#the bench and swing theory

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

[ace-spades-1]

Matchmaker

Pairing: Clarisse La Rue x fem!reader and a bit of Faith x Elijah

Summary: Faith is tired of watching Y/N and Clarisse fall in love with each other because she knows they will never act on it. It’s time to take action and with the help of some friends.

a/n: This is kind of a part two of the Orange Peel Theory but it can be read as a stand alone. Sorry for any grammar errors or if any parts start getting confusing. I wrote a few of these in the middle of the night. I’m so happy with how it turned out. I hope you guys like it too.

Word count: 2.3k

—----

Y/N stood up from the arts and crafts benches and ran to Clarisse, who was trying to murder a dummy. Swinging and stabbing the dummy as if it were a monster or Percy himself. Her stabbing stopped at the sight of Y/N walking up beside her, palm open proudly showing her the beaded bracelet she had made.

Faith watched at the arts and crafts benches as the two conversed with one another before Y/N wrapped the bracelet around Clarisse’s wrist, thanked her and left. Leaving Clarisse standing on the training grounds looking longingly at the bracelet displayed on her wrist. Faith groaned and abruptly stood up from her spot on the bench startling the Athena boy beside her.

“Okay, that’s it! We need to do something about those two!”

The Athena boy looked at her confused, he looked towards the training grounds where Clarisse had started to attack the dummy once again except this time it was thought there was something on her mind.

“Do what? About who?”

Faith gave the boy an exhausted look pulling him up off his seat and making him stand next to her.

“Clarisse and my sister. They’ve been dancing around each other for months and have done nothing!”

Faith looked as though she was ready to start pulling her hair out.

“My sister! The daughter of Aphrodite is afraid of flirting! Can you believe it?!”

“You were afraid of even approaching me when you first saw me because you were so in love. If I remember correctly you had one of your sisters approach me first, princess.”

The girl looked at the boy, face flushed remembering the moment.

“That’s different, Elijah!”

She took a breath to calm down, face still flushed as she looked back at Clarisse,

“Besides, this isn’t about me. This is about my sister and Clarisse. I know exactly what to do. We’ll need some help.”

“Oh boy.”

Faith grabbed Elijah’s hand pulling him towards the big house. Inside, the eldest son of Dionysus kneeled in front of his father begging him to conjure up a Red Bull. At least one just to get him through the day. The door hitting the wall made his begging stop, his attention turned towards the two figures standing in the doorway.

“ISAAC—”

Faith looked at the boy on the ground kneeling at his father her face filled with confusion and shock,

“What are you doing?”

Isaac stood up from the ground, dusting off his pants.

“I just want a Red Bull, okay?! These kids are going to drive me crazy! What do you want?”

“I’m sick and tired of watching Y/N and Clarisse do nothing but give each other longing glances and mild flirting. I have a plan on how we can get them together! We need all the help we can get.”

Isaac’s eyes widened at the mention of Y/N. After growing up together Isaac grew protective of her, never letting any boys near her. Even after arriving at camp he still makes sure no boy gets even ten feet from her, especially the Ares children. More specifically the daughter of Ares. He knew of the affection growing between the two and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Woah! Slow down, cupid wannabe! I don’t want my best friend to end up with the camp bully!”

“You don’t want her to end up with anybody!” Elijah quickly butted in,

“Shut it, Einstein! I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Come on, Isaac! Don’t you want her to be happy?! We both know that Clarisse will protect her with her life.”

Isaac let out a frustrated sigh running his hand through his already messy hair.

“Fine! But if she so much as lay a hand on her I will put a curse on her!”

Faith quickly nodded in agreement before grabbing his hand and pulling him and Elijah out of the big house, barely squeezing through the door and running towards the Ares cabin. Once again Faith kicked the door open making the door hit the wall. The children inside startled, pointed their spears toward the door ready to attack.

Only to be met with a panting girl, her hands still clutching the two boys’ hands who were now on the ground.

“Where’s Cealton!”

The kids pointed at a sleeping kid in the corner of the room. A leg hanging off the bed and drooling at the corner of his mouth. Faith let go of the two boys' hands and walked to the sleeping boy. She looked down at him for a moment before throwing him off the bed, making him hit his face on the floor.

Cealton looked at the girl above him rubbing his nose,

“What was that for?”

Faith leaned down,

“I have a plan to get our sister’s together.”

—---

The four of them sat together at the Dionysus table. Cealton now had a bandage over his nose as he ate his lunch, Isaac happily drinking his Red Bull, and Elijah looking at Faith as she paced.

“I need them to confess to each ther in the next 3 days and I know exactly how. First…”

“ Wednesday: We need to show Y/N that Clarisse does like her.”

—-

Clarisse walked towards the archery field, spear in hand. One of her brothers had asked her if she could help him with a bow and arrow as he had trouble with it. She scoffed at the request, annoyed that her brother had bothered her during her rest but agreed anyway. The scowl on her face faded as quickly as it came at the sight of Y/N in the archery field attempting to shoot an arrow. Her brows furrowed, frustrated all of her arrows had either been too far or short.

“Hey Y/N.”

Y/N looked up from her bow, smiling at Clarisse as she approached.

“Clarisse, what are you doing here?”

“My brother asked me to help him with the bow and arrow. How about you?”

Y/N sighed frustrated looking back at her bow.

“Also practicing. I want to get better. I want to do more than just sit around and do nothing during capture the flag. I want to help out, y’know.”

“I can help you if you want. Here let’s start with your stance.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath as Clarisse stood behind her letting her hand guide her. She took a deep breath as she pulled back the string of her bow, her heart beating faster as Clarrise rested a hand on her waist. She ignored the hand and tried to focus on aiming her bow towards the target. After a moment she let go.

Y/N let out a breath, her hand clutching her bow tightly, her eyes wide at the arrow that pierced the center of the target.

“Nice job, gorgeous.” Clarisse whispered in Y/N’s ear.

Y/N looked back at Clarisse, their nose touching. Just as they leaned in…

“Y/N! Could I get some help?”

The two quickly pulled away from each other turning towards an upcoming camper. Their voice is toned out as Y/N tries to calm her beating heart once again their reasoning of interrupting blurred. The camper suddenly started to pull Y/N away making her give Clarisse a rushed thank you before disappearing.

The matchmakers watched the scene unfold from the bushes. Isaac being held back by Cealton as Faith barely held in a shriek of delight watching the two girls nearly kiss.

“I just wanted them to talk for a bit but that works!”

“I guess we can move on to step two?”

—---

“Thursday: Second step. Clarisse should ask Y/N out”

“Tell me again why Clarisse needs to give Y/N something?”

“My sister has always been the one to give her something. It’s time for her to return the gesture.”

“Uh huh, and why am I the one doing it with her? Why not you or Isaac or Cealton”

“Because I want to talk to my sister, Isaac is busy taking over his dad’s job, again, and Cealton is busy teaching little kids how to use a sword. Now go.”

Elijah sighed and cautiously approached Clarisse. After some convincing and a mention of Y/N’s name once or twice Clarisse agreed to make flower crowns with the little kids as Y/N and Faith walked by the shore lines of the beach.

“So are you planning on doing anything tomorrow, Faith?”

“I was planning on having a midnight picnic with Elijah by Thalia’s tree. How about you? Finally going to confess to Clarisse?”

Y/N smiled and imagined herself and Clarisse walking by the shore, hands intertwined. Just the thought of Clarisse made her heart soar. She couldn’t imagine a world without her. She’d go through tartarus and back just for her.

“I think I will. I suppose it is time to finally tell her how I feel.”

“Yay! I’ll help you prepare a speech.”

Y/N laughed at her sister’s excitment. Just then Elijah and Clarisse emerged from the trees (why did they go through the woods? idk) each having a flower crown in hand. Elijah excitedly showed Faith the one he had made, happily putting it on her head. As Clarisse gave Y/N her the two stepped out to the side having their own little conversation.

—----

“Friday: Confession time.”

Y/N had said yes to going on a date with Clarisse and Faith was determined to make everything perfect for their confession. First it started with Cealton giving his sister flowers to give to Y/N, then Isaac, somehow, convinced Chiron and Dionysus to excused Clarisse and Y/N from any activities for today, Elijah and Faith had set up a little picnic for the two by the beach, and time finally came for them to confess to one another.

The two girls were walking by the shore, hands intertwined as the sun set on the horizon. Once again the matchmakers were in the bushes spying on the two,

“Okay it’s sunset. Y/N said she’ll confess to Clarisse when the sun sets. Why isn’t she confessing?!”

“Princess, calm down. Let her take her time, she’s probably still nervous.”

The two girls stopped and stared at each other, a small breeze hitting them. Clarisse took off her jacket and wrapped it around Y/N’s shoulders as she hugged herself shivering from the small breeze. The two looked at each other’s eyes, Y/N’s hands resting on Clarisse’s chest as the other wrapped her arms around Y/N’s waist keeping her close. The two stood there in silence, wishing for the moment to last forever.

“Clarisse, I—”

*SPLASH*

The two were suddenly soaking wet from getting hit by water. They looked to the docks not too far away, to see Percy, Grover, and Annabeth looking back at the two girls in horror. Percy started to run for his life as Clarisse chased after him with her spear yelling profanities and words that would make even Hades blush. Grover, Annabeth, and Y/N running closely behind the two trying to stop the girl from maiming the poor boy.

—---

Faith let out an exhausted groan as she sat on one of the benches outside the Ares cabin with the three boys surrounding her. After successfully calming Clarisse down they led the two soaking girls back to Aphrodite cabin to get cleaned up. Apparently Percy had been practicing his powers when he started to lose control and unfortunately Clarisse and Y/N just so happened to be there at the wrong time.

“All I wanted to do was to make them confess to one another. It’s clear as day that they are meant for each other. Was that so much to ask?”

Elijah’s brows furrowed seeing his princess saddened. He quickly hugged her close to his chest, resting his chin on top of her head rubbing her back in comfort.

“I know how hard you worked to get them to confess. There’s always next time, princess.”

“Yea, and next time we’ll make sure they aren’t interrupted.”

“Yea, but for now let’s focus on you two’s little picnic tonight!”

Faith smiled remembering the little picnic they had planned at midnight. She sighed pushing the thought of the failed attempt of a confession. They were right, there was always next time.

