand comes and rubs up along your shoulders before bringing you closer. 

“M’proud of you,” He whispers against your head. “Almost lost my cool when you let me put my fingers in you.” 

You feel your face flush, the weight of the plug still making your inside ache. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Walton chuckles, “First time? Is that in the column of doing again or ?”

“Hmmm,” You hum, pretending to think about it, “I think I’d do it again, it really enhances everything.”

“It sure does,” He relaxes, “Maybe, I will try it one day.”

***

Like it? Love it? need to reblog? Got a comment let me know! Your words keep me going. Thanks for coming along for the ride down the rabbit hole.

Chapter sixteen

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Naruto doesn't have enough women so I am making my own. Which has led me to the conclusion that Ootsutsuki Indra and his wife had seven daughters, and they're the ones who turned a family into a clan. Kishimoto never said these women didn't exist so I even have plausible canon-ness.

What is important to remember is that I have Indra's first daughter, Asuka, as a weaponsmith. And Ashura is a pacifist– so why did he have the weapon he used to kill Indra? Where'd it come from?

Perhaps his eldest niece made him a sword for his safety because her father asked her to. :)) Perhaps if you skew the timeline just right, Asuka and Ashura grew up together, less uncle and niece and more older brother and younger sister. Perhaps the sword Ashura killed his brother with was made at Indra's request and by Asuka's hands. :)))

[miguel-owhora]

I'm honestly obsessed with your cult au?!?!??!? Keep it up oml. I love it when I'm some weird inhumane and 100% demonic cryptid and there goes my husband walking around my nest full of my brood and it's almost domestic in a fucked up kinda way, giving him food n stuff and allowing him to use fire to cook it because eh he's human I guess and when he gives birth I'll give him the healthiest one from the rest and I'll eat everything else because fuck it I'm cryptid eldritch monster for God's sake

☆ 🤯

miguel is, in the simplest of explanation, a very depraved and sadistic man. he's an egocentric and intelligent man who craves power, who hungers for control and will go to any limit to achieve it. when he learns of how powerful cult leaders are, he decides to become one, and isolates them from society.

and when he learns of the cryptid learning in the surrounding forest where his community lives, he doesn't fear it, not like they do. he studies it the way you study them, learning each other's patterns, motives, personality. miguel catches glimpses of powerful claws and gleaming eyes, of sharp horns and low huffs through the shadows, watching hiw the tallest of trees tremble as you pass.

but he doesn't fear you, and this interests you. and your interest only grows when miguel offers you the corpse of an infant. less than a week old, born with abnormalities, born imperfect - miguel has strangled it to death and offers you the corpse, the prey, in return for a truce. miguel watches, unafraid and instead in awe, as two large claws take hold of the infanct and slink back to the shadow.

miguel doesn't fear you. weekly he returns with prey; whether that be of his own community that failed to do as they were told, or people they snatched up. he offers you their corpses, slick with blood and still warm, and each day you protect them from outside threats.

miguel doesn't fear you, no, he craves you. and it's not long before he's stuffed on your cock, biting down on your shoulder to muffle his screams as your cocks - plural, now - pound into his pussy. and he begs for more when you inflate his belly with your cum, begs for your brood, for your children, for anything you're willing to give him.

and miguel changes the ideology. they don't worship any false god now - they worship you, and miguel is your most loyal and divine follower, the only person not to fear you whenever you make your rare appearance, tall and towering and beastly, looking up at you with loving eyes.

and miguel doesn't truly love, not properly. but he cares deeply for gabriella, the strongest of your brood, the only one to survive, the rest crushed by your powerful teeth, swallowed up like mice. he cares for gabriella because she's him and you, she is a mixture of you both, and miguel views her as a physical, divine symbol, something sacred, a proof, of your 'love' for each other.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 5

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 10.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), depictions of a panic attack, animal death Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You start to unravel some of the secrets hidden in Beacon Hill's other world, and Stiles manages to worm his way into discovering some of your own. 

A/N: this took a minute, so i hope the length makes up for it! comments and reblogs are love, and i am tinkerbell. also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Tag list: @eaterof-concrete

Your anger fizzled with every mile you drove. By the time you finished your third loop around the Preserve, it was just a light simmer of irritation. The void was quickly filled with a different emotion: curiosity. There was a little dread in there too, perhaps also a touch of nausea, but the concoction was still potent enough to distract you from your...whatever that was with Lydia. Now that you were alone, trees blurring together in a ribbon of yellowing-green through your dash, all you could think about was the fire Derek’s family died in. Well, that, and another fire that was always lurking somewhere in your mind, hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the chance to jump out and strangle your heart. 

Beacon Hills was a small town. A town where, until very recently, bad things hardly ever happened. What were the chances of two houses going up in flames four years apart? Of two houses burning down to the foundation in the blink of an eye? Of two homes becoming charred rubble and chilling memorials to the lives lost inside? As far as you knew, they were the only unnatural fires that’d occurred in Beacon Hills in the last century. 

It could all be a coincidence, of course. Nothing. Just a delusional, grief-driven conspiracy. It would be best if you accepted that now before you fell too far down this rabbit hole. It’d taken you two years to finally realize that the police were never going to figure out what really happened to your mom, and those two years had been filled with a series of devastating misdirections, hundreds of dashed hopes and unanswered prayers to a god you no longer believed in. You knew better than this. You did. You knew better than to hope. 

But…maybe. Maybe there was something there. If there was an elaborate plot afoot, you knew just the right conspiracy nut to turn to.

The last time you believed in magic, you were six. You had run the entire mile-and-a-half to Maggie’s dad’s store, hands bloody and cupped into a small nest. You had almost choked on your quiet, congested whimpers, but after a few minutes of blubbering, you’d finally managed to spit out a few words, “You know how to fix him, right? You know everything.” There had to be a spell, you’d thought, with all the wisdom of a first-grade education. There had to be some magic flower or special potion that could make everything better. 

You hadn’t noticed the look on Maggie’s face when you finally opened your fingers, but Maggie had to have been panicking once she saw exactly what needed to be fixed—cradled in your palms, was a tiny, twitching field mouse you’d found on your way home from school. His little chest had heaved so slowly as he laid limply in your hands, as if he’d already accepted his fate. You’d been so young then, too young to realize that Maggie was only nineteen and faked her confidence more often than she felt it. Nineteen seemed so old at six, and now it was only three years away. 

Maggie had known, of course, that the poor little guy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see nightfall, but she’d made the fatal mistake of looking into your big wet eyes: still so full of hope and belief in the impossible. Instead of telling you the truth, she’d just said, “I got this," and took the mouse to the backroom—where all the magic happened. You never ended up seeing the mouse again. You realized now that probably meant he died, but you appreciated Maggie letting you live in the land of make-believe for just a little while longer. 

But that was ten years ago. Today, you knew that Mags was only mortal and Willowbark couldn’t actually heal fatal rodent wounds—but you were still hoping, against all hopes, that Maggie actually had the answers this time. 

“Mags?” your brow crinkled as you searched for Maggie and her wild curls. Mags often got lost in the midst of all the chaos, just a small blip in a collection of odd, Victorian-esque relics. You could usually spot at least a glimpse of whatever loud color Maggie was sporting that day. The yellows and pinks were always stark against the dingy backdrop, but today all you could see from the front door was varying shades of sage, oxblood, and charcoal. “Maggie?”

A muffled cry sounded from the storeroom, “Back here.” The door to the room was slightly ajar, and the purple lighting from the mini-greenhouse inside spilled through the crack. It cast a mesmerizing strip of dayglow lavender over the dangly earrings and mood rings for sale next to the register. “Bring me the shears, will you? The pink ones by Giz.”

You dropped your backpack behind the glass counter and drifted towards the sounds of Gizmo’s trumpeting snores. The stretch for the pruning scissors was a bit precarious; the little prince was batting his paws at something in the depths of dreamland and had no presence of mind for your fragile skin. You snagged the shears with minimal carnage and ran your finger along the cool edge, staring at the gleaming surface, “You’re into all local history, right? Not just the made-up stuff?”

Maggie took the shears from your lax hands and squatted next to the potted yew tree on the floor. It was just starting to blossom, red berries dotted sparsely around the spiky leaves—ripe for whatever ridiculous offering Maggie had planned. Maggie blew a ringlet out of her face and fixed you with a stern frown, “My ancestors were witches, and Dragons absolutely did exist. Just look at ‘dinosaur’ fossils from the—”

“Do you know anything about the fire the Hale family died in?” you looked down at your hands so that you didn’t have to see Maggie’s reaction. 

You traced circles around a rosy stain on Maggie’s workbench, likely from ground flower petals or dripping pomegranate seeds, shoulders hunching towards your ears as you continued, “I mean, you’re around the same age as the older sister, right?” Laura. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name, and the hypocrisy was stifling. You hated when people tiptoed around death, when they used pretty euphemisms like that could make what actually happened any less brutal. Less evil. Less unfair. But there was no softening grief. Death. Murder. There was no candy coat sweet enough to cloak the taste of rotting—and yet, you still couldn’t say her name.

Maggie went still briefly and then continued clipping branches, ignoring or not noticing the couple of leaves stuck to her fuzzy sweater. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth and stared a burl in the wood underneath your fingers, “Why do you think?”

Sighing, Maggie spread her clippings across the maple worktop and picked at a few yellowing leaves, “Where is this coming from, babe? I mean, that was a long time ago. I’m almost thirty, you know—ancient by most standards.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Do you know anything or not?”

“No,” Maggie sounded genuine, but she kept her eyes on the red stains underneath her fingernails, “nothing more than what was on the news.”

The fact that Maggie didn’t make a quip or a stupid pun was even more telling than her refusal to look in your direction. You folded your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the doorframe, “Sure.”

“Are you okay, babe?” Maggie wiped the berry residue off on her skirt, and the long hem swished around her ankles as she crept towards you. Her hand was cautious when she placed it on your rigid shoulder, “You aren’t skipping your meds again, are—”

Your eyes flashed as you shook off Maggie’s light touch with a jerk of your shoulder, “Is it possible for me to have a single feeling without everyone jumping down my throat about my meds.”

“I just worry,” Maggie said softly, and she reached for you again, waiting for you to pull away. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear when you didn’t. Your limbs were still stiff, and your face was still stony, but you let Maggie grab your hand. It was slightly sweaty, probably from all the indoor-gardening, but there was some comfort in the circles she smoothed over your knuckles. “You know I’m a worrier. Comes with the conspiracy theorist in me.”

You looked down at your feet and dug your toes into the concrete floor, “And my mom’s dying wish—I know.”

A bit of hurt quivered in the corners of Maggie’s reassuring smile, even though she tried her best to hide it, “That’s not the reason I do it.”

Your entire frame slumped with guilt, “I know.” And you did; you did know. You made Maggie drive you to the library every weekend before you got your license, and in return Maggie stole about a dozen of your sweaters once she realized you were finally the same size—Mags wasn’t just your mom’s weird friend from the neighborhood; she was family. She taught you how to make pie crust and scones, and she always read ‘happily ever after’ in the lines of your palms when you needed something to smile about. Maggie did a million little things for you without any appreciation, and you tried to remember every single one as you sat on the floor in front of the ‘Local Culture’ shelf.

Your nose scrunched as you looked over the titles on the spines, searching for anything that sounded even remotely real. Maggie knelt next to you, patch-work skirt billowing around her knees, and watched your fingers drum against the floor. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie bumped your shoulder with her own, and you grunted a little response.

“Nothing you can help me with.” Evidently, you thought with only a bit of bitterness. 

Maggie didn’t say anything for a long time. You almost forgot she was there, and then her bracelets clacked together as she shifted. “Here,” Maggie pulled a thick journal out of the depths of her baggy cardigan and held it out with a complicated expression on her face—something halfway between a frown and a smile, “I think you’ll find this one particularly interesting.”

You looked down at the title and rubbed your thumb over the engraved font, “‘A History and Detailed Account of Beacon Hills Bloodlines’?” 

Maggie nodded and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, “Goes back all the way to the beginning—not literally, obviously. I don’t think they wanted to get into the whole ‘God vs. Big Bang’ debate, but it dates back to when the town was founded.”

“That’s…interesting, I guess,” you flipped through the pages and bit down on your tongue to squash the sneer curling across your lips. It was a nice gesture. You knew that—but what else were you supposed to do when the ‘History’ and ‘Detailed Account’ fell open to an artistic diagram of 'local werewolf packs’ genealogy lines. You were a little interested to see if the names were entirely fictional, or if the journal was an accurate record of Beacon Hill’s very own Werewolf Trials. Probably the first, you’d remember learning about extra hairy men and women being burned at the stake in social studies. 

Maggie huffed out a little laugh and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I know you won’t believe everything in there, but who knows,” she shrugged and held out a hand for you to grab onto, “maybe you’ll finally be enlightened.”

You took her hand and hummed, “While you’re feeling so generous and bad for me ‘cause I’m functionally an orphan, could I get some more of that wolfsbane gunk?” You batted your lashes over the edge of the leather cover and grinned your most adorable smile—the one that dusted off a rare view of your dimples, “It can be my birthday present.”

It was an obvious ploy, but Maggie just laughed and poked one of your dimples, “Your birthday is months away.”

You picked up the speed of your blinking, approaching butterfly-wing territory, and rocked onto your tiptoes, “An early birthday present is still a birthday present.” 

Mags watched you through narrowed eyes for a moment, “You don’t even believe in werewolves.”

You shrugged and smirked, “It works on humans too.” 

“Please, please don’t make me an accessory to murder.” Maggie gripped your shoulders and shook you a little, fighting a smile, “I would not fare well in prison. They limit your internet privileges there—no Wi-Fi, babe. No Wi-Fi. I would be completely alone with my thoughts.”

“The horror,” your eyes glittered with your grin, and for a sweet moment you forgot about the journal in your hands and all the questions it wouldn’t answer. “It’s not for me,” you admitted, grimacing as Maggie’s lips puckered. The pursing of her lips, the hollowing of her cheeks—that always came before a very long and arduous inquisition. Maggie could be relentless when she wanted to be. 