—----

In the Aphrodite cabin Y/N leaned against the door frame as she watched her sister and her boyfriend sit side by side on the benches smiling. Clarisse walked up behind her wrapping an arm around her waist and resting her chin on her shoulder.

“I almost feel bad. Do you think we should just tell them we’ve been together for nearly a year and a half now?”

“Nah, it’s much more fun seeing them try to get us together. Let’s keep them guessing, gorgeous”

Y/N giggled as Clarisse pulled her back inside, closing the door as she did so. She pinned Y/N against the door kissing her.

I guess they plan on keeping it a secret for another year.

—----

Thank you for reading!

a/n: Wooo! Finally done!

#clarisse pjo #clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader

[savorypink]

hit the showers

a pest disrupts your workout.

smut.

“You like cardio?”

You pull your earbud out of your ear, annoyed, your steady stride on the treadmill slowing down with your souring mood. Alex leans over the console, his built arms crossed above the display screen. Under the lights of the campus gym, his form is more detailed, chiseled muscles straining through the cotton of his tank top—the shit-eating grin on his face seeps vanity and, unfortunately, charisma. Your anger boils where you stand (or walk; you're still on a treadmill), but part of your brain thinks he looks kissable.

“What?”

“I think you heard me, sweetheart.”

You lack the energy to roll your eyes. Instead, you pop the earbud back in your ear but keep the volume low, resuming your workout. You should hear the boy out. Maybe he’s bothering you for good this time. You shoo his arms away from the console; the display screen lights visible again. You keep your eyes fixed on the screen, afraid you’d kick or kiss him if you stared too long.

“I guess. What’s it to you?”

You don’t see it, but your demeanor stuns him momentarily, leaving him confused— and hurt? It isn’t a permanent feeling; he knows how to beat you at your own game. Alex leans over the console again, his muscular forearms obstructing the view of the screen once more. You notice your stride on the treadmill becoming more powerful, now in tune with your bubbling anger.

“Play nice. Maybe you’ll get a reward.”

Alex unfolds one arm to reach for the controls on the treadmill, increasing the speed of the belt underneath you. His finger stays on the button, the same grin he approached you with smeared on his face. Your legs and feet ache with each attempt to meet the treadmill's speed, your throat and chest burning hot as you sprint. Sweat drips down your forehead, eventually soaking your body, the dampness becoming uncomfortable as you’re still in your workout jacket, a blessing to Alex as your cleavage is still in view, slick with sweat.

You hate letting him win this round, but you could get hurt if you allow him to go further. You pull the emergency lever below the console, the belt slowing down and eventually stopping. You pant rapidly with your hands on your knees, droplets of sweat staining the treadmill. Amused at your struggle, Alex saunters to the side of the treadmill, leaning sideways to get a good view of your face. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a glance.

“If you ever get bored of the treadmill, we can do plenty of cardio in my dorm. Let me know if you’re up for it.”

The smile in his voice is rage-inducing; he did himself a favor by wearing you out. If you weren’t tired, you’d swing at him.

“You’re such…a dickhead.” You pant.

He turns his heels to the weights on the other side of the gym, picking up a dumbbell before sitting on the bench.

“You love it.”

Once you control your breathing, you return to your movements on the treadmill, unzipping your jacket and tying it around your waist. The mirrors along the walls of the gym reflect you and Alex. Moments ago, you felt as if you were running a marathon, and now you look like you did, scowling at your disheveled reflection while Alex sits untouched, enamored with himself and his body as he watches himself curl.

You’re sure he’s getting stronger by the second, the muscles in his arms looking bigger each time he brings the weight to his chest. The sweat dripping down his body aids your theory, the moisture emphasizing every detail in his arms. Your heart quickens in pace as you watch him, heat pooling in your panties.

Alex catches wind of your staring, continuing to curl, but decides to do some peeking himself, watching your breasts move along with your strides. His cock stiffens as he undresses you with his eyes, his grip on the weight nearly slipping as he pictures you topless. You see the dent forming in his gym shorts through the mirror, your grin growing devilishly wide.

“Getting hard watching yourself?” You aren’t in any position to talk, but you’re determined to get him back for what he pulled earlier. “Do you wank to pictures of yourself too?”

Alex puts the weight down on the rack, his walk towards you a little awkward given the bulge in his shorts. All you could ask for now is that he trips over his feet. Alex stands beside you again, his eyes raking over your body shamelessly. Once more, you refuse to look at him.

“Hop in the shower with me, and I won’t have to,” he takes a whiff of the air and then scowls in mock disgust. “You could use it. I’ll clean you up real good, wash away that attitude.”

Your eyes stay on the mirror, your expression unreadable, the way you want it.

“I’d rather bathe in mud.”

Alex shrugs, “Suit yourself. You’re only gonna end up sweaty again.”

You smack his hand away before his hand can reach for the controls again. He pulls back, pretending to look hurt, your eyes finally meeting. “What did I say about playing nice? Be good, and I’ll reward you.”

“Being good means kissing your ass?”

“Something like that,” he grins, walking towards the locker room. “You know where to find me if you change your mind. Adjust your attitude before entering.”

You stop the treadmill and watch him walk away. Certainly, he heard the beep that indicated the machine had stopped. You step off the belt, heading towards the mirror to fix your hair, not that it would matter once you follow him into the locker room.

---

“Took you long enough.” Alex grins, opening the shower curtain wide enough for you to walk in. “This might be the best you’ve ever looked.”

You aren’t wearing anything, though you enter the shower without shame. You're more concerned with your own needs. “I’m surprised you know what a shower is.”

His large hands find your waist, guiding you underneath the shower head, admiring the water spilling down your figure. “You done being a brat? I’d like to spoil you.”

You pretend to ponder his question, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “Whatever shuts you up quicker.”

Alex shoves you against tile walls with a needy kiss. Your mouth fails to catch up with his movements, teeth often clashing, his tongue circling your mouth sloppily. You anticipated his recklessness but didn’t expect him to be this greedy. It only makes you want him more. His lips leave yours in a heap, trailing kisses and bites down your body in inconsistent patterns. When he stops at your core, he looks up at you, his swollen lips ghosting above your clit.

“Arms above your head. I don’t want no funny business.”

You roll your eyes and do what he says, making sure to spread your legs to give him access. Alex’s hand palms at your core, his hand rough, and the pads of his fingers dry from the water. He hisses at your wetness, rubbing your aching cunt from back to front, your hips moving accordingly.

“You’re soaked,” he removes his palm to lick his hand clean, savoring your juices before giving your cunt a harsh smack, your core tightening around nothing, a moan leaving your lips. “I bet this cunt is tight, yeah? I knew you’d be a dream, I’m so fucking lucky…”

Finally, his wet tongue laps at your core. Much like his kisses, his tongue is eager, exploring every part of your cunt hungrily, his tongue darting in and out of you inconsistently. Your arms begin to ache as his blissful assault continues on your cunt, your hips rutting against his face, the water from the shower head pounding your clit deliciously.

You look down at Alex, lust, and steam blurring your vision. His heavy hand fists his cock, the pace changing with however he decides to work his tongue on you, the tip beginning to leak cum. Your cunt gushes at the sight, and Alex can feel it, a groan sending shockwaves through your needy core. His free hand smacks your thigh, another wave of wetness falling on his tongue, your knees close to buckling. Before your legs can fail you, your arms do, your hands slipping into his wet hair, tugging and pulling desperately, your orgasm pooling in your belly.

You’re pleased with the amount of control you have now, using Alex’s head as a support, your hips relentless against his mouth, grinding your clit against the tip of his nose. Alex has yet to stop you, the pumping of his cock slowing, unable to predict your movements. You couldn’t care less about what he wants; this is about you. The pit in your belly is lit aflame, the high you’ve been chasing finally within reach. Before the knot in your stomach can come undone, Alex pulls his face away from you, his lips and nose wet with your slick.

“I said no funny business.”

He gets up and shuts the water off, not sparing you a passing glance as he exits the shower, wrapping his lower half in a towel. Your pride won’t let you beg him to finish; you’d only give him what he wants. Perhaps putting your ego to bed could benefit you; at least, that’s what your body tells you. You step out of the shower to stop Alex, your hand gripping his forearm. You graze his skin with your thumb, gooseflesh forming on his pale skin.

“Please…”

For the first time today, Alex’s features soften, his gaze tender as he drinks you in once more, his cock straining against the towel at your plea. His large hands cup your face, your doe eyes making his cock twitch.

“‘Please’ what?” His thumb flicks at your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth; you suck on the digit needily, your ego still preventing you from telling Alex what you need. You hope your actions are enough of an answer. Alex slides his thumb out of your mouth, cupping your chin before nudging your cheek playfully.

“Closed mouths don’t get fed,” he turns to his gym bag, pulling out his clothes. “But I know what you want. Get dressed. I’ll show you a new workout in my dorm.”

#mickey is typing… #alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #girl help i can’t stop writing abt gym scenarios!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I'm been dreaming of the Trump Card of Hearts.

One card in a deck, and the world stacked against him. What can he hope to do by himself?

Simple: he'll be the one that trumps them all.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Card Soldiers mob the courtroom. The trial has reconvened, the verdict drawn up. Excited whispers--rumors, theories--swirl around the onlookers in the circular stands.

At the center, a single man snorts.

They've come for free entertainment; to witness his execution.

"Order, order! I will have order in this court."

A gavel sounds from up above. Each strike against a block, the toll calling for his head to roll.

The audience automatically quiets.

A throat clears.

At the judge's bench is the Three of Clubs, anxiously gazing down through his spectacles. He's complicit, another mouthpiece for the Queen. No guts, no will.

Lame, the one in the center of the case thinks.

“This court hereby finds the defendant, one Mister Ace Trappola, guilty of stealing the Queen’s tarts," the judge declares. "The sentence—”

“OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!” roars the royal from the side. He’s red in the face, the same color as his hair and the painted roses.

“… Yes, that," the Three of Clubs agrees. One more decisive swing of the gavel, and the defendant's fate is sealed. "Really sorry about this, but rules are rules."

The judge nods to the guards on standby, a battalion of Diamonds, all in a neat row. They nod back, registering the order, and flutter free, surrounding in their target. Each of them wears the same grim expression.

The jury clamors for a better view.

"Really sorry about this, but rules are rules," Ace repeats mockingly. "Do you hear yourself? How pretentious can you possibly be?"

Veins throb on the Queen's forehead. Steam pours out of his ears. He grips the railing of his perch, glaring from his throne.

The condescending tone, the bossy orders.

A familiar story.

"It'd be better if you don't talk back," the Three of Clubs advises. "That makes things easier for me. For us all."

"So just lie down and take it? Nah. I don't think you guys get it. You just hate that I'm telling the truth and you can't handle it."

"Ace--"

"Enough waiting. I've been patient enough. I want his head, and I want it NOW," the Queen bellows, driving their scepter into the ground.

"At once, your majesty," the Cards simper. Their voices overlap with one another, like a deck cut and then reshuffled into one.

There's so many of them now. Jurors climbing out of their seats, soldiers spilling in from the far wall.

"Whoa, hey! Fellas, fellas, let's calm down here." Ace holds up both hands. "All this over one, maybe two, measly pies? How about a trick to help smooth things over?"

He turns a hand over, revealing a single card in his grasp. Upon its face, the ace of hearts.

"Watch it dance!"

Ace sets the card into motion. It twirls, alive, around his fingers, orbiting his palm and then swapping to the other. Spinning, spinning--and then, the sudden drop.

The Card Soldiers descend on him.

His ace makes contact with the floor.

It's showtime.

He looks away.

BOOM!

The ace erupts into harsh beams of light and crackling colors. Fireworks consume the courtroom, loud and bright and disorienting. Alarmed shouts ring out, Card Soldiers shielding their eyes from the attack.

“Calm yourselves! It’s nothing more than cheap parlor tricks!” the Queen snarls. He searches in the crowd for the defendant—and catches a head of tangerine bolting up the stairs.

His temper flares.

“Don’t just STAND there!! Deploy all units! CAPTURE THE THEIF!!”

"Not today!" Ace retorts.

He throws open the doors, clearing the courthouse as he steps onto a checkered lawn.

The world opens before him, lush with tall trees and shrubs trimmed into the shape of hearts. White roses dribbling red poke out from the foliage, paint pooling like blood at the roots. It's beautiful and cruel in the same way that heartbreak is--but there isn't a moment to admire it.

Not when the maze awaits.

A stone drops in his stomach.

The hedge maze is massive, stretching out and taking up most of the garden. Too tall to climb, too wide to walk around. Too twisty and complex to power through on sheer will alone.

Stomp, stomp, stomp!

Militant footsteps come from behind.

There's no time to think. Just act.

He launches himself in, hears them in pursuit. Row after row of soldiers marching in unison, single-file.

Ace doesn't know where he's going, if the choices he's making are right. He relies on his instincts, the flightiness of his feet, to carry him away from the shouts, the spears pointed at him.

He's pulled deeper and deeper into the heart of the maze. Down the rabbit hole, to some unknown place.

All the leaves look the same, and so does the sky. The criss-crosses and zig-zags don't make sense. His vision spins.

Damn it, where's the exit?!

Ace's head swerves left, then right, surveying his surroundings. To his dismay, his gaze connects with a Two of Spades at the end of a corridor. Their eyes widen in realization.

The Spade is turning now, calling out for the others to come.

Ace looks the other way. He is greeted with a dead end, impossible to scale.

"Shoot!”

They're going to cage me in if I don't get out of this tight spot…!

Mustering all his strength, Ace throws his body into the Two of Spades. He slams into the pole of a spear, which pushes back against him. His head and his rival's connect.

"Outta my way!”

The Two of Spades grits his teeth. "You should surrender now and come back with us. If you sincerely say sorry, Rosehearts-senpai might show you mercy."

"And let him have the last laugh?" Ace scoffs. "I don't think you know me too well."

"I want you to be better. I know you can be.”

“That line, coming from you? That’s rich.”

“If you'd just listen to the dorm leader, to us—”

"--What, I'd be like you?" Ace taunts, his hands closing on the Spade's spear. They clench on so tightly, his bones threaten to tear through his skin. "I'd catch up with everyone else? Finally get my unique magic and get to do something flashy? Is that it?"

“What…!”

“You don’t need to nag me, I get it! I get that I’m behind, okay?!”

“That’s not what I…” He falters, and Ace draws out an exasperated sigh.

A Card Soldier doesn’t stick out.

A Card Soldier must conform.

Those are the rules, and always has been.

His annoyance twists with upset. A fire ignites in his chest.

“Aaah, dammit. I’m getting sick of everyone tellin’ me what to do all the time. The only one that gets to decide that for me… is me!”

That’s right, falling in line just doesn’t suit the trump card. I won’t be satisfied with this alone.

The warmth spreads from his torso to his limbs, as if propelled by his very veins. Sparks feeding into an inferno. His skin tingles, buzzing from head to toe.

The Spade stares, jaw agape.

What is this feeling…?

Ace stares at his hands. They feel molten, yet brimming with energy.

Is this what I think it is?

The buzzing reaches his ears, rattles his head. The magic begs to be unleashed.

Rise up, it urges him. Incite rebellion. Defy their will. You know what to do, what to say.

Do it.

Ace opens his mouth.

And recites his incantation.

#Ace Trappola #twst #twisted wonderland #twst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twst anniversary #twisted wonderland anniversary #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #book 1 spoilers #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #I've been Dreaming... #book 5 spoilers #Yuu #Grim #Deuce Spade #Riddle Rosehearts #Trey Clover #Cater Diamond #Heartslabyul

[kararisa]

marigold promises

— 32. a letter and a promise [☕︎ = 2.5k words]

notes: happy birthday to me~ in celebration, here's my gift to all of you <3

cw: abandonment

10:08 p.m. 

You haven't had lights out this early in months. 

There's a first time for everything, you suppose. A good time as any to sleep in the same room as your estranged rival-turned-lab partner.

It's hardly the first time you've let impulse dictate your decisions — and it certainly won't be the last — but you would be lying if you said you were certain about how you felt about this whole mess you've gotten yourself into. In your infinite search for answers, all you've gotten are infinitely more questions. 

What the hell is going on? 

You shift on your mattress, disturbing the stillness of the night with the sound of crumpling fabric and soft shuffles. Albedo's room is more decorated than you thought it would be; certainly bigger compared to the rooms you get with a private one-bedroom dorm back on campus. An entire wall is covered in sketches and paintings — all of them his handiwork — with some photographs littered in between them. His desk lies in organized chaos, a mess of papers laying atop an old textbook with a decently organized box of pens and highlighters on the side.

Not paying you any mind, Albedo lays in his bed with his back facing you. The only light in this room comes from his phone which he's been reading from for the past few minutes, and honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if he's flipping through his digital flashcards just to get some last-minute studying done. 

Your shuffling disturbs the silence once more. Not once would you have thought that pushing through with your half-baked idea would have led to… this. Whatever this is. Is there a word to describe how surreal this all feels? A theory to explain how the hell you got here? 

How do you wrap your head around the fact that Alice walked through that door? 

Sure, you may have thrown out a theory to Yanfei a while ago, but that doesn't even begin to explain how Klee is connected to all of this. The fact of the matter is your theory is incomplete.

Albedo finally turns to you and asks, "How long are you going to keep tossing and turning? At this rate, you're going to wear out the mattress." You glare at him and respond, "It's not my fault I can't seem to get comfortable. I'm not used to sleeping with someone else in the room."

Amusement colors Albedo's voice as he replies, "Sounds like a 'you' problem."

Your frustration grows, and you snap back, "Well, you better hope I don't suffocate you tonight, asshole." You hear him snicker as you turn around, hoping to finally drift off into a peaceful sleep

Suddenly, you hear more shuffling from Albedo's side of the room. "I'm going to head out for a walk. Want to come with me?"

"A walk at this hour?" you asked incredulously.

"I can't sleep either, so come on. This won't take long," Albedo replied.

In response, you sit up and rest your hands on the mattress, “Where we headed off to?”

“It’s a train station away, won’t take longer than 10 minutes to get there.”

“Where are we even going for it to warrant a ride on the train?”

He takes out a cardigan from his closet, rolling his eyes, “Are you coming or not?”

“Fuck you, I was already getting up.”

Gods, you should have brought a jacket.

Considering it’s Mondstadt, you shouldn’t have been too surprised by the frigid air, biting through your clothes and clinging onto your skin — even after the holidays have long since passed.

You and Albedo sit on a bench overlooking the playground you saw just this afternoon, the slushie you're holding making your hand slowly go numb. The swings, seesaws, and merry-go-rounds stood silently as if frozen in time. The only sound was the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. The moon, half-shrouded by clouds, cast a pale glow over the empty park.

Despite the darkness, the playground retained its picturesque innocence. The colorful slides and climbing frames looked like candy-colored castles, while the surrounding trees provided a natural canopy that seemed to cocoon the play area in a protective embrace.

You take a sip of your drink. You and Albedo sit on opposite sides of the bench. The silence between you two stretches on into the night. 

You want so desperately to move closer, to say something, to close the distance between you. But where do you even start?

As the sweetness of the slushie fades, so too does your illusion of distraction. You can feel the weight of your rival-turned-lab partner's gaze upon you, a silent challenge that threatens to unravel your composure.

You hear an amused sigh coming from your left, "You can sit closer, Cupcake. I don't bite." You don't know why, but you choose to inch closer. 

And closer. 

And closer. 

So close that your knee brushes against his for just a moment, and you pull away like that one second of contact had burned your skin.

You take another sip, desperate to stave off the flood of thoughts and emotions that threaten to overwhelm you. But as you feel Albedo's eyes on you, you turn your head to meet his gaze. 

"Aren't you cold?" he asks. 

"I wasn't able to bring a jacket, Sunshine." you shrug. Like hell you were going to admit that you've been freezing since you stepped out off the train. 

In response, he takes off his cardigan and drapes it around your shoulders. 

The ivory-colored cardigan enfolds you in its loving embrace, a gentle shield from the harshness of the cold. Its large buttons run down the front, each one a drop of brown against the ivory backdrop. You feel the three gray stars stitched into each sleeve as you put your arms through the sleeves.

You hug the cardigan closer.

"You seem to have a lot on your mind," Albedo adjusts the folded-over collar. You try to ignore the fact that his hand nearly brushed against your neck.

"It's nothing." you shake your head.

"Please, I know you better than that. You can talk to me about it if you want to."

Would it really be appropriate to bring up the many questions that have been brewing in your mind? His private life, his family affairs, they’re none of your business.