“And whom would you be giving such a precious gift to?” The thickness of her brows only magnified the suspicion in Maggie’s tapered expression, “A gift you called—what was it? ‘Useless’ and ‘stupid’ less than 24-hours ago?”  

“Just because I think it’s stupid, doesn’t mean it’s a bad gift for someone else. I thought the Sonic Chia Pet I gave you was stupid, and you loved it.” You knew you won when Maggie started walking away from you towards the storeroom. You still had no idea how Curio Killed the Cat stayed in business when Maggie handed out inventory like candy, but presently its troubling business model was a blessing in disguise.

“Don’t disparage him,” Maggie crooned over her shoulder, “it’s bad luck.”

“If everything is sacred, nothing is,” you sniped, doing your best Vulcan impression.

Maggie smiled brightly as she hopped over the counter, sticking out her tongue, “I don’t think everything is sacred—just all the things I like.”

Speaking of things Maggie liked—you tucked your first gift under your armpit and held out your hands, palms cupped together. Your mouth curved into a cheesy grin as you said, “Trick-or-Treat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but her puckish spark dwindled when she looked at the vile of wolfsbane. It was balanced between her thumb and forefinger, glass reflecting the light, and you felt a bit like you were accepting the One Ring and a quest you weren't prepared for. “Be careful, okay?” Maggie hesitated before dropping the vile into your waiting hands, “I know you love Buffy, but resurrection isn’t so easy off-screen.”

You were a little startled by the concern wrinkling the corners of Maggie’s eyes. She looked almost more worried now than she did when you asked her about the Hale fire. “Like I said,” you carefully eased the wolfsbane into your corduroy skirt, “it’s not for me.”

Maggie's eyes combed over your face, searching for something, and then she sighed, “Just…don’t let anyone drag you into something stupid. I don’t care how cute he is; no boy is worth the risk of ruining your gorgeous face. It’s your money-maker, babe.” 

There was a lot to unpack in those three sentences; you didn’t even know where to begin. There was, of course, the implication that you were going to join some kind of Scooby-Doo gang that dealt wolfsbane on the side. While the thought of going ghost hunting with a pair of boys who couldn’t make it to class without tripping over their feet was, in fact, asinine…that wasn’t the part twisting stubborn knots around your ear canal. 

Your face was dragged down by a broody pout, “For your information, I’m not giving it to Stiles; it’s actually for a guy who isn’t the leading cause of pulmonary embolisms in Beacon County—and I don’t think either of them are cute.” 

That wasn’t strictly true. You did think that Scott was cute, just like you thought Gizmo was cute when he pleaded for treats. You could see the appeal of Scott McCall, why Allison liked him, but you hadn’t thought someone was cute like that in a very long time. A person generally had to actually look at people to think they were cute, and you hadn’t looked beyond forcing one foot in front of the other and your nubby nails in years. 

And as far as Stiles went…honestly, you hadn’t really considered the concept of Stiles as an actual person until Maggie had to go and imply it. You supposed, now that you were thinking about it, he had an objectively nice face: big eyes, button nose, nice jaw—but when you saw him in person, it was almost always covered with an infuriating smirk or making obnoxious sounds. You usually just wanted to shove it away from you. Sometimes, when Stiles was being particularly difficult, you even thought about flicking him right in his long-lashed, honeycomb eyes. You wondered if the Sheriff would arrest you if you— 

That’s right, your eyes rounded with the thought, Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

The recollection rang through every single one of your thoughts and echoed along the caverns of your skull, sparing you from ruminating on something far, far scarier. You were much more comfortable with deduction. 

Your brow furrowed as you pushed yourself over the counter to grab your backpack—sure that Maggie would misinterpret your impromptu exit, but too lost in through to really care—Stiles is the Sheriff's son. You forgot that sometimes. They were so different, after all, and you were certain that Stiles had broken the law at least a few times in his life, but he was. Stiles was the Sheriff's son, and he probably knew things that he shouldn’t. Things that were only kept in confidential files. Fortunately, you didn’t need to think that someone was cute to use them for information. 

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” Maggie chirped. She was fiddling with her branches in the back again, picking the berries and dropping them into a little stone bowl. 

You scowled at the berries like it was their fault you were in this predicament, “Gertrude sucks.

“And yet she was correct,” Maggie tossed a berry at your forehead, and it landed dead-center on the tip of your nose, dripping a small trail of crimson juice onto your cupid’s bow. Maggie laughed until a burst of snorts consumed her giggles, and you scowled deeper as you wiped your nose clean with your sleeve.

“And yet, she’s the prime example of doing something stupid for a boy.” You made a point of flipping Maggie off before trudging towards the door.

You pushed the exit open with your shoulder—rushing to get home to your notebook and pens. Ideas had a way of slipping away from you; you liked to make them real. Tangible. Inked lines and loops that couldn’t be erased. 

Maggie cupped your cheeks before you could slither away to your car, startling you out of your head. “Don’t be Gertrude. Don’t be stupid,” Maggie said, incredibly solemn, but the twinkle of mischief in her eye ruined the 'Yoda effect'. 

You pursed your lips as your eyes flitted towards the side, “I’ll do my best to not marry my dead husband’s brother-killer.” The door swung shut behind you, cutting off the trill of Maggie’s laughter. 

You spent the rest of the night on your bed, sitting cross-legged with your notebook spread open across your lap. You tapped your pen against your knee and watched the blades on your ceiling fan spin into a fuzzy Saturn ring until your eyes watered. You were trying, and failing, to think of a way to ask Stiles for help without him making a big deal about it—contemplating if it was truly worth all the aggravation.

Sighing, you sketched random swirling lines in purple ink. They interconnected in a pretty pattern that eventually took the shape of the maze on your pendant. There was no way out of the labyrinth without breaking down a wall; it was hopeless, a path that never ended. People who entered the maze would be doomed to walk in circles until they littered the ground with their decomposing skeletons—and oh how you envied them. 

Stiles would never let it go; you were pretty damn sure of that. He would poke, and prod, and stick his upturned nose into your business until he'd thoroughly invaded your privacy and got all the answers to his meddlesome questions. He could never ju—

The sound of paper tearing dragged you out of your pitiful brooding, and you sighed. Your pen had ripped through the center of the maze. You held the page up to the light, and it shone through the hole, blinding you momentarily. 

There was no escaping the labyrinth—there was only pushing straight though. 

You spent a lot of your time observing people lately. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, at least you hoped it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. It was just…ever since Stiles dragged you back into the present—kicking, screaming, and bitching the entire way—you had been…overwhelmed by how alive everything was. It felt like so much had happened in the last four years. Everyone had gone on living while you’d hidden away in your mind and rotted in your room. 

You couldn’t put a name to the strange feeling twisting in your chest. You were angry, of course, so angry that people had the audacity to just… live, like there wasn’t a gigantic, bleeding void in the world that had yet to scar over—that might never truly close—but there was something else mixed in with the bitterness, something sweeter.

There was a certain kind of beauty, you mused, in the way they enjoyed such silly things. There was just something about the way they found joy in sparkly nail polish, and their favorite song, and a boy looking in their general direction that had you choking on a foreign warmth. Everyone had something, and it was beautiful to see people grow their worlds around the ugliness while you weren't so consumed with shrinking yours. 

Leaning back against your locker, you watched two freshmen girls walk side-by-side until a flock of tropical-scented, lip-gloss-coated sophomore girls passed them. The taller of the two trailed after them, linking arms with a blonde in the back of the pack. The shorter one watched their hair swish over their shoulders until they walked around the corner, absently tugging at a beaded bracelet on her wrist the entire time. 

In three weeks, she’d start eating lunch alone in the library, hiding in the dark book closet with outdated textbooks as her only companions. In five, they wouldn’t speak unless they had to. You gave the girl a weak smile when she accidentally made eye-contact. Sorry, babe, I read your future. You didn’t even need to see the girl’s palm. 

You pushed yourself off of your locker and shook your head a little, regrouping your thoughts as you slid into your seat next to Stiles. He looked tired. He was slumped over his desk, chin propped on his folded arms, and his eyelids hung heavily over the exhaustion coating his directionless gaze. He barely acknowledged your presence, grunting a little and nudging your foot with his. 

You hid your smile behind your English binder and turned in your seat to face him. “Hey,” you paused, bundling the meager bits and pieces of courage in your chest, and then said, “your perpetual nosiness—that extends to your dad too, right?”

Stiles’s head lulled to the side, cheek pressed against his folded arms, evidently too drained to sit-up. He trailed his squinted gaze over your face, eyes hooded and unblinking, “Why?”

“No reason.” You drummed your pencil against your desk and watched the long red arrow tick forward on the clock above the whiteboard. Stiles watched you fidget with a little sleepy smirk eased into the corners of his mouth, patient and still for the first time since you’d met. It was a shame you couldn’t revel in it. 

You lost the stalemate after your desperation became too thick to swallow, “I need to see a case file. There’s like…nothing on the internet or in Maggie’s local history sagas.” 

That got his attention. Stiles leaned forward, glimmering with intrigue and ill-intent, and said, “Which case?”

“None of your business,” you retorted reflexively. Stiles gave you an amused look and cupped his cheek in his palm, waiting for the inevitable apology. You withered against your chair and muttered, “Does it matter?”

He snorted and lifted a shoulder, “I have a right to know what I’m potentially putting my life on the line for; breaking and entering is a very serious crime, y’know.”

You huffed and glared a little at your clasped hands, “Somehow I know you’ve done worse.”

Stiles didn’t deny it. He just grinned proudly and scooted closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so important you’re willing to steal something from the police?”

“Not steal,” you corrected, a bit too petulantly for your liking, “just…borrow indefinitely.” 

“Uh huh,” Stiles pursed his lips and almost went cross-eyed scrutinizing your face, “so what’s so important you’re willing to ‘borrow’ classified information from the police ‘indefinitely’?”

You paused, not entirely sure how to answer his question without spilling over the edges and ruining everything. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, bowing your head a little. You picked at a hangnail until it was tender and inflamed, “Just a hunch, really. It’s probably nothing.”

Stiles tapped his fingers against his desk, fast and furious, and let out a dramatic puff of air, “I could help you if you’d, y’know, tell me literally one single thing about it.”

“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, feet sliding out in front of you as you sunk into your chair. 

He cocked his head and hummed, looking far too smug for 7:45 in the morning, “Besides the whole ‘stealing my dad’s keycard and making it actually possible for you to read it’ thing, right?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mumbled, stalling the inevitable. It felt a little too much like losing to admit that you needed him—even though…you definitely needed him. It was a rather unfortunate fact you were fruitlessly still trying to deny.

Stiles rolled his eyes, neck too, and grabbed his backpack from the floor, “Forgive me for having a hobby.”

He opened his backpack, and you imagined, just for a moment, the zipper latching onto his mouth like a singularly-tentacled alien. It would solve all your problems; you could zip and unzip him whenever you wanted. If only. Sighing, you dropped your head against your knuckles, “Which is…irritating me?”

“Putting the pieces together,” Stiles dropped his coffee-warped, dogeared copy of Metamorphosis onto his desk and flipped to the assigned chapter. His eyes flicked from right to left, pace ridiculously fast, as he scanned through the pages. If it were anyone else, you would’ve assumed it was all for show. “I was a jigsaw kid,” he murmured, nose still stuck in his book.

Your lip stung as you gnawed on the cracking center, “If I tell you what I’m looking for, you’ll help me?”

“That,” Stiles punctuated his statement with a dramatic page flip, “and I might need a tiny favor from you.” He held his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and flashed a toothy smile over the bent cover of his book, “Just an itty-bitty, very small, totally not a big deal favor.”

Your face turned thoroughly sour, “Oh god.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, like he didn’t just intentionally plant the seeds of dead bodies and false alibis in your mind two seconds ago, and huffed, “I just want to check on Lydia, okay? I think I’ll have a better chance of getting in through the front door with you.”

Your smirk flattened, “Why?”

His mouth hung open for a second, and then he shook his head firmly, peering at you through pinched lids, “You first.”

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, shifting your foot from left to the right, watching the fluorescent lights bounce off of the burgundy leather. The extra shine only made the scuffs on the toes more pronounced. “I want to look into the Hale fire, okay?” Your voice got trapped in your throat, so your tone wasn’t as biting as you wanted it to be, “Happy?”

You would’ve been content to keep staring at your boots until class ended, but your attention snapped back to Stiles when he inhaled sharply. He looked baffled, and maybe even a little green in the face, and you were starting to feel a little queasy yourself—nerves tended to turn your stomach upside-down and inside-out all in the same excruciatingly slow flip. His mouth was already ajar, but it took him several red-hand ticks to finally speak, “Why?” 

“Nuh uh,” you crossed your arms and sat upright, rolling your shoulders back, “you go now.”

Stiles was still looking at you with an odd expression on his face, a little too distracted to be difficult. He answered you without any inflection in his voice, “She didn’t show up for homeroom.”

Your intestines unspun with your faint inhale and then immediately dropped to the floor along with your heart as you let out a weak, trembling exhale, “...and?”

Stiles recovered from his momentary lapse in vexation and leaned onto his forearms, "And it’s your turn again.”

You wished you had a simple answer for him, and, even more so, you wished you were a better liar. “There’s kinda no way to answer that without trauma dumping all over you,” you mumbled, intensively examining the fine ridges in your nails. 

“I can handle a little trauma.” Stiles rapped his knuckles against the top of his head and smiled a little, “I’ve got nothin’ but space up here.” 

People always said that—that they’d be there for you no matter what, that they could handle anything—and then they got a real good look at the ugly of it all, at the dirty hair and rotting kitchen, at the prolonged silences and self-absorbed isolation. People usually took off running pretty quickly after that. At least, Lydia had.