And yet.

A heavy silence falls between you and Albedo. Finally, you break the stillness with a tentative whisper: “I was just thinking about your mom.” You notice Albedo’s shoulders tense, and you realize that your words have hit a nerve. “What about her?” he asks, a subtle unease in his voice that you barely notice. But it’s there.

This was a mistake.

“She’s nice…” you clarify, “Just like how I remember her.”

You shouldn’t have brought it up. You shouldn’t have brought it up. A rushed apology spills from your lips, “Sorry, that wasn’t very appropriate of me.”

“It’s alright.” his tone is surprisingly gentle. “I kind of expected that you’d at least be a bit curious, really.”

“Still,” you say, “I shouldn’t have just brought it up like that.”

Silence falls between the two of you once again, and you take the time to empty your drink. With no other way to feign distraction, you finally take a look at the boy to your left. He tucks a stray strand of his pale blond hair behind his ear, and you can’t think of a moment that you’ve seen him free from his usual up-do. He idly fiddles with the straw of his empty slushie cup. A glint of silver catches the moonlight; it’s there that you see his pendant, his moon pendant, resting right between his collarbones.

You would do anything to ignore the palpable tension in the air. Tension that you caused.

“You have my permission to ask,” Albedo starts, “If you want to.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to pry.”

“Yes. So please, ask me.”

A pause.

A breath.

And you finally ask him the question that has been plaguing your mind since the day he returned to you: “When you left, six years ago… What happened?”

He leans back. You feel his knee brush against yours, but this time you can’t bring yourself to move away. Albedo meets your gaze and asks, “How much do you know?”

You shrug, “Not much. Just that you and your mother packed up for Fontaine one day and left.”

“That’s half correct. She was offered an opportunity to work at Aurum Labs — one of the most prestigious institutions in the world. Who wouldn’t say yes?”

He loosely crosses his arms as he looks towards the playground ahead of you, “She sat me down one day and told me about her decision. She would be leaving for Fontaine, and I would stay here. In Mondstadt. My own mother thought I was a burden, and that I would hinder her in her career. So”— Albedo gives a bitter laugh — “She left. She left me with nothing but a letter and a promise that a friend of hers would take care of me in her stead. And what’s worse is that a part of me still wishes she’d come back for me.”

Ah. 

That explains a lot. It explains so much.

But more questions fill your mind. How long has this been weighing on him? How long has he had to carry these burdens alone?

How long?

What do you say? He needs you, damn it. Say something.

But no words come.

So you do the next best thing: you reach out and place a hesitant hand on his shoulder. A small gesture to let him know that you’re here for him.

He looks at you in response, surprise flickering across his face before he quickly averts his gaze. "Don't look at me like that," he says, his voice shaking.

Puzzled, you quietly ask, "Like what?"

"Like you don't hate me."

You want nothing more than to comfort him and tell him that everything will be alright. Say something for fucks sake. 

Albedo’s hand goes to his pendant, his moon pendant, and clutches it tight, “I never bothered to text or call, I didn’t even put in the effort of sending you a letter. I could have done something but I didn’t. And I was horrible to you last year. I’m so, so sorry.”

The weight of your shared history and the silence between you threatens to suffocate you.

It wasn’t always like this.

From the moment you met, it was clear that the two of you were cut from the same cloth.

When the two of you were young, when the world was kind, you would spend countless hours poring over books and debating complex ideas. The difference between you two was once thinner than a razor.

But six years have gone by, and you're not the same kids that met in those fields near your childhood homes one summer day. The friendly debates became heated, the discussions competitive. You found yourselves vying for the same academic accolades, the same opportunities, the same ranking. You both became obsessed with outdoing each other, with proving that you were the better scholar.

As you grew older, you began to realize that the world can be a harsh, unforgiving, and mean place, baring its fangs and showing you just how cruel life can get. It's a sobering realization that comes slowly, creeping up on you with each passing year until you can no longer ignore it.

Maybe you got a little meaner too.

We are tabula rasa. Every person begins their life as a blank slate, devoid of any preconceived notions or beliefs. As people grow and develop, they begin to form their own understanding of the world. They learn to distinguish between light and dark, hot and cold, rough and smooth. They begin to recognize the faces of their caregivers, the sound of their voices, and the touch of their hands.

It is in the people around you that one learns about love, kindness, compassion. But it is also where one learns about anger, an ugly mixture of frustration and hostility that surges through your body like a raging fire; about bitterness, a knot in your stomach that eats away at you from the inside; about envy, that plants resentment in your heart and feeds off your inadequacy. And it is where one learns of hatred, a venomous emotion that seeps into your very soul, poisoning every aspect of your being. 

Yes, you were angry at Albedo. Yes, you were bitter when he first acted like you were nothing more than an obstacle to him. Yes, you were envious of his seemingly limitless intelligence, how answers to even the most difficult of questions came easily to him.

But could you ever hate him? Did you ever hate him? 

You learn that dreams shatter like fragile glass, scattering sharp, jagged shards that cut deep into your very being. Promises, once steadfast and true, crumble like dry leaves underfoot, leaving you with nothing but bitter disappointment and a sense of betrayal. In the aftermath, you find yourself picking up the pieces of your shattered dreams, each shard slicing through your fingers and embedding itself deep within your skin. 

You learn that the harsh reality of the world seeps into your veins and becomes a part of you. Defines you.

But even as the weight of disappointment and betrayal threatens to drown you, life continues to move forward. People come and go, leaving their own marks on the world and on you.

In those five years you’ve spent apart, you can at least take comfort in the fact that he had gained a mother and a sister. Alice, who would once travel all across the world for her academic pursuits, chose to stay in Mondstadt for the sake of her children. Klee, who would keep him grounded, gave him someone to care for. You wonder what it would be like to have a family that truly cared for you as Alice and Klee cared for Albedo.

Your mother has always been obsessed with the numbers on your report card, endlessly doting on you while claiming to want the best for your future. Your father couldn’t care less. Why would he, when he was off working in another region? You grew up barely knowing him.

Rhinedottir was no better for Albedo than your parents were for you.

And yet.

As you and Albedo sit side-by-side, you realize that there is something here that you never had with your family. And sifting through the shards of your shattered promises, you realize that they are not entirely lost.

You take his long-empty slushie cup from his hands and place it on the ground. For a moment, the world falls away, leaving only the two of you under the gentle glow of the moon’s watchful gaze. The next words you speak cut through the silence, "I could never hate you."

Albedo turns to you. He watches you as you take off his cardigan and gently drape it over his shoulders, sharing the warmth he has given to you.

Giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, you finally, finally, find the words you want to say: “It wasn’t your fault.”

In response, he lowers his head, causing some of his hair to fall in front of his face. You tuck a single strand behind his ear, your sun pendant catching the silvery light of the moon, before gently guiding his head to rest on your shoulder. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

— previous || masterlist || next

summary: you and albedo have finally reached a mutual understanding as your first year of college comes to a close. with a new school year comes a new beginning, and you start off strong with albedo asking you the oddest of arrangements: "would you like to be lab partners?"

author's notes:

yes, albedo is wearing the iconic taylor swift cardigan. and yes, he is a swiftie

the theory of tabula rasa (latin for “scraped tablet” — i.e. a “clean slate”) is a philosophical theory by john locke. this was also my favorite part to write 🫶

this chapter was so hard to get just right that i’ve had to redo it twice, but i’m really happy with the final result ^^

featured songs: I Wish I Was the Moon by Ewan J Phillips & almost home by mxmtoon

taglist (i):

@fvkkyu @mintreen @edreee @khyllynnn @xxmirrorballxx @aiikalvr @yaefics @unsterblich-prinz @aequha @alch3myy @lovely-althxa @nei-rinn @cridtiins @zestrya @skylions-den @moriiartt @theother-victoria @sunsethw4 @dazaisfavgf @serossidechick @koiir @lazy-sanns @sweetbunnybunbun @dee-zbignuts @redactedhimbo @yurstepm0m @fanfictwarrior @fuyaa @saoiirsee @ireallylikehamsters @kissingkzuha @whosxangel @kitsuvil @orionicchaos @blurr3db3rry @semi-orangeapple @kunikuzushiit @atlatcaheart @wrrapedroundmyfingerlikearing @scarafrisbee @lost-wicked-artist @kairxse @elysiasbae @eurekatanya @empathum @tatiratty @zannivrs @mikismusings @sunoo-bby @astolary

— the taglist is currently CLOSED! shoot me an ask or a reply if you've changed your url or you'd like to be removed.

#genshin smau #genshin impact smau #albedo x reader #albedo x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin fluff #genshin angst #albedo fluff #genshin imagines #genshin modern au #genshin college au #marigold promises smau

[freetobeeyouandme]

Chapter 5: Spoiler Alert: We Run Away

The next chapter of my Byler Isekai AU is now up on Ao3! The title says it all, but the party finds running away from El's evil "brother" harder than it is in theory.

Tags: M, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Fantasy AU, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Horror, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Summary:

Mike Wheeler hates High School, so when he almost dies and falls through a portal to another world, he’s not going to complain. Especially not when that world does not only have swords and magic but seems to work exactly according to the rules of his favorite tabletop role-playing game. But his euphoria might be short lived because the party of adventurers he falls in with turns out to be the target of an evil god and the fate of the world might rest on their shoulders. So, exactly like his games of D&D. Except the wanna-be Paladin soon realizes that being a hero is much harder in real life than it is in-game. - Or, Mike gets isekai’d into a world where D&D is real.

An excerpt and taglist below the cut:

Excerpt:

For a moment the party just stares in disbelief and horror at the disfigured corpse of what had moments ago been the Father of Gods. The vine that had killed him retreats only slowly from his mouth, the movements making the body look still, sickly, alive.

Then El screams. It’s a terrible, bloodcurdling noise. She throws up her hands, the right arm barely obeying because it is still broken, and One has no time to protect himself. He flies backwards roughly, crashing into the army of monsters behind him and taking them down with him. Mike thinks an ordinary person would die or at least be seriously injured by El tossing them this way but with their luck One will rise to his feet again with barely a scratch.

“Alright, alright, kids, lets go,” Hop says, clapping to get their attention.

They don’t need to be told even once. Their enemy briefly disposed of they pile into the car, weapons still at the ready except for Max, who swings into the driver’s seat. El stays where she is, keeping her hands up in a warding gesture, although Mike can’t see any magic actually wrapping around them and protecting them. And Lucas runs in a different direction: Towards Brenner’s body.

The few vines still slithering around the corpse shudder in pain as their master is blasted backwards but recover quickly, snapping at the Sorceress and the Ranger. Lucas evades them with quick steps, but El is too preoccupied and only saved by Hop pulling her backwards and into the wagon.

Lucas unsheathes his sword, making quick work of the vines and then begins dragging the body towards the others by its feet. Seeing his struggle, Dustin grunts and jumps back down to help, and Mike follows. More dark vines are already slithering towards them, unlike their legged brethren needing no time to recover.

As his friends toss the corpse onto the back of the cart, Mike squares off against them. The vines are fast, but he manages to keep them away from the others, his beginner skills finally finding a match. But as soon as Lucas calls his name he turns and runs, jumping at the car more than really inside of it.

Max floors the gas pedal and then they’re off while Dustin helps him inside.

The vines strain after them angrily, two of them briefly managing to snag the wheel as Max turns the wagon around because their original route of escape is covered in fleshy, writhing goo that is slowly morphing into bipedal, bulb-headed monsters. And, among them, Mike can see One rising back to his feet.

Erica runs her rapier through them, and, freed, they shoot off towards town.

Mike sinks onto a seat with shaking legs, barely even registering that the bench is wet with blood. He feels paper thin, every nerve in his body simultaneously strung high and screaming in pain and exhaustion.

They race through the town they had meant to avoid, and it’s not just the adrenaline and the shaking of the cart that has his stomach twist into more loops than a roller coaster. Main street is reasonably busy, the people, for the most part elves and dragonborn, going about their daily business with a calm serenity that is interrupted unduly when they clatter by. More than once someone has to jump out of the way, and Mike feels bad both about disrupting their lives with the horrors that are hot on their heels and about what he dreads One and his monsters will do to the regular people of Hawkins when they pass through.

Mike can’t decide whether he hopes Hawkins is a distraction or whether he wants One’s full attention on him and his friends so he leaves the town alone. Hawkins hasn’t done anything to him, but Mike also doesn’t want to die.

The fact that Brenner’s body has rag-dolled over their bags, bleeding out onto their things and jostling about with every uneven stone and bump in the road doesn’t really help matters. It’s already crowded enough in the back of the cart without the corpse.

Erica gives it a disgusted look as she tries to squeeze past it and then complains loudly when she loses her balance and lands on top of cooling limbs. Pretending to retch she turns to her brother with anger in her eyes. “Why did we bring him along? Please don’t tell me you plan on resurrecting him.”

Lucas presses his mouth into a thin line, neither admission nor denial.

“Dude,” Dustin say, despite having helped him load the corpse onto the car, “Please don’t say yes. You know we’d have Martin Brenner running around again if we did?”

Lucas glances in his direction, and at first Mike thinks he’s trying to catch Will’s eyes, since he’s the Cleric and sitting right next to Mike. But Lucas actually looks away once he meets Mike’s eyes, biting his lip. Mike doesn’t understand what he’s got to do with Brenner, but Lucas’s shoulder are hunched, every line of his body looking guilty.

Finally, the Ranger shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to bring him back. But we couldn’t just leave him. I don’t want to know what One would have done with his corpse.”

Mike couldn’t agree more, but Lucas is refusing to look at him.

Dustin weighs his head as if to say ‘fair enough’. Erica continues grimacing, but turns her attention to their pursuers.

The fact that Brenner’s body has rag-dolled over their bags, bleeding out onto their things and jostling about with every uneven stone and bump in the road doesn’t really help matters. It’s already crowded enough in the back of the cart without the corpse.

Erica gives it a disgusted look as she tries to squeeze past it and then complains loudly when she loses her balance and lands on top of cooling limbs. Pretending to retch she turns to her brother with anger in her eyes. “Why did we bring him along? Please don’t tell me you plan on resurrecting him.”

Lucas presses his mouth into a thin line, neither admission nor denial.

“Dude,” Dustin say, despite having helped him load the corpse onto the car, “Please don’t say yes. You know we’d have Martin Brenner running around again if we did?”

Lucas glances in his direction, and at first Mike thinks he’s trying to catch Will’s eyes, since he’s the Cleric and sitting right next to Mike. But Lucas actually looks away once he meets Mike’s eyes, biting his lip. Mike doesn’t understand what he’s got to do with Brenner, but Lucas’s shoulder are hunched, every line of his body looking guilty.

Finally, the Ranger shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to bring him back. But we couldn’t just leave him. I don’t want to know what One would have done with his corpse.”

Mike couldn’t agree more, but Lucas is refusing to look at him.

Dustin weighs his head as if to say ‘fair enough’. Erica continues grimacing, but turns her attention to their pursuers.

Unofficial Tag List (aka you interacted with my snippet posts, please tell me if you want me to not tag you in the future (or want to be added)): @smalltownwheeler @wheelerpilled @wrong-energy @willthelies @foodiewithdahoodie @doggo9 @gardenfairie @beelikesbyler @beverlysclown @yickarus @sourdough-el @hessolivagant @hesquietoday @oldfashionedmorphine @total-serene560 @bylersrise @hawkinsunderground @longtallglasses @generalstorecashier @usnaavi @camel-casing @bylersbear01 @turningsoft @casatoan

#byler #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things #kingslayer fic #byler fanfic

[everything-fine-n-peachy]

Popcorn on the Roof (Mark au)

Popcorn on the roof  - the sound of rain, particularly when it’s heavy on a tin roof.

The Post Grad Series  Warning: Low Pressure Area 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: Mark x oc Genre: fluffy angst Warnings: none  Word count: 1.5k  Song: Obvious Bicycle by Vampire Weekend TLDR: Mark grapples with an existential crisis On days like this when the sky was clear and the breeze was just right, one should seize the moment and enjoy it while it lasts. But on days like this, Mark still liked to pack an umbrella. You can never really be too complacent, he thought. 

“Mark, you’re zoning out again.” Mackenzie poked at his cheek when he got that glassy look for the second time on their date if you could even call it a date. 

They sat on a bench just outside the city on a particularly slow weekend. The local fair would be in full swing, drawing crowds to the pier and away from their little park at least for a few more hours. 

Mark scratched the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish smile, “Sorry. Gosh, you don’t deserve to be on such a boring date.” 

“Don’t be a sad boy Mark, it doesn’t suit you.” 

It was incredible to him that Mackenzie even allowed him to take her out after last week. Not after he told her about a particularly attractive offer of a music production master class with a paid internship abroad that would begin in the next month.

“We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, but all I’m saying is you shouldn’t have to pretend like you’re fine when you’re not. Don’t even do it because we’re on a date.” 

“I don’t even have anything planned,” he sulked.

“We can just be here, we don’t need something elaborate.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” he said with a sigh  Mackenzie clicked her lips at his statement. “Again, we don’t like sad boys here.” 

Mark couldn’t help but giggle, the first time for that day. He was fully aware that he and Mackenzie weren’t exactly about to go steady but was it such a crime to want to be here long enough until they actually were? To want something just for the sake of his own joy for once? 

All his life Mark knew exactly who he needed to be. A good son to his parents, a responsible friend, a helpful classmate, a diligent student, and a role model that everyone could lean on. 

This is who I am, he’d tell himself. It felt good to meet people’s expectations. 

But who he wanted to be was a question that he often opted to push aside. It interfered with the character he was already so good at playing. There were days when he couldn’t even differentiate between who he actually was and who everyone else wanted him to be. It was best to just survive now and think later. 

On some days, he felt like he needed to dip his flesh and bones in molten gold just to deserve that spot on everyone’s pedestal. Even amongst friends the need to seamlessly be funny without being too careless, be cool without breaking too many rules, and be a good little church boy without sounding too naïve, all of that was suffocating. 

Surprisingly even music, which Mark loved dearly, become a prison for him. Everybody had an opinion on what he should achieve by a certain age or where he should send demos next. Suddenly just the music wasn’t enough. 

So he found himself back where he began, in his bedroom with a guitar. But If anyone had asked Mark Lee how his life had been in the past three months, he’d for sure answer that it was the happiest he’d been in a long time. Really, there was only one reason for that. 

To Mackenzie, Mark was only Mark. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember a time when he could just be exactly that; himself. 

There was no need to act or to contort himself into painful angles just to please anyone. He could be goofy and she’d laugh. He could go on for hours about his crazy theories about life and she’d listen. He could be completely silent and she’d sit there with him just like they were now. 

“You know, I’m so glad I didn’t become a priest?” 

“Because then if you were, you’d actually be bitchless forever?” 

The breeze carried Mark’s laughter all the way to the next street, the sound bouncing around as if looking for the right place to perch. It was otherworldly in the sense that Mark couldn’t be further from jovial at this point.

“You know what? We’re all a mess so don’t pretend you’re not. If you’re confused, then be confused.” She turned to face him making sure to emphasize her next point. 

“I’ve been ghosted and led on in this lifetime, but what I shall never be is pitied. So don’t stay if you’re going to say it’s because of…” Mackenzie trailed off, “you know, for whatever this is.” 

He looked at Mackenzie and he could almost feel the moisture in his eyes turn into tears. Mark smiled fondly and grabbed her hand, opting to stare up at the sky. 

“I’ve always done right by everybody. I guess I just feel like… like I don’t know what I want anymore.” 

Mackenzie instinctively squeezed back whenever she felt Mark fiddling with her hand. Despite the straight face, her chest was heavy, and her throat felt dry. What else was there to say? 

“You love music. If this is a one time chance, wouldn’t you regret not taking it?” She asked. 

“I-” 

Just as Mark was about to respond, the rain started falling in large droplets. They fell heavily on the stone path and soon enough it was a full-on shower. Mark could hardly believe his shitty luck. Like wherever he was, the clouds seemed to follow him anyway, even with the clearest skies. 

“Jesus, it can’t get any worse than this,” he mumbled, grabbing the umbrella from his backpack. He pulled Mackenzie closer to him, making sure to shield her from the cold. When they finally reached the shelter, they were both exhausted and dripping despite the umbrella. 

“Isn’t it appropriate,” Mackenzie snorted. 

Mark was bewildered, only able to muster a frown. 