“There haven’t been that many residential fire fatalities here. Just two cases, actually.” You chewed on your thumbnail and shrugged, “I know they said the Hale fire was an accident, but…maybe there’s a connection.” You swallowed, and your boot squeaked against the floor when you kicked at the ground, “Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with too much spare time.”

Stiles stared at you, and you could see the exact moment he connected the pieces. You were expecting the usual nauseating sympathy, the well-intentioned kindness that always flirted with the edge of pity, oftentimes landing smack-dab in the middle of it—but there wasn’t a drip of pity in his eyes. They were filled with grief; for you or for someone else, you didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. More importantly, perhaps, his eyes were shining with…relief, pure and simple relief that nothing else needed to be said. 

“I’ll get you into the file room,” Stiles said, low and soft in his throat, and he didn’t look away from you until Scott slid in-between your desks. They did a complicated series of high-fives and hand-shakes with a few ‘knucks’ thrown in here and there for good measure. 

Before Scott sat down behind Stiles, he smiled in your direction. You looked past him, assuming Allison was behind you, and watched a red-breasted robin flit around a tree through the window. You saw Scott’s hand move in your peripheral vision, and when you tore your eyes away from the streak of scarlet feathers and blue sky, your lips tipped into a timid smile. Scott was waving at you; he was smiling at you. You didn’t know when your world went from no friends to two, but it felt oddly…normal. Smiling back at Scott, dodging Stiles’s kicks at your feet, trying not to laugh at their goofy faces. It felt like it was part of your routine, exactly the same as organizing your pens and pencils on top of your desk at the start of class, and just like that: normal twisted into terrifying. 

You chewed on the end of your pen when you felt Stiles’s gaze on the side of your face, “So…why do you want to see Lydia—besides your typical stalker behavior, obviously.” 

“You’re gonna feel like such an asshole,” Stiles grinned a little and nudged your toes, but there was something strange tucked in the corners of his mouth, something a bit grim, a bit afraid. Whatever it was, his cheeks didn’t dimple with his smile, and you gnawed on your lip once you realized that you not only noticed their absence but you missed them. 

You peeked at him from under your lashes and frowned when you saw that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were gone too. Stiles’s grin eroded away to little more than a flat line once he started speaking again, “Jackson was attacked by…something last night—they’re saying mountain lion, but you and I both know that’s bullshit—anyway, she was pretty freaked out when my dad got there.”

You stiffened, spinal column drawing into a taut line from the crown of your skull to your tailbone, and your blood went cold. You already knew Lydia hadn't shown up for school today. You always knew—you felt Lydia’s absence just as fiercely as her presence. The air was just different somehow. You didn’t even have to look for her anymore; an innate rabbit-sense always reared its head when Lydia was too far away…when she was too close. Your instincts couldn’t agree on anything. They couldn’t decide if Lydia was a rabbit or a fox, and it was exhausting—but at the moment all you wanted, all you needed, was to make sure that Lydia hadn’t been torn apart by a monster with sharp claws and serrated teeth. 

“And she isn’t here,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

“And she isn’t here,” Stiles echoed, just as quiet. 

“Okay,” your head bobbed with a decisive nod, knees moving before your mind had the chance to scold them, “let’s go.”

Stiles’s jaw unhinged alarmingly fast and comically wide, “Wha—now?”

You pushed everything on your desk into your backpack with a broad sweep of your arm and jerked your head towards the door, “Come on, before class starts.”

Stiles blinked at you for a few moments and then floundered for his things when you started walking out of the room without him. He stumbled into a desk in his rapid, ever-so clumsy efforts to catch up with you and twisted around to salute Scott’s empty chair. Apparently, neither of you had noticed his exit. It seemed it was a perfect morning for ditching class, but you didn’t dwell on the consequences for long. Your focus was single-minded and unwavering, and Stiles had to jog to keep up with your stalwart stride. 

“Since when are you so helpful,” he muttered, slightly out of breath. 

“I told you,” you gave him a wry smile and shoved the exit door open with your back, holding it for Stiles until he was halfway through the frame—and then you promptly stepped out of the way and watched the door swing shut on his backpack. Your lips twitched with a grin, “I’m a nice girl.”

Stiles yelped a little and looked over his shoulder, ensuring all his limbs were intact before yanking on his straps. His backpack smacked into his shoulders, and the heavy textbooks inside slammed together with a satisfying thump. You snickered and dodged his attempts to kick the back of your knees.

Glowering, Stiles switched tactics and tried to step on your nimble feet. Tragically for him, all the fire in his indignation was lost to his plush pout, “Since when?”

You rolled your eyes and waited next to his jeep, anxiously tracing little swirls in the dirt caked onto the passenger door, “Since I met you.” 

You missed the look on Stiles’s face, but that was for the best. His honeyed smile would’ve changed your mind, and you had an ex-best friend to attend to.

****************************

The jeep was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive—at least, it was as quiet as a decrepit clunker could be. There were various clangs and squeals in-between the engine’s low rumble, and a soft indie song filled the silences in-between, but the air felt still. Stiles was intently focused on the road ahead, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to a beat of his own making, while you picked at your cuticles, cycling between anxiety and denial. It was a subliminal game of chicken that Stiles eventually lost. 

After a few false starts, Stiles blurted out, “You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

You stared straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield and down the winding street, “Nope.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Stiles flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, straightening them to their impressive full-length, and then wrapped them around the wheel again. His grip was as tight as the grit of his teeth, “I don’t even want to know anyway.” You lulled your head to the side to smirk at him, but you kept your mouth thoroughly closed. Stiles’s gaze flicked in your direction briefly, and then he directed his eye roll towards the road, “I don’t. Keep your boring secret.”

You settled further into the passenger seat and propped your feet on the dash, grin warm with satisfaction, “I will.”

The beat of Stiles’s thumbs sped up, thundering against ‘9’ and ‘3’ while you hummed along to the trickle of piano and acoustic guitar strumming through the cracked speakers. The time on the dash display flickered from 8:15 to 8:16, and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out groan, “Will you just tell me! It’s killing me. Seriously, I’m going to credit you in my epitaph. ‘Here lies Stiles Stilinski: Another Victim of Gaslighting, Gatekeeping, and Girlbossing.’”

“They say you always remember your first,” you sighed dreamily, battering your butterfly lashes. The mole on the hinge of his jaw jumped with a harsh swallow, and you grinned. 

Stiles snorted and then immediately grimaced like he was irritated with his mouth for having the audacity to laugh in the midst of his despair. “Good to know I’m just part of a pattern.”

“I don’t know about that,” you hummed, resting your temple against the window. The morning sun warmed your skin and washed your face with a glimmer of gold that glittered with the devilry in your eyes. You smirked at Stiles and poked the mole just below his earlobe, “I have yet to meet anyone as homicidally inspiring as you.”

He pulled a face to hide his smile as the jeep puttered to a stop against the curb, and you looked over his shoulder, blinking slowly. You hadn’t realized you were so close to Lydia’s house until you were parked in front of it. 

The colonial estate loomed largely through the window. The long white pillars stood oppressively alongside the double entrance, and the meticulously manicured lawn screamed ‘keep off’ louder than any sign or barbed-wire fence. Lydia’s house had always been more like a monument than a home: an art installation, an antique, something to be admired not loved. Tilting your head, you squinted at the familiar windows and counted along the second floor until you found Lydia’s room. The heavy purple curtains were drawn closed, and you were a little surprised that Lydia hadn’t redecorated in the last couple years. It was probably different on the inside; sixteen was a little old for dollhouses and princess crowns.

Growing up, Lydia’s room was stocked with every Barbie accessory on the market, and yet you always played Barbies at your house. Every single time. When her dad was home, Lydia’s house had teetered between too quiet and too loud, and a constant vague unease hung heavily in the air, even with the volume on her CD player turned all the way up. No boy band could’ve drowned out all the screaming and icy silences, but you tried. Oh how you tried. It happened so often, you’d eventually gotten used to the noise, but you could tell it’d bothered Lydia, no matter how unbothered she’d tried to seem. 

In comparison, your house was a Dreamhouse. It was so warm before it became empty. Your mom always had something baking in the oven, and Lydia had never looked more at home than when she was tucked on your window seat, plate of brownies by her side, with your mom’s gentle hands braiding her hair out of her face. You hadn’t ever minded sharing; Lydia had needed the attention more than you did. She was so much softer than people gave her credit for, far more fragile than they’d ever know. 

In spite of her current taste in boys, Lydia used to be a steadfast romantic. She always wanted to reenact the romance novels stacked on her nightstand, a little heartbreak before the inevitable happily ever after. She read so voraciously there was a new plot to perform every day. You were also a bookworm, but your tastes inspired morbid hits such as Black Widow Barbie and Dreamhouse Zombie Outbreak. You usually took turns, or Barbie ended up falling in love with zombie Ken until he chomped on her arm. 

“Not her brains,” Lydia had always insisted, “Barbie is the brains of the relationship.” 

Lydia, you would argue, Lydia was the brain. The only one that mattered.

Warm skin on your knuckles gently drew you back into the present. Stiles’s brow was pinched with concern, and his hand lingered on yours until you brushed him off with a shake of your head—but, as you’d come to learn the last couple weeks, Stiles Stilinski was nothing if not relentless. He leaned into your side as you walked along the lengthy driveway, sending you stumbling a few paces to the right. You glared at him, but it was watered down with stubborn affection. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, and you forgot about the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until Stiles rang the doorbell. They came back full force when you heard a pair of high heels clicking towards them. 

Lydia’s mom peered out the door. She looked confused as she took in Stiles’s smile, stretched far too wide to look even remotely casual. Then, her gaze landed on you and her face broke out into a bright grin, “Y/N?”

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was; beauty ran just as deeply as old money in the Martin family. Lydia was born with her mom’s golden-red hair and hazel eyes, and they had the same dimpled smile. It was always difficult to see anything beyond the brilliance of their perfect teeth and incandescent skin. 

“Come here,” Mrs. Martin pulled you into a tight hug and cupped the back of your head with a steady hand. Your arms remained stiff by your sides, voice sticky in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been hugged like this; the realization hurt more than you thought it would.

After a moment, your shoulders slumped, and you turned your face into Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. She still smelled the same, like patchouli and luxury, “Hi.”

She held you out at arm's-length, hands on your shoulders, and shook her head, “There’s no way that this beautiful young woman is the same little girl who tried to keep a frog colony in my guest bathroom. I can’t be that old.”

“You literally look exactly the same,” you smiled a little and rubbed your bicep.

“It has been far, far too long.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in your sleeves and then stepped back into the doorframe, “What can I do for you?”

“I…” your mouth went dry, and you looked everywhere except Mrs. Martin’s face. Your eyes flashed between the silver door knockers, the winding ivy, the sculpted shrubs. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing, not even the house, had noticed your absence. 

“We came to check on Lydia,” Stiles nudged your shoulder, and you blinked a few times. Mrs. Martin was watching you with big emphatic eyes—and you hated it. 

You swallowed and nodded, “Yeah…we brought her homework.”

“Come in.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose with freshly manicured nails, “She took a little something to relax herself, so please excuse…well, just be prepared.” Mrs. Martin sighed, and for the first time it looked like the last four years had actually aged her. She attempted a smile, but it was shriveled at the corners, “You remember the way, don’t you?”

A nod rolled up your neck to your head. You couldn’t find the words to tell Mrs. Martin that you weren’t the same girl anymore. You almost felt like her in this house: small, wild, still full of dreams. You crept up the curved staircase slowly, delaying the inevitable, and ran your fingers along the iron railing. You broke your arm falling off of it nine years ago. It was a nasty fracture that put you in a cast all summer, but it’d seemed worth it at the time. At least, you’d thought so. Your mom and Mrs. Martin hadn’t agreed with your assessment at the hospital.

You felt a twinging urge to run to the top of the stairs and slide down the railing until you became dizzy—and just like that, you were seven years old again, and you weren't scared of death or ending up alone. 

“You coming?” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. 

You nodded stiffly and pushed past him to the last door on the left. You held your hand on the doorknob and pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, scowling at the anxiety crawling under your skin. You were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like you were the one who ended up in an ambulance last night.

You rapped your knuckles against the door a few times, even though it was already cracked open wide enough to catch a glimpse of the raspberry walls and flower chandelier. “Lyds–ia. Lydia,” you cleared your throat and peeked into Lydia’s room, “it’s me. I mean, it’s Y/N.” Stiles nudged you in the ribs, and you sighed, “And Stiles.”

Lydia was face-down on her four-poster bed, slowly combing her fingers through her unbrushed hair. She smacked her lips together a few times, and then her head popped up from her mountain of throw pillows, “You still haven’t explained what the hell a Stiles is.”

You snorted and shot Stiles a pointed look. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room until he spotted a little bottle of pills on top of her vanity. He read the lengthy label and let out a low whistle, “Bet you can’t say, ‘I saw Sally sell seashells by the seashore.’”

Lydia swung her legs over the foot of her bed and leaned forward, eyes sparking with bullheaded determination. “I saw….I saw…” The light in her eyes faded as she drifted off to a place no one else could see.

You sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. You didn’t have to tell your body to move; it knew before you did. Finding Lydia when she was lost, it was like…swimming to the surface, shivering in a storm, bracing for a fall. It was an instinct so deeply rooted in your soul you couldn’t rip it out without rupturing an artery. You watched Lydia’s eyes focus on your face, felt her fingers lace with yours, and all you knew was the slow thump of Lydia’s pulse against your thumb.

Lydia squeezed your hand and swiveled to face you. Her eyes were still cloudy, but something warm dawned behind the fog. You felt the pit in your stomach roll. Lydia sighed happily, “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Well,” you almost choked on the lump in your throat and struggled to support Lydia’s weight as she went boneless against your side, “here I am.” You searched for some assistance with Lydia’s rapidly sinking frame, but Stiles was busy poking around every nook and cranny in the room. “Stiles,” you snapped. 

He wrenched his hand away from Lydia’s bottle of Dior perfume, purple just like the rest of the room, and clasped it behind his back. “What?” 

You gestured violently towards Lydia's wilting spine and rolled your eyes when he tripped over a discarded boot in his, frankly pathetic, haste to get to Lydia’s other side. You gently maneuvered her until she was propped up against her pillows. 

“Don’t go away again, okay?” Lydia licked her lips and looked like she was about to cry—so much like a scared little girl, your heart clenched. “I keep losing you.”

“I,” you stared at her with wide eyes, and the bottle of pills enveloped your peripheral vision, “I just wanted to see if you were alright…after last night.”

“Last night,” Lydia slurred, nuzzling back against her pillows.

“Yeah, last night,” Stiles folded his arms over his chest and arched his brow, “remember anything about it?”

“I remember…” Lydia looked like she was going to cry again, eyes glassy and round, but the chemical high quickly swept over the tide, “I remember a mountain lion.”

Stiles’s head tipped back between his shoulder blades, and his cheeks slowly puffed into pink little domes as he held his breath. Apparently, there was one thing more powerful than Stiles Stilinski’s obsession with Lydia Martin: his impatience. Stiles’s lips puckered as a loud sigh whooshed through his teeth. He crouched down to Lydia’s eye-level, “You remember seeing a mountain lion, or you remember them telling you it was a mountain lion?”

Lydia hummed and nodded until her hair fell in front of her face, “Mountain lion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles reached for a stuffed giraffe next to her shoulder and shook it in her face, “what’s this?”

“Mountain lion,” Lydia’s head bobbed sharply. 

You snatched the stuffed animal out of Stiles’s hand, scowling as you bludgeoned his arm with the giraffe’s head. “Leave her alone. She’s doped out of her mind.” 

“Clearly,” Stiles snorted, watching Lydia curl a strand of her hair around her finger, completely entranced by the frizzy strands. 

“What did you want her to say?” You smoothed a few stray hairs sticking up from the crown of Lydia’s head back into place and met Stiles’s gaze, face impassive, “Werewolf?”

He opened his mouth and gaped like a particularly brainless fish. Before he could come up with a coherent answer—or any kind of answer, actually—Lydia’s text-tone chimed. Stiles dove across the bed for her phone, but you smacked his hand with the giraffe before he could touch it. “You are so not reading her texts, lonely boy.”

“I was just trying to help.” Stiles flopped onto her vanity chair and crossed his arms, squirming sullenly, “She can barely string two words together, let alone an actual thought.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait until she’s good and hungover tomorrow.” You glanced down at Lydia’s phone and paused. It was a video file. From an unknown number. 

“Hey,” Lydia poked her head up and pointed at Stiles until the weight of her arm became too much to bear. It fell on top of her stomach like a limp noodle, “You.”

“Me,” Stiles squeaked. 

You muted the video and made sure Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the curl of Lydia’s finger before you pressed play. Nothing happened at first. The video was shot in a strange, almost voyeuristic style, and the lighting was terrible, so dim you could barely tell that the camera was facing a large window. You squinted and made out the video store’s sign flickering above the door. So, this was from last night. Weird—but at least it wasn’t revenge porn; that had been your first guess. 

You’d almost given up on finishing the video, and then the camera angle moved. Two red eyes flashed in the darkness, a large…something smashed through the glass, and you bit down on your thumbnail so hard blood welled through the sidewalls. 

It was a goof, obviously. Some kind of poorly edited creepypasta. A cruel prank someone sent Lydia after they heard what happened last night. Had to be. Your hands shook as you sent yourself the video, and then you deleted it from Lydia’s phone. Your number, you realized once you stopped seeing red, was still saved as ☀️✨Babe!!!!✨☀️ in Lydia’s contacts. It took you longer than it should have to delete the sent message.

“If you’re done fighting your erection, we should get going.” Your voice sounded remarkably even, considering how scattered your mind was. It was certainly more composed than the babble spewing from Stiles’s mouth.

“I do not have—it’s not like—I wasn’t—she thought I was someone else.”

“Ah,” your phone felt heavy in your pocket, “real boner killer.”

Stiles sighed through his nose, “New rule, you can't make fun of anything I do or say when Lydia's in my fuckin' lap. Starting now."

He must’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t argue. That, and the way you practically sprinted out of the house to avoid seeing anyone else. Your hands were still shaking when you crawled into the jeep, and Stiles shot about a dozen little furious, concerned glances in your direction, but you couldn’t seem to move your tongue. 

Your bottom lip quivered. Your chest tightened until your ribs corseted your lungs. The screech of your ground teeth sent an unpleasant chill down your spine, but you’d rather choke on a chipped tooth than let the beast howling in your throat escape—the last thing you needed was to cry in the passenger seat next to Stiles Stilinski.

You were clearly losing your mind; everyone said it was only a matter of time—watching a loved one burn to death tended to have that effect on a person. Not that you remembered much, but you were clearly off your rocker if you were having vivid, day-time hallucinations of red-eyed monsters roaming the streets of Beacon Hills. 

You wiped your sweat-damp palms on your dress and bounced your leg up and down, driving your heel into the floor over and over again—and then you felt a solid warmth over your knee. Your eyes were a little wild when you followed the trail of Stiles’s arm to his face, and the divot between his brows deepened when he met your gaze, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Your head jerked with a quick nod, and you sucked in a few shallow breaths, “I know.” The air got stuck in your chest, and your heart flapped erratically as the back of your eyelids played reruns of a familiar film starring your narrowing trachea. You dug your toes into the dusty floor mat, scrambling for any kind of grasp on reality, and choked on your words, “Her mom always…had…the good shit.”

Stiles kept his hand on your knee and then shook his head, pulling over against the curb and putting the jeep in park. “You don’t have to talk, but you gotta breathe.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was squeezing your kneecap in even intervals. You inhaled and exhaled with the flex of his joints until the panic receded enough for embarrassment to heat your cheeks. You slammed your head back against the seat and stared at the steel roof. You hoped that if you ignored the tears bubbling along your lash line, they’d instantaneously evaporate before they could spill onto your cheeks, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t usually…this hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Stiles chewed on his cheek and pulled his hand back into his lap. He drummed his fingers against his kneecap and then spoke softly, “I used to get ‘em too. Sucked.” Stiles stared out the dashboard, watching but not really seeing dead leaves swirl in little circles over the asphalt, “Happened a lot after my mom died.”

You froze for a moment, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring. You realized, belatedly, that you hadn’t ever heard the Sheriff talk about his wife, not even once in the last four years, even though he wore a gold band on his left ring finger. It hadn’t even occurred to you to ask. 

You never had the right words to explain it. For a long time, you spoke in ripples at therapy, incomprehensible circles that skirted the point in an endless loop—but you realized, as you got stuck on the honey in Stiles’s eyes, you didn’t need the right words here. With him. In fact, you didn’t really need any words at all. “Me too.”

Stiles watched your eyes steadily, and his fingers stilled against his legs, “Yeah?”

You nodded and swallowed a little, “Yeah.”

A smile tugged on his mouth, tangled with too many paradoxes to parse in the soft, short moment humming between you. You smiled back at him, far more timidly, but that wasn’t a surprise. He was brave, you decided, much braver than you. It was contagious. 

Your tongue darted out, licking your chapped lips, and you clung to the fragile current of courage lapping against the back of your teeth. “We just stopped talking.” 

Stiles glanced at you, clearly confused. 

“Lydia and I.” You knotted your fingers in the hem of your dress and tugged on it every time you felt the stopper in your throat start to swell, “We just stopped being friends after my mom died. That’s why I didn’t…I mean, there’s not really a story to tell. We were close, and then I woke up one day, and we weren’t anymore.”

Stiles turned until he was facing you, leaning against the door and struggling to find a comfortable angle for his long legs. “Most people…they’re okay with the funeral part ‘cause it’s pretty simple—y’know: hold hands, bring food, pretend no one’s crying. And then after comes, and they can’t figure out what to do because it’s over but it’s not.”

“Limbo,” you mirrored his position and pulled your knees to your chest, rocking the soles of your boots from heel to toe like small patent leather boats adrift on a sea of faded nylon, “it’s limbo, and everyone else is so incredibly, hideously alive.” 

The relief was back in Stiles’s eyes, and you were swimming in it. He nodded and bent his knees, scooching his feet until the toes of his sneakers were pressed against yours. “Yeah," he exhaled, and the moment felt important, like something you were supposed to remember on your deathbed. You tried to memorize the look on Stiles's face, but you didn't know where to start. How could you etch infinity?  

“It wasn’t just her,” you admitted out loud for the first time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged a little and gave you a grin that brought the dimples back to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but smile at their reappearance, “but we can pretend it was, just for today.” 

You let out a breath that felt like a laugh and lifted your toes, dropping them on top of his and pressing until they were pinned beneath the tread of your boots. He narrowed his eyes and wriggled his feet free, fighting your scurrying ankles with his tongue trapped between his teeth. His triumphant cry when he finally caught the tip of your laces was just enthusiastic enough to coerce another laugh through your clamped lips. 

The soft smile Stiles gave you while you laughed made his body go lax and the back of your neck warm. You quickly bent over to retie your laces, and he turned to restart the engine. 

“I should probably get us back to school,” Stiles ran his hand over his head. “My dad'll kill me if I get marked truant again.”

“It’s parent teacher conferences tonight,” you recalled as the words left your mouth. You slunk down in your seat, chin catching on the seatbelt, “I’ve never skipped school before. I have no idea what my dad’s gonna say.”

Stiles’s attention shifted from the road to your profile, “Really?”

“What?” you crossed your arms over your chest and blew your hair out of your eyes.

“Nothing,” Stiles tried to hide his smirk, but it was too sharp to cover with a cough, “it’s just…hasn’t everyone skipped at least once?”

“What would I even do?” The corner of your mouth tugged into a dry smile, “Visit my catatonic ex-best friend?”

Stiles nodded agreeably, and then his head danced from side to side, rolling over other options, “Or bowling. Bowling is fun.”

You grumbled a little in your throat and sunk further into the cradle of your hips, “I hate bowling.”

Stiles grinned, “Yeah, me too.”

Pausing, your bottom lip wormed its way between your teeth, “I’d play D&D with you, though.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you watched the sun disappear behind the tree line over the hill and ignored the feeling of being examined like a bacterial petri dish.

“See, we are friends. The best of friends, actually. Two peas in the proverbial pod.”

And, well, you couldn’t really disagree.

[oh2e]

A (long) Collection of TTOI Quotes

He’s as useless as a marzipan dildo

I’m going to have to mop up a hurricane of piss here

He and Hewitt are tight as arse cheeks

‘How fucked am I? On the fuckometre?’ ‘Oh 12’ ‘yeah 12’ ‘out of what?’ ‘50’ ‘oh…. mine was out of 10’

Tiny little dick the size of a bookie’s biro

There’s no time to go home I’ll pass myself on the way back in

I can only cook with what I’m given. You give me Hugh Abbot I’ll give you bangers and mash, you give me Jerry from home office then I can raise it to fucking risotto and scallops

I am king of remembering my own password

‘Shagging your way to the top is it?’ ‘Yes well I’m not Scottish so I’ve got to get in somehow’

How much shit is on the menu and what flavour is it?

‘What do you want Malcolm’ ‘Two bits of tit. Two titties.’

Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off

“What about just firing him at a wall from a cannon?” “I know we force feed him a mixture of garlic and Dettol in cup a soup” “What about the old red hot poker up the arse?” “I’d like to nail him to a tree through the head and watch lice slowing crawl over his body eating off all the flesh”

“Has security checked this [plant]?” “For little terrorists?”

This is the problem with the public - they’re fucking horrible

Not only was it a shit idea to ruin my holiday, it was a shit idea you stole from the government to ruin my holiday

Ah that’s like smoking dead skin that is

You’re the fucking shittest James Bond ever - you’re David Fucking Niven!

You’re like a sweaty octopus trying to unhook a bra

You take the piss outta [Al] Jolson again and I will remove your iPod from its tiny nano sheath and push it up your cock! Then I’ll plug some speakers up your arse and put it onto shuffle with my fucking fist

Ithought you said no one reads these except political obsessives and mad Christians in wheelchairs but loads of people read mine

“I am not the story here” “Well no you kind of are though Malcolm, they spelled your name right and everything”

Come with me before I put your nuts in a book and squeeze them so hard that they come out like pressed fucking flowers

You’re The Ben….Ben Nevis…Bentally Ill…

Tickety fuckity boo

“Anyone seen Jamie?” “Oh don’t tell me he’s gone feral cos he was fucking terrifying when you had him on the leash.”

I’d love to stay and talk to you but I’d rather have type 2 diabetes

Mr Baby New Potato Head

It sucks cock so deep the bell end is wearing your appendix as a little hat

This is an operations room so unless you want your tonsils out by keyhole surgery from this key here, piss off!

Cliff Fucking Lawton! Nice. Was the Cilit Bang man not available?

To a guy who loses it so bad he needs a sat nav to find his own nipples

I’m feeling about as up to date as a Gregorian calendar

“You couldn’t organise a bum rape in a barracks.” “Au contraire”

You’re about as secure as a hymen in a south London comprehensive

Stop fucking blinking or I will take your optic nerve and fucking strangle you with it

Hanging round like a couple of school secretaries in the summer holidays

It’s like a prostate consultant’s waiting room in here

You will be sorry you inflatable cock!

I am going to have your intestines as a skipping rope and your lungs sundried and turned into a fucking waistcoat

Or will Dan Miller pull his scalp off and use it as an oven glove?

Enough of the pleasantries let’s just oil up and get fucking

A towel rail shouldn’t take up a whole wall, that’s not a towel rail it’s a climbing frame.