“Doesn’t this give you Deja vu? When you first asked me out three months ago, we were also running through the rain, now we’re… here.” 

His feet moved on their own. One in front of the other until he could envelop Mackenzie in the tightest embrace. He didn’t have enough words to explain how much he wanted to stay. He wasn’t even sure of what he wanted to say. So they end up huddled together at the bus stop, the sound of rain filling the silence. 

When the bus arrived 10 minutes later, they wordlessly collapsed on their seats, relieved to be away from the cold. Mark’s gaze stayed trained on the window, the rain relentless. Mackenzie’s head rests on Mark’s shoulder. He assumed she’d be asleep after such an ordeal. 

Did he regret stalling before finally telling Mackenzie about the news? He wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t like he’d have the guts to. Not when he was having the best time of his life; seeing the same city but with a fresh set of eyes.

Mark smiled to himself recalling fond memories of late nights on the couch with his guitar while Mackenzie peacefully dozed off, long walks to cafes he’d never heard of before, tissues and revelations when they both managed to get a little too drunk, even that very first morning he mistakenly ended up in front of Mackenzie’s apartment. For someone supposedly lost then, it was ironic to feel like he was finally home. 

He snuggled closer to Mackenzie, putting a kiss on the top of her head. Was it too much of a stretch to say that it wasn’t about wanting to leave but more about not physically being able to will himself to do so anymore? 

What do I want to be? 

At first, Mark wanted to be successful in a field he loved. He’d given his heart and soul to get where he was, but even then something was missing. It wasn’t like he wasn’t passionate anymore. He would be lying if he said that the chance to work with artists equally as dedicated as he was didn’t allure him at all, of course, he still wanted that. 

But Mark also wanted to be happy. 

As he looked down at Mackenzie tucked under his arm, blissfully unaware of the storm he was cooking up in his head, he realized that right there was the joy he’d been looking for. Right in his arms. As it turned out, joy wasn’t something searched for outside of himself. Rather, something elicited from the inner depths of the soul by a force strong enough to make you realize, you were always enough, to begin with. 

Mark couldn't fathom how to part from all of these new things dear to his heart. So he held on tighter, at least, for the rest of the ride home. 

#nct scenarios #mark lee scenarios #nct dream fluff #mark x oc #mark lee #nct dream imagines #nct imagines #mark lee imagines #nct fanfic #mark imagines #mark lee fanfic #nct soft hours #writer mark lee #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 fluff #strangers to lovers #please stream CHILD #MOLO celebration #mark lee nct fic #mark lee angst #nct angst #nct dream angst #nct 127 angst

[engagemachine]

Taylor scowls from where she’s sitting on the green park bench, arms crisscrossed high over her chest, so that everyone can know she’s been placed in time out, and she’s not happy about it.

The bench has holes in it that leave a pattern of tiny rings imprinted on the backs of her bare thighs, especially when she starts to sweat, and she peels her legs from the bench and sits with her knees pulled up to her chest instead. It’s so hot out, like maybe three-hundred million thousand sixty degrees, if she had to guess.

She exhales through pursed lips, distracted for a moment by the stray tufts of her hair that flutter every time she blows out air. She’s nearly crossed-eyed trying to look at the strand of hair that’s come loose from her braid and hanging over her nose, and she tries to blow the piece over her forehead, but after a while the game gets boring, and she sighs, shoulders sagging.

Her eyes stray towards the other kids playing on the playground, screaming and having fun, and something twists in her belly, some feeling she doesn’t really know how to identify. Sometimes it feels like everyone else is so good at making friends except for her. Maybe there’s some secret to making friends she doesn’t know about, maybe that was something she was supposed to have learned about in school, but because she’s changed schools so many times, she accidentally missed it.

She slips her tiny fingers into the holes of the bench, wiggling them around when they poke through to the other side. Ms. Casey never said how long she had to be in time out for, but it feels like it’s been fifty million hours. Maybe she won’t mind if Taylor gets up to join the other kids now.

The trees are bright and green and luscious-looking, and she wishes they had apples on them, like the one in her coloring book does. Soon the leaves will turn brown and fall, because they have to die, because everything eventually does, and that makes her a little sad to think about, even if new leaves will grow in their place. She wonders if trees ever miss the leaves they have to shed, or if they're just excited to grow new ones.

She thinks about falling leaves, and autumn, and how summer is almost over—or at least, that’s what the big kids say—and if summer is almost over, then that means it will almost be time for school, and that means there won’t be any parents looking for new kids. She sags against the bench. Nobody ever likes to adopt when it’s school time.

When her legs start to cramp, she stretches them out and lets them dangle, scouring the park. Ms. Robyn is bent down at the bottom of the slide, consoling Megan because she came down the slide super fast and hurt her butt, and Ms. Anne is helping Michael do the monkey bars. Taylor sniffs. She doesn’t need any help with the monkey bars, because she’s already super good at them. She’s really strong, even though she’s smaller than most of the other kids her age.  

Her eyes wander away, trailing the perimeters of the park. The mother she had approached earlier—the one with the picnic blanket and all the food—is pushing her stroller out of the park, her two kids trailing next to her. Taylor feels a pang in her heart at that, and she wishes that she was with them, wishes that that was her mommy. The concept of a mother is so foreign to her, even the word feels strange on her tongue. She whispers it out loud a few times, just to confirm her theory.

Mommy mommy mommy.

She doesn’t have a mommy. She knows that she used to, so many times ago, but something happened to her, or maybe she got sick, and now Taylor doesn’t even remember what she looks like. She thinks that one day maybe they can be together again, maybe when her mommy gets better, and then her mommy will come find her and they can have picnics at the park, too. Taylor would really like that.

She looks up to see three girls playing hopscotch near the swings. They look a little older than her, but maybe she can join?

She hops off the bench and starts towards them. She’s really good at hopscotch, so she’s sure they’ll let her play.

She marches through the woodchips inside the playground area, drawing closer to the group of girls. She pushes her braid off her shoulder and wipes imaginary dirt from her shirt, which is blue and has a unicorn on it and is her favorite.

Then something catches her attention, something behind the hopscotch girls, though some distance away. She stops dead in her tracks, her gaze suddenly zeroed in on the man sitting on a bench just inside the perimeter of the fence that surrounds the park. It’s a secluded area, shaded by two drooping trees, and Taylor blinks as she stares at him.

Could it really be him?

He’s leaning forward on the edge of the bench, forearms braced over his knees, his fingers interlocked. Taylor can tell that, even when hunched over, he’s tall, just like Mr. J, and he has blond hair, too. He seems to be watching the playground very closely, and her heart starts to thud extra fast. Could he be looking for her?

She grins as she bounds over to him, hopping over the wooden ledge that separates the woodchips from the grass. The grass tickles her legs, but she keeps going anyway.

She only stops running when she realizes he’s noticed her, and suddenly she feels shy. She can see him up close now, and her cheeks turn a little pink. He doesn’t have Mr. J’s caterpillar scars, but maybe he got them fixed?

The man is sitting up now, a little wide-eyed as she approaches, like he’s surprised to see her.

“Hello!” she chirps, laying a hand on his knee. She cocks her head and looks up into his face. “Are you my Mr. J?”

“Uh—” The man’s eyes shift to the side and then back to her, like he’s nervous or something. She barrels on without waiting for an answer.

“It’s me, Taylor!” she says. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

The man stares at her, then glances at her hand on his knee, and then finally meets her eyes again, looking unsure. Maybe a little bewildered.  

“I promise it’s me! I just got really, really big since you last saw me!” she assures. “I’m a big girl now!”

“Um… uhuh…. ”

“Where did your caterpillars go? Did you make them all better?”

He looks at her strangely. “My what?”

“Your cat-er-pillars,” she enunciates, in case he doesn’t understand. “You know, the ones on your face, silly goose!”

“Uh… yeah…. ” he says, and Taylor’s eyes widen.

“I knew it! It is you!” She beams at him so hard it makes her face hurt. Relief washes through her entire body, and her heart beats extra fast with excitement when she pushes herself between his thighs and wraps her arms around his middle, burying her face into his chest. “I missed you so much! I waited all the days for you!” Mr. J doesn’t hug her back, but that’s okay. When she pulls back, he’s looking at her with wide eyes, like he can’t believe it’s really her.

“Do you like my hair?” she asks, pulling her braid over her shoulder to show him. “Ms. Casey did it for me, but she’s teaching me to do it all by myself, because big girls do their own hair.”

“Uhuh…. ” Mr. J smiles—a tight smile, like he’s nervous—and then reaches out to touch her hair with a trembling hand. “It’s… very pretty.”

“Oh! And I’m this many old now.” She carefully counts five fingers and then holds out her palm to him, smiling proudly. “That’s probably why you didn’t recognize me!” she explains.

Mr. J swallows, nodding.

She smiles at him again, twisting herself sideways so she can lean her back against one of his thighs and look at him at the same time. She can’t believe it’s really him. His hair is a little different now, shorter, and his eyes are brighter than she remembers, but it’s definitely her Mr. J. Now he can take care of her and she doesn’t have to go back to the orphanage with all the other kids.

She shifts when she feels something hard poking at her forearm, something inside his pants, so she scoots to the side to give him a little more room. One of her foster daddies always had that hard thing in his pants, too, but she didn’t like it because it was ugly and sometimes kind of slimy to touch.  

“Do you think we can go to your house now?” she asks. “I’m very thirsty.”

Mr. J swallows again, looking uncomfortable. “Sure,” he says, after a long silence. “We can go to my house.”

She beams at him, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers as he stands a bit stiffly from the bench. She tells him all about the pictures she drew that she wants to show him as they head towards the exit to the park. She has to walk super fast to match his long strides, but that’s okay. His palm is really sweaty inside hers, and she kind of wishes she could wipe her hands off on her shorts, but she also wants to keep holding Mr. J’s hand, so she doesn’t.  

“Oh!” she says, interrupting her own rambling, “I have to say bye to Ms. Casey first! She’s my favorite. She’s nice to me.” She starts to let go of Mr. J’s hand, but instead of releasing her, he tightens his grip instead, tugging her a little harshly, so hard she almost trips.

“We can do that later,” he says, a little breathily, and she has to walk very fast with him to keep up.

She frowns up at him as he tugs her along. She’s going as fast as her legs will carry her. “But I want to do it now,” she says. Ms. Casey will be sad if she leaves without saying good bye.