I’ve got a to-do list here longer than a fucking Leonard Cohan song

More on my plate than a spinster at a wedding

The only other candidate is my left bollock with a fucking smiley face drawn on it

Feels a bit like my head’s made entirely of smoke alarms

Fuck the Is and fist the Ts

May as well ask what I think of skirting boards, I’m sure we need them but I don’t know why

“No no I didn’t say that” “Well you sort of did with your face”

Let me row back a little bit, perhaps all the way back to the boathouse

She’s not bent either in the sense of being corrupt or being gay and by the way that’s an incredibly homophobic headline you massive poof

Omnishambles, from bean to cup you fuck up

I’m on my way to wipe my arse on pictures of Nick Robinson

“And I’m not doing terribly am I?” [Malcolm looking out the opposite window] “I love the way they’ve sandblasted here. It looks so clean.”

No no, don’t get up - I’m not viagra

He’s a fucking knitted scarf, he’s a balaclava.

The only thing John Duggan is doing here is depriving a village somewhere of a twat

You write almost entirely in generic meaningless buzzwords don’t you?

I will tear your fucking skin off, I will wear it to your mother’s birthday party, I will rub your nuts up and down her leg while whistling Bohemian Fucking Rhapsody

She’s behaving like a squirrel in a pedal bin.

Or I’ll have to tear my eyelids off and scrunch them up into fucking earplugs

I’m flypaper for dickheads

I think you’re wrong Malcolm you’re like a sultana in a salad

Sorry I can’t make espresso but I’ve made this so thick and black it’ll be like drinking fucking plimsoles

Well fuck a pot noodle. Sam, prepare my horse. I ride to DoSAC

The only fucking vibe you need to worry about is the one your wife hides in her knicker drawer

See you later and remember my door is always locked

* Tintin’s sexy sister to Ollie

What I really need is to shoot you all in the back of the head FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. but I can’t because it’s illegal.

I reserve this level of anger for when I’m flying Ryanair

As about a strong defence as ‘the fertiliser in my homemade bomb was organic’!

She’s a fart in a frock and we both want her wafted out of here

She’s going to have to fall on her sword, which means that we’re going to have to stick one in the ground, trip her up onto it and get someone jump up and down on her back for ten minutes

She’s going to kick her own head in which’ll be easy because she does yoga

I’m looking for Mr Oliver Reeder? He looks a bit like a Quentin Blake illustration

“Is she fucked?” “Like Caligula’s favourite watermelon.”

Can I bring you a shot glass? And some bleach?

You can’t look a gift corpse in the mouth

“It’s over the fat lady’s singing” “No she’s not, the fat man from the go compare advert is talking”

I’ve got my cock out, it’s covered in breadcrumbs and the fucking pigeons are circling

Have I just stepped through a portal into a sausage machine because this is making mincemeat out of my head

Sit there and ogle me like a page three girl

I’m as busy as a two-twatted hooker

Now I have to step in your shoes but after you’ve shat in them

I don’t just take this fucking job home you know. I take this fucking job home, it ties me to the bed and it fucking fucks me from arsehole to breakfast then it wakes me up in the morning with a cupful of piss lung in my face then slaps me about the chops to make sure I’m awake enough to kick me in the fucking bollocks. This job has taken me in every hole in my fucking body.

Everything is fine I’m like lube at a funeral

If you pull off again I’m going to stick the meter so far down your throat you’ll be able to tell the price of your next shit

You closeted regency homosexual

It’s been a bit like renovating an old, old house. You can take out a sexist beam here, a callous window there, replace the odd homophobic roof tile, but after a while you realise […] the foundations are built on what I can only describe as a solid bed of cunts.

Shit in the couscous

[seasonsbloom]

all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

synopsis ; modern!au. you have been in love with your best friend's older brother for years. on Christmas eve, things finally come to a head.

wc ; 6k

warnings ; explicit lanugage, some allusions to reader having a shitty family, christmas angst, pining, one mention of margaret thatcher

note: i'm not british (english isn't even my first language) so pls excuse any inaccuracies in any slang etc etc... also this was supposed to be a smutty thing and no instead it's exclusively tooth-rotting fluff so I'd like to apologize.... merry Christmas??? if anybody does want a steamy part two... well, hit me up I guess!

i stole the title from britney spears' my only wish (this year)!

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. They've got it all - the stockings above the merrily crackling fireplace, the Christmas crackers twinkling on a long table, the boughs of holly climbing up doorways. It's like a Selfridges on the 21st of December just vomited all over the place.

"Seriously," you say, blinking in a mixture of awe and fear, "how big is this thing?"

Eloise, much more accustomed to her family's display of wealth and Bridgerton harmony, shrugs without looking away from her phone screen. "No idea. Benedict is like 6 feet, and that thing is twice his size, so, like… 12 feet? I don't know, it's Christmas. You do the math."

She turns away, still glued to an Instagram page plastered with pink graphics informing about various social issues in carefully-designed typography, and leaves you standing alone in the entrance hall. If you didn't like the Bridgertons so much, you'd be the first to say their Christmas tree is obnoxious. It's a ridiculous thing, wide enough to commandeer half the room. It's covered top to bottom in tinsel, dark blue ornaments dangling from every branch and reflecting the light until the thing looks less than a tree and more like a hallucination one might have two hours into an LSD trip.

The London townhouse you've crashed at more than once after a night on the town gone to shambles is impressive enough, but the Brdigerton's ancestral home in the countryside is a whole other beast. From the sprawling gardens to the sheer endless rooms, from the stucco ceilings to the servant stairs, from the life-size portraits of nineteenth-century family members to the white marble busts, you half expect a tourist group to round the corner at any moment. You're pretty sure you saw a hedge maze on your way in.

Sure, you've known your college best friend Eloise Bridgerton was loaded, but you didn't expect this. Then again, her sister is married to a Duke and shows up on the Sun's front page semi-regularly, so maybe this one was on you.

"So what do we think? Sufficiently Christmas-y or too much?"

You sink your teeth into the tail-end of a scream, letting out a strangled sound instead. Benedict Bridgerton really is six foot tall, and fuck him for that. Couldn't he at least have been some sensible height? Five reasonable feet and seven nice inches? Has he got to be perfect? Has he got to be the six feet you've been dreaming about for the past four years in increasingly more frenzied fashions? 

He stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, with his hair tousled and his face relaxed into the same friendly, good-natured smile he always gives you.

"Uh… What?" Immediately, you curse your lack of eloquence. And earlier on the ride over, you'd sworn to yourself that, for once, you wouldn't act like an actual idiot in front of him.

Benedict, grinning, points forward. "The tree."

"Oh." You crane your neck back to look at the star mounted to the top, floating somewhere above the marble railing hugging the walkway to the second floor. "Well. It's very… big."

Benedict chuckles. "Yeah, I agree. I did tell Mom it was excessive, but she insisted. I'm pretty sure Hyacinth would mutiny if she ordered anything under ten feet."

You hum, faintly wondering what it must feel like to get a tree, let alone one big enough to get put up in front of the Rockefeller center. "Hyacinth can be pretty persuasive," you acquiesce, thinking with a shudder of the time the prepubescent girl stared you down until you gave her your brand-new Charlotte Tillbury lipstick. Sort of like being bullied out of your lunch money.

"You can say that again." 

Benedict falls silent, and for a moment, you just stand there, side by side, staring up at the tree. Dean Martin drifts over from the dining room. Your stomach is on the most terrifying rollercoaster ride of its life. 

Then, out of nowhere, Benedict says, "You're wet, by the way."

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

He nods down toward the floor. "Your shoes, I mean. You're soaking the rug."

You follow the line of his eyes down to your boots, still caked in the snow and sludge you drudged up on the way up the ten-mile-long driveway. A grey puddle has accumulated around you.

"Bugger," you mutter. "Eloise did say I could leave the shoes on…."

A conspiratorial grin crosses Benedict's face. He says, "Remember when you and El caught me smoking that joint in the study? I won't tell if you won't."

This is the thing: Worse than Benedict's six feet, worse than his messy hair and blue eyes and dimples, worse than all of that, is that he's actually nice. A genuinely good guy who talks to you like you're more than just his little sister's best friend, more than the annoying girl that gets invited to family holidays because her home life isn't the best, who moons over him at every turn. That's the thing that keeps you hoping, stubbornly, stupidly.

"Maybe you should go change for dinner," he suggests. "I'll take your suitcase up for you."

"You don't have to!" you protest, even as he's already bending over to retrieve it, even as you're secretly glad you won't have to try and lug that thing up all those stairs yourself.

"It's fine." Benedict waves you away, then tests the weight of the suitcase. "Jesus. I thought you were only staying for three days. What the hell did you pack in here?"

The sight of your bedroom floor at home, every inch covered with discarded clothes and toiletries and last-minute Christmas present purchases, overcomes you like a war flashback. "Uh… Books," you say, falling into step beside him as you climb the stairs together. "I brought a lot of books."

If Benedict knows you're one of the worst liars in England, he doesn't let it on. Instead, he hums Wham! 's greatest hit while ascending the stairs two steps at a time. You try your best not to stare at his butt when he overtakes you and focus instead on the plush velvet carpet and the actual footsteps you leave on it, cringing.

You follow him down a long corridor, past decorative Chinese-style vases filled with out-of-season greenhouse flowers. "This is your room," Benedict says, pushing the door at the end of the hall, somewhat separate from the others, open with his hip. "Eloise is just down the hall."

Like everything else in Aubrey Hall, the room is so tasteful you're scared to touch anything. Held exclusively in shades of pastels, in the softest blues, pinks, and creams, a huge four-poster bed is pushed to one wall, flanked on both sides by nightstands. The opposite side of the room is covered in floor-to-ceiling French windows that offer a spectacular view of the grounds, powdered with snow. Somebody lit a fire in here too, and above the mantle…

"Oh, God," you squeak, staring at a huge oil painting depicting perhaps the most miserable-looking man you have ever seen. Margaret Thatcher and her iron lady posturings have nothing on this bloke.

"Right, that's Uncle Barnaby." Benedict deposits your suitcase on a stuffed armchair. "Us kids just call him Uncle Fester."

"Yeah," you say slowly. "That checks out."

Benedict laughs. "Sorry, you got stuck in this one. All the other guest rooms are in the West wing, and Mom figured you'd be more comfortable not being that far away from everybody else."

The West wing. You get the sudden, spectacular image of yourself in an ankle-length lace nightgown wandering down stone hallways with nothing to light the way but a single, flickering candle. If you can fantasize about Gothic romances set in your own home, you decide, you should start thinking about downsizing.

"Right." Benedict runs a hand through his hair, and you track the movement, watching the muscles rippling in his forearm. He's wearing a grey cashmere sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight could make a stronger woman swoon. "I'll let you get settled in."

You don't want him to leave. All your time spent with Benedict is stolen, clipped, bookended by family dinners, or movie nights with his sister. The closest you've ever gotten to him was when you all crowded into the back of a cab on your way to a club, his thigh pressed against your own and his arm awkwardly angled somewhere behind your neck. Just half an inch of space between you, but your ribcage cracked open like somebody wedged a crowbar in there.

"Where are you sleeping?" It's a desperate attempt to prolong the moment, to keep him in this room alone with you for just a little longer, and you regret the question the moment it's out. Either he now thinks you're a stalker or, even worse, that you're secretly trying to draw up a layout plan of the estate to prepare for your inevitable heist. You wouldn't be surprised if there were several million pounds in cash stashed in a vault somewhere in Aubrey Hall, and rent in London has reached astronomic heights. Who could blame you for indulging?

But Benedict doesn't look concerned. Instead, he pauses just a step or two from you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and answers, "I'm right next door. Just knock if you need help with anything."

For a split second, Benedict's hand finds the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing through the thick knit sweater and painting a shiver down your back. It goes through you like a bolt of lightning.

Then he draws back as if nothing happened, gives you a crooked, curling smile, and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

You drop down onto the mattress with a groan, bury your face in the 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and pretend you're not actively trying to strangle yourself. 

"Well," you mumble, voice muffled by the pillowcase, "Happy Christmas to me."

+

Christmas dinner with the Bridgertons is a bizarre experience. Everybody talks over each other, Hyacinth and Gregory chuck spoonfuls of peas at each other, Colin spills a whole ladle of gravy across the tablecloth, Anthony and his wife Kate spend half the meal whispering to each other and the other half stealing kisses, Eloise starts debating politics with Simon (who isn't half as stuffy as you expected a duke to be) at the top of her lungs, and Benedict drinks at least five glasses of sparkling wine before his mother takes the bottle from him.

You watch the whole thing with a feeling in your stomach like a bullet wound.

After a dessert of indefinable mush Hyacinth swore up and down was her homemade plum pudding, you move to a large sitting room. There is a second tree in here, this one a little less obnoxious and covered in homemade ornaments, the exploits of eight children and countless pre-Christmas arts and crafts sessions. The crackling fire paints flushes into the family's cheeks and gives the whole room a homey, rustic atmosphere that seems at odds with the overall elegance of the house.

Everybody is allowed to open one present. You think you see the instantaneous regret on Violet Bridgerton's face when her youngest son unpacks his new portable speakers with a whoop of joy loud enough to bust several eardrums. Watching the pandemonium unfold before you, you sit squished into a corner of the sofa beside Eloise, your hands trapped under your thighs, and try not to feel out of place.

Maybe this was a mistake, you think to yourself. Maybe you shouldn't have intruded on a family holiday as you are, regardless of Eloise's invitation. It must have been a pity thing anyway, what with you saying you were just going to stay in London for Christmas, in your shitty flat with the broken radiator and the leaking pipes. You pretty much guilt-tripped her into that by mentioning the frozen curry you were planning to get from the Tesco frozen section, now that you think about it, and God, you were definitely forcing yourself on them, weren't you, and they were all just way too nice to mention it and…

"Here," Violet's voice tears you from the downward rollercoaster ride about to plunge neck-deep into the pond of anxiety. "Merry Christmas."

She places a flat present in your lap, wrapped in deer-print paper. 

"Oh," you say softly, and your chest feels tight like somebody is pulling a cord taut around it, "you didn't have to…."

"It's just a little thing." Violet has the kind of smile so warm you suspect it could melt ice cubes within seconds. "We're so happy to have you for Christmas."

You feel self-conscious as you unwrap the present, aware of all eyes on you. The paper reveals a picture frame, simple yet tasteful dark wood that feels smooth and supple against your skin. Behind the glass is a watercolor painting, a study of a tulip. The pink petals seem almost life-like in their detail as if a drop of dew should drip off the edge and roll down the picture any moment. You can practically feel it, wet and cold against your fingertip.

"Eloise said you're very fond of flowers. I thought you might find a place for it in your room."

For a head-spinning, gut-wrenching moment, you think you're going to cry. "I… thank you," you choke out. "It's… lovely."

Violet smiles and pats your hand. "It wouldn't be Christmas without a present. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you?"

They move on to Colin, who tears at his wrapping paper with such eagerness he gets a papercut, but you feel stuck. There is a lump in your throat, and you clutch the picture too tightly. Somehow, you realize, you did think they'd forget you. Only that's not really right. To forget you, they'd have to think about you first, and you can't imagine any of the Bridgertons wasting a single thought on you, apart maybe from Eloise. Sure, you spend more time at their house than in your own flat, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? It's not like your own family misses you much this Christmas. You've gotten more than used to being invisible.

"I want this one," Benedict says and, to your horror, lifts one of the presents you left there earlier. "I like the sustainable vibe."

Feeling obliged to get presents for everyone, you'd spent yesterday running through a department store for at least three hours. Mostly it's boxes of chocolates and a book for Eloise, stuff that diminished your already meager savings more acutely than you'd planned for. And then it had come time to choose something for Benedict, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time agonizing over possible presents. By the time you'd made it home, only to realize you'd forgotten to get wrapping paper, all the stores were closed. So you'd wrapped everything in the newspaper the ancient couple living next door hadn't picked up off their welcome mat yet. They're in Cardiff visiting her sister for the holiday, and you're supposed to be watering their plants while they're gone. Which is a task that might be a bit hard to accomplish, seeing as you're currently several hours outside of London. 

"Oh, that's… that's mine," you pipe up, then immediately clear your throat. You've somehow managed to sound like a cartoon mouse. An especially squeaky, pathetic cartoon mouse.

Benedict glances at you, gives you a smile he most certainly inherited from his mother, and says, "Perfect."

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

He has a similar approach to unwrapping presents as his younger brother, but at least he doesn't injure himself in the process. As you watch him, your heart beats somewhere in your throat. Suddenly you're right back where Violet picked you up, on the verge of anxiety about to perform one of history's most spectacular dives.

It might be dramatic to say that your whole life depends on whether your best friend's older brother likes the gift you picked out for him, but apparently, that's where you are now. In the most pathetic turn of events of all time, you're pretty sure the trajectory of your future hinges on this moment.

The improvised wrapping paper floats to the carpet like that plastic bag Katy Perry immortalized in her magnum opus Firework. For a moment, Benedict says nothing, staring at the gift in his hand.

"I can… If you don't like it, I can just return it," you say, even as you start frantically searching your memory for where in the world you put that receipt. Your heart is pumping blood through your veins at a pace that makes you dizzy. "It's not a big deal. It's fine, it was…."

Benedict holds the box of watercolours in front of his chest like some sacred artefact. He opens the lid and peers inside, examining the different shades wordlessly. Then he closes it, looks up, and right at you. A beat passes with him just looking at you, with your heart fluttering its feathery wings against the cage of your teeth, with you squirming in the spot. And then Benedict smiles, wide and bright and honest. "I love it," he says, "thank you. It's fantastic."

Your chest caves in.

"Oh," you whisper, half deaf over the rushing of blood in your ears. "Okay. Cool."

For a second, it looks like Benedict will say something else, like there are words forming on the tip of his tongue, and you feel like you're clinging to a cliff's edge by the tips of your nails. But then Hyacinth pulls the box from his hands to look at the paint, to run her fingers over the shades, and the moment passes.

If somebody asked you later, you wouldn't be able to tell them how the rest of the unwrapping goes. It's all a blur, a mirage of different exclamation and laughter and more or less well-thought-out presents that passes in front of you like a supercut, all of it accompanied by a playlist consisting mainly of Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé. You stay in your spot on the couch, still sitting on your hands, trying not to think about the way Benedict looked at you. Trying not to dream.

When the younger kids rope Colin and Anthony into a game of charades that requires an exorbitant amount of physical movement, you help the others clean up the abandoned shambles of the dinner table. Benedict is doing the dishes in the kitchen when you enter carrying a pale of plates so high you see nothing but the dried gravy Jackson Pollock sprinkled all across the edges.

"Careful." Benedict's fingers brush yours as he takes the plates from you and places them gingerly on the countertop.

"Thanks," you mutter, then spend just one second staring at the broad expanse of his back, holding your hands uselessly in front of you, before turning back toward the dining room, intent on finding something else to occupy yourself with.

Benedict's voice stops you. "Do you want to help me?"

You whirl on your heel embarrassingly fast, clearing your throat when you find him smiling at you. "Uhm. Sure."

He nods toward a dish towel on a rack and asks, "I wash, you dry?"

"Yeah. Sounds amazing." For a second, you genuinely consider slamming your head into one of the kitchen cabinets. Since when has drying dishes ever sounded amazing?

Benedict gives no indication that he thinks you might be the weirdest girl he's ever met, though, so you take that as consolation. He's rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue button-down again, his arms elbow-deep in the sudsy water of the sink, and you pretend not to notice the droplets running down his skin. Outside the window, snow falls in thick ribbons, covering more of the grounds. The faint sound of the Bridgertons enjoying themselves drifts into the kitchen's silence.

You accept the pan he was washing and start running your towel over it. A wet stain soaks into your dress where you press the Teflon-coated edge to your stomach.

"We can put the plates in the dishwasher later," Benedict says, filling the silence gaping like a canyon. "But I think the big stuff we should do by hand. Pots and pans and all that."

Unsure how to answer, you nod. Your mind is whirling, reeling, somersaulting. For so long, you've wanted to be alone with Benedict, have imagined it, dreamed it, conjured it up in your mind. And now here you are, and you can't seem to open your mouth. And it's not even like you have nothing to say, quite the opposite. You have so much to say you don't know where to start.

Like: You look great in that shirt. I hope you like my present. I think you're a great artist. If the Torys keep passing that PM cap around instead of letting us vote, I'm going to scream. I think capybaras are criminally underrated, and I'm glad they're having their moment on social media. How do you feel about turnips? I might have been half in love with you since the first time I met you.

Benedict, putting an end to your spiral, says, "It can be a lot, right?"

"Sorry?"

"The whole thing." He jerks his head in the direction of the dining room, an indulgent smile on his face that tells you all you need to know about Benedict's feelings for his family. "The whole Bridgerton Christmas chaos."

You shrug, lowering your head so he can't see your face, can't see whatever emotion might betray you. "I like it."

"Even Hyacinth's plum pudding? I think that could pass for a murder weapon."

"Yeah," you say, and find that your voice is much too sincere. "Even that. It's not… I've never had this." You cut yourself off immediately, not even sure why you said it in the first place. It's much too easy to be honest with Benedict, and it scares you in ways you can't describe.

"What do you mean?"

It feels like an impossible task to look at him, so you don't. You're too afraid of what you'll find - pity, maybe, or incomprehension. How could someone like Benedict possibly ever understand?

If you turn on a TV around Christmas time and watch a commercial or a movie, if you walk down a shopping street and look at the advertisements playing on screens or smiling from posters, if you pick up a holiday-themed novel, there is a certain feeling being sold to you: of warmth and joy and community. Of smiling grandparents and colorful sweaters. Of presents heaping like molehills beneath gleaming trees. Of roasts and mashed potatoes and peas and carrots and Christmas puddings and beaming families devouring them in perfect harmony. It's the same feeling you encountered right here in this house, in the perfect rooms populated with perfect Bridgertons. In those images, people are always happy.

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

"It's not…." You hesitate. "In my family," you say finally, and hope your voice sounds steadier than it feels, "it's never been good. It was just a lot of yelling, and… I've never had this. The laughing together and enjoying each other's company and all that stuff. The love. And I… I look at it, and I can tell, you see? That it's just so normal to you guys, I think maybe you don't even notice it. But I do. And it just… it doesn't really seem fair."

You don't wait for an answer, instead turning away from him in a way you hope makes it clear that this is not an avenue of conversation you want to pursue. It's like you've just stripped yourself bare in front of him, exposed yourself to his ridicule and his gaze under the unforgiving kitchen lights. It's like you have handed him a map to the innermost parts of yourself. All those ugly, pathetic parts you've spent your life hiding.

Benedict seems to understand because the next thing he says is, "Thank you again for the present."

For a beat, you close your eyes. There, you think. You've got what you wanted. He's ignoring it. He's looking away.

You chance a glance at his side profile, at the furrow between his brows as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of charred carrot sticking to the pot. "You're welcome," you answer. "I'm glad you didn't think it was shitty."

"Why would I think that? It's perfect." When you chuckle, shrug, when the self-deprecating note sneaks into the sound, Benedict ceases his scrubbing to look at you. "I mean it. It's really special."

"It's not even…." You hesitate, wondering if maybe you're fishing for compliments here. Whatever, the validation feels nice, and Benedict seems willing to give it to you, even if he probably finds you annoying. "It's not even a very creative gift. All things considered, you know?"

Everybody knows Benedict likes painting, even though there was some botched stint with the Academy a few years back. He eventually dropped out, but you don't think his aspirations changed.

He shrugs and turns back to the pot. "It is to me. My family all seem to think I'm not serious about the whole art thing, so it's nice to be acknowledged. It doesn't happen that often."

You pause to glance at him. Thrown into relief by the golden spill of the light, bracketed on one side by the winter night, for a moment, he's so pretty you feel your stomach clench. 

"But you're so…" You break off, swallowing. Your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof. "Everybody sees you."

"What do you mean?" Benedict looks at you with real confusion scrunching up his face, and you feel almost stupid.

Helplessly, you shrug, dry the last drops of water off the pan, and put it down on the counter. "Just… People always notice you, you know? When you enter a room or when you go somewhere. I just thought… I thought you must feel really acknowledged. Like all of the time. I don't know."

Your heart is beating so furiously that you wonder if he can hear it. Embarrassment leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as the words escape you. Now he really should file a restraining order, you think. It would be perfectly justified, with you exposing just how much attention you've been paying to everything he does. God, you're a freak, aren't you?

When he smiles at you, there's something sad to the expression. "I've noticed," he says, forming the words carefully, "that what most people acknowledge about me is my family. But that's not the same as acknowledging me. That's not the same as seeing me."

For a moment, you imagine what it must be like. There was such warmth in that room earlier, such joy and love, but there were so many people, too. All of them loud and charming and lovely. All of them wonderful. All of them captivating in their own way. How easy must it be to get swallowed up by the sheer force of all of them? How easy must it be to feel passed over as the second of eight children, always surpassed by somebody else? Always somebody cleverer or funnier or more lovable? Sometimes, you think, it must be a lonely thing to never be alone. Sometimes, you think, he must feel invisible.

"I do," you say, and your face feels hot, your voice sounds far away, your palms are sweaty. "I see you."

Something in Benedict's gaze changes, something transforms, and then he whispers your name, holds it in his mouth like something precious. "I think you…." He swallows, and his eyes rake over your face as if he's searching for something, as if he's hoping for something, and finally, he pushes on, his voice as uncertain as you feel, "I think there's so much more here than you realize. Because I do, too. I see you. And I know you're lonely, and I know you're scared, maybe even as scared as I am, but I think... I think maybe you don't have to be."

It's like being on a frozen lake, right in the middle, side by side, moving step by step, nothing solid in the world but his hand in yours.

He takes a step closer to you at the same time that you move forward, his hip bumping yours, his gaze on your mouth, his knuckles knocking against yours, your breaths hitched, your hands shaking, your head spinning…

"I've got more dishes," Kate chirps, stepping into the kitchen. Immediately, you and Benedict jump apart. You busy yourself with drying the pot furiously as he accepts the new pile of tableware, eyes on anything but you. Then, completely ignoring her brother-in-law, Kate wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you away. "I'm supposed to tell you guests don't have to do dishes. And that's coming from the hostess herself."

If Kate noticed anything off between you two, she doesn't comment. But you could swear you see her casting a long, searching look at you when she deposits you on the couch.

You spend a little longer enjoying the overall Christmas charm of the night. You and Eloise pull apart a cracker together, put the paper crowns on each other's heads, and sit on the rug by the fireplace for hours, chatting, ignoring the general mess around you. When Violet starts making people sing Christmas songs whether they want to or not, you excuse yourself. You've been hiding yawns in the crook of your elbow for the past half hour anyway.

On his way back in from the bathroom, Benedict almost bumps into you in the doorway.

"Oh," he says, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder, and then you both say sorry simultaneously. By now, the eggnog and the absolute shame of whatever passed between you in the kitchen have caught up to you and you giggle like a school girl, staring at the bit of skin exposed where his shirt is unbuttoned.

"Off to bed?" Benedict asks. His voice is gentle enough that, for a moment, the yearning resonates somewhere in your bones.

You nod. "I'm tired."

"Okay." It might be wishful thinking, but he sounds almost disappointed to your ears. "Sleep well, yeah?"

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

"Hey, Ben!" You glance over your shoulder to find Hyacinth grinning at the two of you with something in her eyes you can only describe as the glint of the devil. A dawning sense of horror sends a shiver down your spine. "You're, like, right under the mistletoe, you realize that, yeah?"

Following the line pointed out by her finger with your eyes, you feel the dread pooling in your stomach. And lo and behold, above your eyes, fixed to the doorway, is an unassuming twig of mistletoe.

Have you mentioned that you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie? One with an exceptionally uncreative screenwriter?

When you finally tear your wide eyes away from the mistletoe, feeling helpless, you find Benedict already looking at you. "Ignore her," he says, smiling the smile of the long-suffering. "Hyacinth just wants to stir up trouble. It's fine, nobody's going to make us…."