“I have… lots of toys for you,” he says, “—at my house,” he adds. “Don’t you want to see them?”

Taylor’s ears perk at the word toys, and she speeds up a little. “What kinds of toys? Princess toys?”

“Mhm.”

“I love princess toys! Stacey has Princess Belle and her yellow dress is the most poofiest! But Stacey says only she’s allowed to brush Princess Belle’s hair, even though I said pretty please, and then pretty please with cherries on top!”  

She’s happy to follow Mr. J as she chatters about the doll. She doesn’t even see Ms. Robyn approach until after she’s yanked on Taylor’s arm, stopping both her and Mr. J in their tracks.  

“What do you think you’re doing?!” she shrieks.

Taylor is startled, fear tightening in her belly, and she knows she’s going to be in so much trouble, maybe even enough for a spanking. But when she spins around to see Ms. Robyn, she notices that Ms. Robyn is staring at Mr. J, and not her.

“Oh,” Mr. J says. He releases Taylor’s hand as if she had burned him. “I was, uh, just helping her look for her mother…”

Taylor looks up at him and furrows her brows together in a mixture of confusion and betrayal. “But I thought you said we were gonna go to your house!” she pouts. He promised her she could play with his toys.

“She doesn’t have a mother.” Ms. Robyn glares at Mr. J, even as he starts to inch backwards, moving away from them. Ms. Robyn reaches into the pocket of her pants for her cellphone, and Mr. J holds up his hands as he stumbles backwards. “Hey, lady, you don’t gotta do that, I was just trying to help, honest.”

Ms. Robyn is already pressing buttons on her phone, though, and before Taylor even has time to react, Mr. J breaks off into a sudden sprint, running away from them.

Taylor’s heart plummets into her belly. “Mr. J!” she cries, stunned. Horrorstruck. “Come back!”

No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not again.

Ms. Robyn has to hold her back from running after him, and Taylor fights it hard, tears burning her eyes, the sharp ones that prickle and blur her vision, the ones that always spill over and pour down her cheeks. “Stop! Stop!” she cries. She pounds her tiny fists against Ms. Robyn’s arms. “I have to go with him!” She pushes on Ms. Robyn’s arms and grunts, trying to get away. “Mr. J!” she wails. “Wait! Wait!”

She knows she’s causing a spectacle, that people have stopped what they’re doing to look, but none of that matters. Nothing else matters but Mr. J.

Ms. Robyn is crouched behind her now, pinning Taylor to her chest. “Taylor, listen to me, listen to me,” she says, “that was a very bad mad. A bad man. What do we always say about talking to strangers?”

“But he wasn’t a stranger!” Taylor wails, still trying to break away. “That’s Mr. J! That’s my Mr. J!”

“Taylor, you have to stop—”

No, Taylor thinks. She won’t stop. She won’t ever stop. She can’t let Mr. J get away. She might never find him again, and never is the longest time of them all.

“Let me go!” she screams. She kicks and flails her legs, digs her nails into Ms. Robyn’s arms, which is a mean thing to do, but she’s desperate. She has to go after Mr. J.

Distantly, she hears the woman call for help, but it’s like her voice comes from somewhere high up above her, like Taylor’s trapped underwater and all sound is dulled to her ears. She’s crying so hard she can’t even see, can barely even breathe, and maybe that’s almost like the same thing as being stuck underwater.

Someone else comes to Ms. Robyn’s aid, and then there are more hands on her, and Taylor sobs. She doesn’t understand why Mr. J would run away like that. Doesn’t he miss her? Didn’t he want her to come to his house, and play with his toys? Doesn’t he love her as much as she loves him?

People are crowding around her. Distantly, she hears voices conversing, even while she continues to struggle. Flight risk. Out of control. Inconsolable. The words mean nothing to her.The only word she wants to hear is a name. Mr. J’s name.

“You’re bad and mean and I don’t like you!” Taylor screams, mostly at Ms. Robyn. Telling someone they’re bad and mean is the worst thing you could say to somebody, and she means it with her whole heart. She’ll never speak to Ms. Robyn again. She’ll never speak to anybody.

When she looks up, blinking through her haze of tears, Mr. J is gone, and she knows that it’s over. Deep down, she knows.

She screams like a banshee. She can’t help it. It’s a guttural scream, a howl, torn from her, from the back of her throat, from that dark place inside of her that the light has never touched. One of her foster moms had a name for that place. Lugar del diablo. Devil place.

It’s the kind of scream that hurts, like having a Band-Aid ripped off, or being slapped in the face, or being pushed to the concrete and scraping your knees. She’s experienced all three.

Through a stream of tears, she sees a little boy huddling close to his mother on the edges of the playground, both of them staring at her, horrified, and it makes her feel like a pariah, like there’s something wrong with her.

The fight dies out of her, like it always does, and it makes her sad, like her body is just too small to contain all the anger and heartache inside of it, like it has no choice but to shut down completely.

She slumps into Ms. Robyn’s arms, right there in the grass. Her cheeks are ruddy, tears and snot on her chin and neck, and in her struggling, her braid has come undone, her hair a tangle around her.  

She’s carried back to the old, smelly school bus that brought them all here. People stare at her, and she buries her face into the neck of whoever is carrying her.

Maybe that foster mother was right. Maybe there really is something inside of her, something dark. Something evil.

Something that can’t be fixed.

#Burn #Taylor #my writing #mini fic #please read at your own discretion

[immortalecstasy-blog]

You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth 18+

Chapter 18/25 Pairing: Eddie Munson / Chrissy Cunningam Need to catch up? Click Here for Chapter One

When Chrissy finally woke up, she was mute. People are sympathetic at first, but when she doesn’t magically get better, she slowly finds herself as one of the ‘freaks’. Lucky for her, there’s one freak in particular she really doesn’t mind finding herself beside. 

Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, PTSD, Chrissy still got attacked by Vecna but didn't die, Eddie still got mauled by bats but didn't die, Hurt/Comfort, Abuse.

Hopper was already halfway out the door when Eddie pulled up. Stopping him from bee-lining for Chrissy with the calm offer of a cigarette and a touch on his shoulder to lead him towards the swinging bench they had on their porch.

Eddie sat down, his feet leaving the floor as Hopper joined him, the bench swinging for a moment before Hoopers feet planted them down.

“My kids…” Hopper began, “All three of them. Seem to forget I know what went down. Been there, done that. So, I’m going to ask you – man to man – what’s got your girlfriend riled up and my daughter jumping at shadows?”

Eddie hesitated. The Munson Doctrine was very clear on keeping your mouth shut around any kind of authority. But Hopper wasn’t asking him as the Chief of Police. It wasn’t a command. Dude was losing his mind. Eddie got that.

“So… you know, all of Vecna’s victims left gates. Opening to…. There, the upside down.”

Hopper nodded.

“Patrick died, recently. OD’d, and El… El had this theory, and we checked it out. Patrick’s gate shut. It was healing before he died, but.. he died and it was gone. Fred’s is gone, and… Max… Max’s gate is gone too.”

“What does that mean?”

“Chrissy’s is still open. Current theory is if you were one of his victims and you’re not dead, your gates still there. Something could still come through.”

“Max isn’t…”

“She’s brain dead. El can’t find her in her mind, machines are keeping her in some kind of ‘alive’. But…. Her gates gone. Chrissy’s is the only one left, and she’s the only one breathing on her own.”

Hopper took this in. The pair of them lighting their own cigarettes almost in unison.

“How are you holding up?” Hopper asked, half-way through his cigarette.

Eddie snorted. “My girlfriend thinks if she kills herself she can save the world.”

“She said that?”

“Wrote it.” Eddie admitted, “I’d not seen that fucking whiteboard pointed at me for months, not when we’re just us. And she… she couldn’t get a fucking word out. And today – fuck, I don’t even know what happened, I— I don’t know.”

Hopper’s hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing slightly too hard.

“That’s what has them all playing soldiers again? The gate in your old trailer is still active?”

“Not active,” Eddie amended, “It’s… it’s got like this… skin over it. But, the others have all disappeared, so everyone is freaking out. Fred and Patrick are dead, but Max…”

“Ah.” Hopper realised, connecting all the pieces together. “Okay. Yeah. I get it.”

Eddie nodded. Moving to twist the rings on his hands and finding only stinging knuckles, belatedly remembering that his rings were tucked away in his jacket pocket, unable to fit back over his swollen fingers.

“Chrissy’s alright.” Hopper reassured him after a beat of silence. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“How about you? You holding up okay?”

The usual lie was on its way when Eddie faltered, “No. Nah man, it’s all fucking… shit’s way too crazy for me, you know?”

Hopper nodded empathetically. “Me too, to be honest. Been dealing with this shit for years and it still… I mean hell, my daughter has superpowers. How’s any dad supposed to get used to that?”

“Hell if know.”

Hopper sniggered, clapping Eddie on the back again and standing up. Eddie had had his legs tucked under his body and the chair swung wildly as Hopper stood so that he had to quickly untangle his limbs, his sneakers skidding across the porch decking to right himself.

“Come on. You can stick around for dinner – I’ll get Joyce to give Claudia a ring.”

Eddie followed Hooper inside, awkwardly accepting a hug from Joyce that was both welcome and entirely unexpected.

Chrissy was sat of one of the armchairs in the living room Hopper led him to. Wrapped up in a blanket that was almost comically too big for her, draping over the sides of her chair and forming mounds on either side of her.

Will was sat on the sofa beside her, in the seat closest to her, drawing in a sketchbook. But Eddie could tell he’d picked that position to guard her.

Chrissy looked up at him as he approached, opening one arm so the blanket fell away, inviting him in.

He obeyed without question, scooping her briefly out of her chair so that he had room to sit down and then placing her back on his lap, tucking the blanket around them both so that it covered her again, kissing the top of her head as she burrowed into his shirt.

He didn’t say anything. Will was still with them, so he knew he wouldn’t hear from her anyway, and he… he didn’t know what the right thing to say was.

Chrissy stayed nestled against him, stroking along his arm, and then playing with his hand. He hissed when her finger glanced over his knuckled and she recoiled for a moment before leaning in to study them. The swelling, the fresh cuts, the lack of rings.

She looked up at him, and he didn’t need words – written or spoken, to read her, to hear her.

What did you do?

Eddie glanced at Will, but he was steadfastly ignoring them, all his focus on whatever he was drawing.