"Well." From her perch on the arm of Anthony's chair, a saint-like expression on her face, Kate looks once from you to Benedict. "It is tradition."

And then, to your horror, she winks at you. Your stomach plummets down to your feet.

Benedict stares at Kate like she just told him she thinks the moon landing was faked. "I… I don't think…."

Anthony, after exchanging some private glance probably only decipherable to spouses, shrugs and leans back in his chair. "I agree," he says. "It is tradition."

"And a very nice tradition, too," Daphne affirms, crossing her legs and taking a dainty sip from her wine glass. No wonder not even the gossip columns ever have anything bad to say about her. She's perfect. "It would be a shame to let that opportunity go to waste."

With a look on his face you can describe only as aghast, Benedict turns to you. “I… uhm… Is it… okay?"

If you lived in the nineteenth century, you'd be asking a servant to bring you your smelling salts by now. Slowly, you nod, even though you're so dizzy, you're not sure you don't completely mess up the movement. "It… it's fine, yeah," you agree.

Benedict's hand finds the side of your face. You're so aware of all the eyes on you that, for a moment, you think you might be sick all over Benedict's shoes. He's so close you can feel his breath on your face and smell his cologne. Your toes are going numb.

"You sure?" he mumbles, leaning even closer, only an inch separating you. He has very kind eyes. If you said no now, you know he wouldn't even be mad.

Beyond words, beyond any thought past oh god I can't believe this is really happening oh dear god he's about to kiss me, you just nod. 

"Oh, for god's sake!" That's Simon. "Just kiss the girl and be done with it, Benedict."

So he does. It's little more than a quick press of dry mouth to dry mouth, but your heart almost beats out of your chest. You feel his fingers tighten against the side of your face, feel his slightly-chapped lips, taste the eggnog and the chocolate and the wine. Then, when he pulls away, just for a beat, he lingers, his exhale a gasp, and for that instant, it's like you're the last two people on the planet, like he's the only thing that matters, like nothing existed before you and nothing will after you're gone. Suspended in time.

"Great!" Eloise calls, throwing her hands into the air. "First, Colin starts going out with Penelope, and now Benedict is snogging you. Will you people ever leave my friends alone?"

A collective burst of laughter travels through the room, and then the chattering returns, the paused music resumes, and you stand there, unsure what to do with yourself, unsure how to continue on when it feels like the whole world just shifted an inch to the left and nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore.

Benedict's hand is solid against the small of your back. "Will you… will you stay a little longer?" he asks, his voice hesitant.

It doesn't sound like he just means tonight. You don't think he just means tonight.

You swallow, exhale a shaky breath. And then you say, keeping your eyes on nothing but him, "Yeah. I'll stay."

Benedict beams. It's a sight that lights up his whole face, rivaling that ridiculous Christmas tree out in the Bridgerton's entrance hall. "Lovely," he says. For a beat, his eyes flicker back to your mouth, but then he just grins. "Merry Christmas."

You can't help it - you laugh. There's relief in the sound, the kind you haven't felt in a long, long time. Here, with the fire crackling and Gregory and Francesca delivering what could perhaps be the worst rendition of All I Want for Christmas Is You the world has ever known, it feels a little like maybe, just maybe, being seen isn't half as scary as you thought it was.

"Yeah," you agree and slide your fingers into the spaces between his. "Merry Christmas, Benedict."

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. But, God, are you happy you were wrong.

[lovepookie]

₊˚ෆ Huh? What?- k.gb

♡ sypnosis: your childhood friend gyubin had managed to bribe you into being his date to an all exclusive couple’s christmas frat party, but you know more than anyone present that you don’t belong there. the way gyubin’s been eyeing you the whole night, the slight touches here and there; the way your heart beats fast in your chest in response—none of it belongs because you’re just supposed to be friends—right?

♡ genre: fluff, slight angst? suggestive, childhood bestfriends to lovers, crack, college au, older reader,

♡ 5.3k word count

♡ warnings: suggestive, sexual innuendos, drinking mentioned, cussing, insecure reader, please let me know if there’s any you’d like me to add!

♡ nano note: hello loves! this is my first au post on here! i hope you enjoy my writing and rendition of gyubin!! also please don’t mind the fact that it’s written for christmas! i know im late rip. xoxo

It didn’t make any sense.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, nothing ever did as of recent. Parties were never your thing, so what exactly were you doing here?

You sat awkwardly on a strangers couch, your childhood bestfriend’s thighs pushed extremely close to yours as Christmas club-remixed songs blare through an expensive surround sound system. This made it impossible for you to hear conversations right in front of you.

It’s dim inside, only christmas string lights on a nearby christmas tree and on the spiral staircase give off an expensive glow—it makes you feel increasingly more poor as time ticks on.

“Okay guys! Squish together! Time to play some games!” Someone yells as more people struggled to fit on the couch and floor space around you.

You can’t help but glare at your “friend”, eyeing their neck because wow, you suddenly have the urge to strangle someone.

Today might be the day.

“Alright, ladies and gentleman! Let’s go ahead and start the game!” The party host yelled through their stupid karaoke makeshift microphone—you side eye them for their sobriety.

The egg-nog was spiked.

The hot cocoa was definitely not made with milk.

No liquid here was safe.

“Alright guys, we are going to play telephone! A very fun and unique sentence is going to be said on this side of the room, then the person to your left will whisper it to you to the best of their ability only once! If we can make it to the other end of the room with the same sentence being spoken, we have mini Jell-O shots in the shape of Christmas trees and snowmen that we can pass around! Lets start!” They say excitedly, as the eyes of the drunkards around you sparkle in delight.

Suddenly your best friend, yes the one sitting to the left of you, leans towards you to whisper out of concern.

“Are you alright? You good? Do you want to go get some fresh air?” Gyubin whispers, thick lips brushing the slightest bit against your ear lobe.

You feel you’re going to go insane.

The game hasn’t even started, but his face was already so fucking close to yours, and you swore you felt his breath down your neck.

“I-I’m fine Gyub. I’ll play.” You nervously let out, eyes never meeting his and hoping you could sink into the floor.

You feel his worried eyes on you for just a second before he’s placing his big hand on your knee.

“Remember when you fell at school that one time and almost broke your kneecap?” He whispers playfully, hand going to pat your leg in an attempt to get your mind off the current crowded area.

You roll your eyes and smack him on the shoulder, a nervous smile making it’s way to your lips.

“Shut up.” You muster as he giggles, eyes crinkling by the corners in a way that somehow calms you down a notch.

“Hey!- I carried you all the way to the infirmary and you still haven’t said thank you..” He teases, head tilting closer to make sure you can hear him.

You feel a blush surface on your face and decide to reason to yourself that it’s due to the close proximity of the pretty stranger to the right of you.

Definitely not because of your childhood best-friend on the left.

You were going to be sick.

Well, why did you even agree to come to the party? one might be asking…

You were forced!

Forced I tell you!

By none other than your idiotic and pest of a bestfriend that’s currently breathing down your neck right now.

Apparently this Christmas frat party happened every year and it had a strict policy that was enforced; bring a date.

Now, Gyubin was quite the character on your college campus; he was one of your only friends but the opposite could be said for him. He was a popular guy who was part of multiple committees and even played on the official varsity basketball team that your university was widely notorious for. He wasn’t a star player by any means, but he definitely knew and even roomed with them. His friend group were some of the cutest guys on campus too.

And your anti-social and loser ass just had to be born to his Mother’s best friend a few years before he was.

It was like every trope ever; two best friends grow up and have children that they would practically raise together in hopes that one day they’d fall in love and get married. This was the only way that they could finally have the right to officially call each other family.

It was a nightmare and you were handed the short end of the stick, but Gyubin, as annoying as he was, grew on you over the years.

You were older and always wiser, but one year he’d caught up to you in height just to surpass you completely a year later.

He’d use his height to his advantage to throw you around and mess with your things when he and his mother would visit your house, but he was also the one to fend off your bullies in highschool and carry you to the infirmary that one year when you nearly busted your kneecap at school.

He had always looked out for you, just like you had done for him.

Soon enough college came around and he was able to skip a grade and enroll into college a year after you. Suddenly, he was all grown up.

He was eye-candy for the girls on campus, and you’d always noticed the way they’d glare at you when he and his friends stopped you at school events.

Oh, he always had a girlfriend too.

But this year…something was different.

He was…single.

And now he couldn’t go to the notorious party that he attended every year.

So naturally, it was easy for him to persuade you into going with him—something you never thought you’d let happen.

All the really cool people were here; the smart girls, groupies of the sports players, people in incredibly short red skirts with the fluffy white lining on them—yeah, those one’s—you definitely didn’t belong here.

Parties were never your thing.

But Gyubin had promised he’d help you with your capstone for English or that he’d get one of his smart friends to help you. There was also the three weeks of meals he’d agreed to buy for you, but right now showing up as his date and forcing yourself to look like you were interested in Gyubin made your stomach churn with something you were very scared of.

He’d taken it all too seriously, asking you to match him with your outfit in silver and black—calling you pretty when you got in his car in the too short dress that you knew was never meant for the middle of the winter.

He’d put his arm around you whilst having to get cleared to walk into the lavish gates at the front of the property and you couldn’t deny yourself of the fact that he smelled too good in the cologne you’d gotten him for his birthday a while back.

You swore he rarely wore it despite him telling you it was his favorite cologne now, but today it was like he was drenched in the scent—and you hated that you liked it.

It had been a tense hour of mingling and being side-eyed by the girlies who lingered around some of the sports players, but things really started to change pace when more alcohol was passed around and the people who clearly came with a fake filler date started to gather on the makeshift dance floor in the center of the large living room.

You were scared out of your mind that Gyubin would leave you alone for the opportunity to mingle on the dance floor, but the opposite happened.

He stayed right by your side the whole time, even getting his pretty friend, Ricky, to help drag you into the crowd to dance.

It wasn’t long before your frown and knitted brows were softened and Gyubin was grabbing onto your hands; flailing them for you in order to get you to dance.

He laughed and laughed and in turn, the way your body awkwardly wiggled got a laugh out of you too.

Not even twenty minutes later and suddenly the DJ was urging everyone over to the couches to play games, and what do you know; your anxiety was back and worse than before.

“Alright!” The host starts, taking your mind out of your nerves and back on the expensive velvet sofa.

“Let’s start with you Jiwoong, I’ll whisper the phrase to you, then pass it on to Jina.”

You watch as the game starts, the smile on Jiwoongs face brightening as he is told the secret phrase.

“This game kind of sucks, should I tell you the wrong thing on purpose?” Gyubin whispers to you, sending you a cheeky smile.

“No! I have to talk to the next person and if you make me say something stupid I will strangle you.” You mumble, sending him another death glare.

He chuckles as his hand raises to ruffle your hair.

You go to elbow Gyubin, but are interrupted when the person to the left of him taps his shoulder.

She’s pretty; long black wavy hair framing her face in a way that gave off this elegant vibe.

You take note in the way she leans in and shields her lips to whisper to Gyubin insinuating flirtation; exposing more of her cleavage and making the guys watching from across the room salvate at the mouth.

Men.

Gross.

But what about Gyubin?

You eye the way he nods at her, almost unfazed at her touches on his shoulder and flirty demeanor.

Hmm.

Interesting.

Once his little bird brain had heard and comprehended the phrase, he shoots her the ‘okay’ gesture with his fingers and turns to you with a wide playfull smile.

You blush against your will, very aware of the many eyes currently on you.

(Definitely not because of his wide ones.)

Still, you squint your eyes at Gyubin in warning as he leans in. His hand comes into contact with the side of your cheek to whisper in your ear.

Your breath hitches when you feel his breath back near the side of your head, and you internally curse yourself to pay attention so the game runs smoothly.

“Seok Matthew has a big sack, Myung Jina is mommy—and i saw mommy kissing Santa Clause.” Gyubin whispers, rendering your brain foggy at the spicy information that you were being told.

If you remembered correctly, Jina had a longtime boyfriend, and Matthew was a new exchange student. Your eyes widen as you turn your face to search Gyubin’s for confirmation.

Gyubin’s eyebrows are raised, eyes wide, as he nods his head back at you with the most sincere look on his face. It was as if he were saying; “I’m just telling you what i was told. I can’t make this shit up.”

“Hey! You two! You only get one shot! Pass the message on.” The host says, pointing you and Gyubin out. You nod shyly but squint your eyes at Gyubin in suspicion as you turn to the handsome guy next to you.

He smiles and leans your way for you to whisper the secret, and the way dent-like-whiskers adorned the apple’s of his cheeks had you feeling even more blushy.

He was cute—and you weren’t sure you wanted to tell him this phrase.

When you lean in towards the stranger, you’re completely oblivious to the furrowing of brows on Gyubin’s face.

“Merry Christmas, Drinks at the game next week are on Seok Matthew.” You decide to whisper.

The pretty whiskered-boy looks at you with his own eyebrows raised, quite excited over the possibility of free drinks.

You chuckle and gesture for him to pass the message along, to which he does.

Just as you feel a tap from your shoulder from Gyubin, another swarm of people emerge from the backyard. There’s then a push for everyone inside to squish in further.

Your heart starts beating at the sudden movement, both of your legs pushed up against two men that you find oddly attractive. What? No. No you don’t.

“Alright people! If you can, please find a lap to sit on!” Says the host, and your neck immediately snaps over to Gyubin in shock. He seems to have the same reaction, his face morphing into a shocked expression of his own.

You shake your head at him before turning your face when you feel whiskers to your right tap your shoulder.

“Uh- I don’t mind if you sit on my lap—Oh my god! That sounds terrible, I-I promise I’m not trying to be weird-“

Whilst you fidget and blush, mind racing to figure out if this is your cue to make a run for it, Gyubin’s big hands are suddenly pulling you toward him.

“That’s okay, she’s with me.” He says firmly, cutting whiskers off with the most fake smile you’ve ever seen him plaster on his face.

You feel your ears burn and before you know it—

“Gyubin! What are you-“

In seconds you are being pulled onto Gyubin’s lap, his right hand grabbing your arm to guide you towards him and his left landing on your waist to sit you down.

Your eyes widen.

Was this really happening?

“Just sit here for the end of this round and then we can find space outside.” Gyubin whispers from behind into your hair, his hands going around your waist and touching his own elbows as he nonchalantly pulls you close.

You feel your tongue go numb.

Your brain was drained of it’s contents—thought process disappearing like it’d been stolen by a thief in the night.

y/n.exe has stopped responding.

And oh man, Gyubin was so glad that you couldn’t see how pathetically happy he was right now.

He could feel a blush creep up the nape of his neck, but he didn’t care. You smelled like cotton candy and vanilla and he had lowkey wanted to engulf you into his arms all day.

He just couldn’t help it; your shy and anxious frame had his stomach doing backflips all day and it had caused him to continuously question himself on whether or not this whole thing was a good idea.

Yes, he took a chance and asked his best-friend out, and yes, he knew that it was under the guise of him just being able to get into the party, but man oh man, being able to see the faces of the guys around him and prove that he was able to get you here as his date was priceless.

It was like an unspoken thing; most of Gyubin’s friends knew of his infatuation with you because of how much he’d go on tangents and unprovoked story-times of you.

It had been almost half-a-year since they’d practically smacked him upside the head with the realization that maybe he was in love with you?

Yeah.

And it took a whole month for him to finally approach you and ask you to be his date.

Did it go exactly how he planned it to go?

No.

Because now he owed you food for three weeks and had to get Zhanghao to write your English paper—but the most heartbreaking thing of all?

You thought that he was using you.

You think that he asked you to go with him because he wanted to attend this stupid party—which was only half true—but his intentions were, shockingly, pure.

He’d been in his head for weeks because he hadn’t been going after girls like he usually would as his eyes were completely set on you, and now here you were sitting in his lap, his arms wrapped around you—Ooh if this wasn’t what a winner felt like, Gyubin wasn’t sure what was.

Kind of.

He did see the way you bit down on your bottom lip nervously, your pupils shaking anxiously because of the crowds.

He saw the way you flushed when Ricky had shown up and urged you to dance.

And he saw the way you looked at Hanbin who sat next to you, completely mesmerized by his kind demeanor.

If you weren’t currently in his arms at the moment, he’d still be in his head thinking about how all that you seemed entranced by, and all that you yearned for, was everything he wasn’t. Plus, that you were super uncomfortable on top of it all.

But that was thirty-five seconds ago, and right now he felt this whole thing was going quite delightfully in his favor.

“Alright! It seem’s that during the move we managed to get to the end of the telephone line!” The host rings out cheerfully, “Now Chungsoo! Please tell us what the message is!”

You and Gyubin’s eyes are anywhere but on poor Chungsoo.

All you can think about is Gyubin.

The way his arms hold you firmly; the way his laugh rings so close to your ears when one of his friends crack a joke from the other side of the couch.

Your heart was beating faster than it ever had before and the way it jammed against your chest in a solid beat let you know that you were, in fact, crazy.

Do I…?

Like Kim Gyu—

“You know it’s Christmas when Kim Gyubin pulls another girl we’ve never seen before. This time we have a cougar.” Chungsoo says.

Your eyes snap over to the owner of the voice that resonates in the now quiet room as you feel Gyubin’s arms softening from around you. It’s only quiet for a second however, because as soon as everyone inside grasps what was said, you hear some ‘ooooh’s’ along with bouts of snickering laughter.

You feel your cheeks go hot, but this time its a sickening feeling when mixed with the metal taste salvating in the inside of your mouth as you resist the urge to cry on the spot.

“That’s not even funny-“ Gyubin starts, voice booming from behind you in a tone that you knew meant he was angry, but you don’t have the heart to stick around any longer because you were really going to be sick.

Within seconds you’re up on your feet and smacking Gyubin’s hands away as they try and grab at your torso.

“Wait!“ He calls out as you make your way through the crowd of eyes staring at your fleeing frame.

You feel them.

You feel it.

Shame.

Pity.

Everyone’s amusement, all at your expense.

You feel another crash of embarrassment take over you and it fills your tear ducts with moisture as you take in the gazes everyone is sending you.

It’s not until you’ve made your way outside where the cold air that hits your skin free’s you from your sickness.

You take a deep breath, walking out to the side of the house where only a few couples could be found making out here and there.

It’s there where you find a small area of secluded wall that you decide to lean on in order to try and catch your breath. You just wanted to do anything you could to stop yourself from letting any tears fall.

This is so embarrasing.

You knew you shouldn’t have come.

And what the fuck?

Who was out to get Gyubin?

Was he in on this?

Would he stoop this low?

Did you have feelings for your best friend who clearly didn’t like you in that way?

If he did want to interfere in your two’s friendship, was this a shot at making you one of his flings?

Where was the nearest shooting range?

You feel a couple tears slip down your face and a shiver runs down your spine as you finally register the cold, but the sight of Gyubin searching for you is what takes most of your attention away from your own thoughts.

When he turns his head your way and his eyes meet yours, your lips quiver without your permission. Once he starts walking over to you with the most worried expression plastered across his face, something in you switches.

“Sorry, I don’t know why the fuck they would say that, are you okay-“

“Gyubin, do you like me?” You question, tone dead and eyes borring into his soul.

You were tired.

“What? Don’t listen to them, they-“ Gyubin tries to reason, hands outstretched and reaching for yours.

“So you don’t? I knew I shouldn’t have come here with you.”

Gyubin feels his heart shatter.

You regret this.

You regret him.

Is this the part where you tell him you hate him?

“No! Stupid, I like you. Like…like like you. I asked you to come with me because I….I have feelings for you.” Gyubin finally lets out, tired of all the games.

His gaze holds yours and you can feel his worrisome sincerity.

He was worried.

Why?

Was he thinking the same thing you were?

You were older.

You two were best friends.

You’d known eachother your whole lives.

You didnt know what life was like without eachother.

Could your feelings fuck with that?

Was this a mistake?

Did Gyubin just lose you?

You search his eyes back and forth, hoping that there you would find the speck of mischief that they’d always contained.

Was this a joke?

Was this all a big fucking joke?

Meanwhile, Gyubin couldnt help but read you like a picture book.

He watch as you searched him for his sincerity, and yes, he knows that he isnt a serious person at all, but damn, he really does like you.

He’d almost go as far as to say that he was in love with you.

He liked you so much and it scared him because, in turn, he saw the way you searched his eyes with a fear of your own.

And just like that, he figured that very fear was enough.

It was enough to assume that there was a possibility.

There was a possibility you loved him maybe a little bit way deep down inside; a possibility that you saw him as more than a friend—that you saw him as a man.

He’d already spoken his feelings, he’d already ruined the friendship.

Fuck it.

“Gyubin….“ You start, words failing to form, but all his name does is linger for a second in the quiet before he’s rushing towards you.

Before you could process, he’s pulling you close, one hand finding your waist and the other finding your jaw.

“If you don’t say anything in three seconds I am going to kiss you.” He states, big eyes staring clear into yours with a purpose.

So there you are, your face closer than ever before to his—and cotton candy and vanilla fills Gyubin’s senses.

One.

You don’t dare to move despite your inner monologue begging you to save the only genuine friendship you’d ever known.

You don’t move a muscle.

Two.

Gyubin’s eyes continue to search yours, a hopeful light shining in them as the milliseconds pass by.

You can feel his hand shake for a split second, and in an effort to hide it, he goes to brush strands of your hair from your face.

Three.

You flinch your eyes closed, bracing for possibly the worst and best moment of your life.

And it’s sweet.

He presses his lips against yours for just a second, but it’s sweeter than your perfume, Gyubin notes.

Your lips are soft and plush, and Gyubin feels he’s about to grow wings and ascend up into the sun to die a very warm death.

You were perfect.

The moment he pulls away, he’s scared to open his eyes, but when he finally does you’re already staring back.

“Gyubin- we- we’re- we’re supposed to be friends…” You mumble incredulously, almost like you’re trying to grapple with what just went down.

Did Kim Gyubin just kiss you?

Did you just like it???

“Right? We came here as best friends so-“ You reason.

Gyubin’s not going to lie, he feels like the sky is closing in on him.

But he knows you enjoyed it.

You didn’t stop him.

There was no hesitation too, right?

Right?

“Really? Because I’m not really 100% sure, but last time I checked, best friends don’t kiss.” Gyubin states simply, eyeing you whilst he kind of loses it inside.

He never backs up, and now that your back is pressed against the white brick wall behind you and you have nowhere to run, his hand leaves your face and finds it’s way next to your head.

He leans in again before you can gather your thoughts to respond to him, then he dips his face very close to yours.

You feel his breath fan your face for only a second whilst you watch his eyes falter from yours and glance at your lips.

His cheeks are rosy now; his pupils are dilated and you swear you see a smile for just a split second before his lips are on yours again.

It’s almost like he waits for you to react, because for what feels like an eternity, neither of you move.

Gyubin laughs against your lips before pulling his lips apart from yours, but then he dips back in to peck your bottom lip a couple times.

It feels new.

It feels…right.

You move your own lips in accordance with his for a second, but as soon as your eyes flutter open to meet his in an effort to read his demeanor, his lips detach from yours completely.

“…and friends don’t kiss back.” He finally whispers, shooting you a pretty playful smile before he hangs his head down bashfully, cheeks on fucking fire.

You feel your face flush, and you just know you have to be changing colors because, what the fuck?!

You immediately smack Gyubin’s chest whilst your other hand goes up to shield your face.

“Aye, Stop playing with me Kim Gyubin.” You mutter out furiously, completely taken aback at his smoothness and the fact that you had basically just made out with your best fucking friend.

Gyubin’s chuckles start slow when they fill your ears as he stares at the ground, but when you catch a glimpse of his pretty face, the chuckles turn to a full on fit of laughter.

“I really can’t with you right now, you’re sooooo cute~” He mumbles through his laughter, leaning back in and grabbing your hands away from your face so he could peck your lips one more time for good measure.

You blush madly at this.

Who the hell does this punk think he is?

“Stop laughing- and stop kissing me!” You plead, trying to put on an angry face but failing miserably as he continues to laugh at you.

“No.” He says nonchalantly as he gathers himself and leans down to kiss your cheek, practically squishing your cheek in the process.

“Ahhh! What are we going to do with you? Hmmm?” He asks, bending his vowels and talking down to you like he always has.

You smack him away again, but it’s all in vain effort because he takes your arms and wraps them around his own waist for you.

“Just hug me, loser. It’s time to think of ways to break this news to our mom’s.” He says, swaying you both back and forth against your own will.

You can’t help but just be glad that your face is stuffed into his chest as you turn ripe like a tomato—the thought of your mother’s finding out about this makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“We’re not telling them! What do you want to tell them? ‘Hey mom! We’re home! Oh! By the way, we kissed!?!?” You reason incredulously into his chest.

This causes Gyubin to laugh even more.

“No! We have to tell them that we’re dating now. Let’s keep this particular situation a secret please—your dad won’t be too happy to hear it.” He says, taking your arms from around him and urging you to detach yourself. You slowly let go and make some distance between you both, titling your head towards him in confusion.

“Dating? Me and you? Haa!” You laugh out, deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine for once. You watch as Gyubin pouts, his tall lanky form sulking as he quickly lets go of your two’s intertwined hands.

“Wow, just gonna go and break my heart already? Should’ve known.” He states, walking away from you as he fetches his keys out of his back pocket.

“Yup! You should have known. I kind of have a line of men just waiting to date me, so you should skip to the back.” You say, following after him and down the driveway so you both can escape the sprawling property.

It was time to leave.

“Wow…well lucky for me, I can just call your mom right now and tell her that we’re finally together and that her daughter’s already cheating on me. Then what?” He asks, turning his body to walk backwards as he eyes you.

You blush in response, rolling your eyes to show him you’re completely unfazed by his words; it’s then that you notice your muavey-maroon lipstick had left a stain on Gyubin lips, making him look extra pretty. You snort to stifle your laughter as you eye him up and down; and for the first time ever in your presence known to you, Gyubin goes shy.

“Why are you looking at me like that? What are you laughing for? Is the thought of dating me that bad?” Gyubin questions, sending you an almost hurtful look as he stops walking, lanky slenderman frame sulking in the cold.

You chuckle and stop walking too, leaning just close enough to grab him by his belt loop and pull him closer.

Gyubin feels his heart burst in his chest.

Never in a million years did he think you’d do that to him.

New kink unlocked.

You chuckle at his blushy cheeks and rise up on your tippy-toes to wipe his lips with the pad of your thumb.

It takes a few swipes before it makes a difference in color, but when you look up from your thumb and back up at Gyubin, he’s staring down at you with this puppy-like look; eyes saying more than you could ever comprehend.

You know…that look.

You can’t help but laugh as you snatch the keys from his grasp and walk down the hill to the gate that you had entered just a few hours ago. There’s a second of internal reflection—the turns had tabled so quickly through the night.

But you were excited.

“Come on Gyub, I want a Baja Blast, tonight was very stressfull.” You state plainly. This garners a pretty laugh from him as he jogs up beside you.

He’s quick to scoop your hand up and intertwine your fingers, sending you an amused smile.

“Yes ma’m, whatever you say.”

Gyubin’s feels a weight lifted off his shoulders.

He feels that maybe the party was semi-worth it given that you had ended up actually his…

But fuck.

He still owed you food for three weeks. Maybe he could persuade you otherwise with kisses.

Maybe.

And just maybe, he could get you to come back to the party next year to prove everybody wrong.

You were here to stay.

“Y’know, now that we’re together, I don’t think you should ever wear that dress out in public again. Also you can’t be friends with Hanbin-hyung, I forbid you!!” Gyubin demands, half joking half serious with his goofy wide eyes.

You eye him up and down one more time before he unlocks the car door for you to hop in.

“Kim Gyubin, kiss my ass-“

“Gladly-“

“Huh?”

“What?”

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