“I had a fight with a sink.”

She frowned, clearly unprepared for his answer. Her head cocked slightly to one side Who won?

“I want to say me?”

She smiled, which was the closest to a laugh he knew he’d get.

“You okay?” He asked, and she nodded emphatically. He nodded back, his chin bumping the top of her head,

“Okay then.”

She looked up at him sympathetically, and then confusion crossed her face as she touched his jeans. Frowning, she groped at his jeans. Are you wet?

“Yeah… maybe the sink won.” He admitted. Remembering his damp jeans.

They stayed under the blanket, quietly huddled together, Eddie’s face buried in her neck, finding an indescribable comfort in the soft skin of her neck, the feel of her steady pulse against his cheek. He stayed like that, breathing her in, until Joyce called them for dinner.

Hopper offered Eddie a can of beer, but he shook his head.

“I’ll drive Chrissy home later.” He explained, secretly pleased at the respect that briefly flashed his way as Hopper returned the other can to the fridge.

“I’ll have one?” Jonathan offered.

“Then buy your own.” Hopper told him, taking a seat at the table beside Eleven.

Will was the last to join them, dragged away form his current art project.

The conversation flowed okay, stilled in places that Eddie suspected was more from the merged family than from his and Chrissy’s presence. Separately, they were all used to living with Eleven, the Byers were used living together. But Hopper was a new element to them, and the boys were a new element to him. For Eleven, she was used to both Hopper and the Byers, but not together. So even though she was the bridge between then all, it seemed even Eleven felt a little divided. Becoming Joyce’s Jane one minute and then Hopper’s Eleven the next, staring at her plate in the spaces in between..

They seemed to be settling down okay overall, but it was still all new enough that they were all on their best behaviour. Apart from Jonathan, who seemed so spaced-out Eddie was genuinely envious.

His stash was currently empty. Some fucking dealer he was. But he’d spent two weeks at Rick’s with no phone, hated using Claudia’s phone to call his suppliers and had generally just faded himself out, buying out his own supply. He’d have to sort something out soon. One night without a little bit of medicinal help brought the nightmares back, and he was currently riding three dry days in a row. Maybe he could blame the newly out-of-order restroom on that?

Jonathan caught his calculating glance, and after a slow blink and full body sway, gave him a slow nod.

Eddie glanced away quickly before anyone else noticed. It was clear that the adults at the table – at least – knew Jonathan was high as a kite. Hopper had caught him and Chrissy smoking, but he didn’t think it was wise to enact a drug deal in front of the Chief of Police. Even a cool one. Especially with the day he’d had. He hoped Chrissy would never find out just how close he’d been to being expelled. Not because she’d be angry or disappointed, but because he knew she’d blame her panic attack on his own… whatever the fuck it was.

Joyce and Chrissy disappeared with Eleven after they’d finished eating. Leaving Eddie with Hopper, Jonathan and Will. All of whom he knew to varying degrees on their own, but had no idea how to interact with as a trio.

He was more than relieved when Will shyly asked him if he wanted to see his current art project, and was more than happy to flee from the table and follow Will back into the living room.

Will picked up his sketch pad, and then paused. He’d evidentially only given Eddie a lifeline to get away from the awkwardness around the dining table.

“I don’t need to see it yet.” Eddie told him. “You can wait for the final product if you want. We can just chill out.”

This seemed to give Will the confidence to hand the sketch book over, and Eddie was absolutely fucking stoked when he looked down to see himself, clad in heavy armour, holding Chrissy in his metal-clad arms. She was a princess. Cone hat and net train and all.

Eddie grinned. “You have to show Chrissy.” He told Will, gazing down at the drawing in wonder. He didn’t really feel like a knight in shining armour – if Will had switched their outfits that would have been more accurate, even if Eddie didn’t quite suit pink. But it wasn’t their costumes, or the castle ruins in the background, that took Eddie’s breath away. It was how he had drawn Chrissy’s expression. That shine in her eyes, the wrinkle in her nose. He couldn’t even figure out when Will would have ever seen her that carefree, that open, and yet he had captured it perfectly.

“Can I have this?” He asked.

Will nodded, “It’s not finished yet though.”

Eddie frowned, “It’s perfect.”

Will shook his head, “I… I was going to paint it.”

Eddie shrugged, handing the sketchbook back over, “It’s awesome man, seriously.”

“I painted everyones miniatures.” Will rushed, as if he’d been dying to let Eddie know this little fact for ages.

“They told me.” Eddie admitted, staving off wounding Will’s feelings with a quick “They look awesome. I should get you to paint all the NPC’s and Monsters – but, it would ruin the next campaign. You’d know what was coming.”

“I’m in the next campaign?” Will asked, ignoring the compliment.

“Obviously.” Eddie said, nonplussed. “Man, you absolutely crushed Strahd. I know you were using a fresh character, but dude I have to play with Will the Wise. I’m not taking no for an answer!”

Will beamed, “Really?”

“Yeah man! I’d make you a shirt, but they’re kind of a no-go right now.”

Will laughed, just as Eddie heard a knock from the doorway and glanced over to see Chrissy and her whiteboard.

‘Ready to go?’

Eddie nodded. “Just give me five minutes with Jonathan. Come look at this, come here.”

Chrissy sidled over and Eddie waited for Will to hand over the sketchbook before disappearing down the hall to Jonathan’s room, giving a perfunctory knock on the door before letting himself in.

He was barely in the room before Jonathan was thrusting a ziplock bag at him.

“Thanks man.”

“Yeah, no worries.”

“How much do I owe you?”

Jonathan waved his hand dismissively, “You’ve done me a couple solids in school and stuff. We’re good.”

Eddie tucked the bag away in his jacket, “You sure?”

“Uh huh.”

Eddie assessed just how high Jonathan was and decided he’d double check on this little arrangement when Jonathan had a clearer head.

It turned out that Will was happy to give Chrissy the sketch he’d refused to give to Eddie. She was clutching it to her chest as they waved goodbye to everyone and got into his van. Eddie noticed that on the back of the piece of sketch paper was a string of digits in Eleven’s handwriting. He thought it was a little presumptuous of her to graffiti the back off Will’s work, but he had more pressing matters at hand.

“Don’t let your mom see it.” Eddie warned, and Chrissy shook her head, cradling the drawing protectively against her chest, wrinkling it.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” He asked as he pulled out of the Hopper-Byers driveway.

“Do you?” She asked.

“My thing? Not in the slightest. But I want to hear about your thing,”

“Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.” Chrissy offered.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“No. But I want to know yours.”

Eddie grinned, “Okay, so… either we tell each other. We both feed our curiosity and admit our sins, or we can just.. leave it.”

Chrissy considered this, “Can we leave it?”

Eddie nodded, slowing down as they reached the scarcely used intersection. He angled the van back towards town when Chrissy reached out and took hold of the steering wheel.

“Can we go to Rick’s?”

Eddie glanced over at her, deliberating.

“Go home first.” He told her, “Say Goodnight. Go to bed. I’ll do the same, and then I’ll come get you. Have you back by morning.”

Chrissy nodded, seeing the sense in his plan.

There were several faults in his plan that Eddie figured out at he went. The first was that Dustin sleeping body was between him and the easiest escape route, and that he still didn’t have his own front door keys just because he hadn’t need them. He ended up taking the backdoor keys. There was only one set, but no one really used them.

Successfully not-waking Dustin (not that he’d have cared) and getting to his van was the easiest of their challenges. He killed the engine in his van early, letting her roll silently down the road for as long as could on Chrissy’s Street.

As he climbed out of his van he pulled up the collar of his jacket as if that would disguise his identity in the slightest. He probably should’ve borrows one of Dustin’s caps and dumped his vest. Ah, fuck it. He was here now.

He knew from watching Steve stealth into her bedroom (totally not jealous) which window was hers and waited until all the other windows had gone dark before going to stand beneath it.

“Am I really supposed to climb out of the window?” She hissed angrily as he approached, and he had to stifle a laugh.

“I mean, I just used the door, but… whatever you want, princess.”

“Wait there.”

Chrissy disappeared, the light in her room fading away. The silence was deafening but after several agonising minutes he heard the click of her front door and carefully made his way over the grass to meet her.

“Is this really a good idea?” She asked.,

Eddie shrugged, “No. But it was your idea.”

Chriss debated for a moment, and Eddie was about to tell her he’d be happy with a goodnight kiss when she seemed to make up her mind.

“You know how to set Rick’s stupid alarm clock, don’t you?”

Eddie nodded.

“Okay, c’mon.”

She took hold of his hand, pulling him towards his van.

“You’re so naughty.” He told her, his jog across the grass turning into a happy little jig, dumb-ass smile across his face.

Chrissy struggled not to laugh, her shoulders bouncing as her face contorted.

“Stop it!” She wheezed, pulling him up to the van and dropping his hand by the driver’s door and continuing around the front to get to her side.

They hadn't been back to Rick's since fall break.

Honestly, it had never even crossed Eddie's mind that they could sneak back out there, despite how much time he spent daydreaming about the two weeks they'd spent hidden away there. He'd been concocting all sorts of scenario's in his head for weeks of ways they could get time alone again, had been seemingly permanently horny for the past month, trying to get his hands on her whenever he could.

Now here they were, and Chrissy was straddling his lap and slipping his bandana from his pocket and... nothing.

His hand was fucking killing. His body still in shock from his outburst and subsequent rampage, his mind still racing to try and fill in the blanks on what had set Chrissy off so badly.

He caught her wrist when she went to tie the bandana around his eyes.

“Don’t…”

Chrissy faltered. “Is everything okay?”

Eddie almost laughed but he managed to reign it in. He didn’t know how to describe what he wanted, what he needed. He’d never been a touchy-feeling person, wasn’t always comfortable with the blasé way everyone around seemed to be with hugs or shoulder touches or whatever. It was different with Chrissy, obviously. But usually it was because he wanted to touch her – or be touched – in a much less PG way than what he wanted now.

He licked his lips, automatically moving to twist his rings “Can we just…Ow.” He released his injured fingers and shook them out, making it worse.

Instead of finishing his question, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck and inhaling the combination of perfume, and face cream and shampoo and that extra something that was just Chrissy.

“You just wanna cuddle?” Chrissy asked indulgently, like she was talking to a little kid. He nodded against her neck, sighing as her arms wrapped around her shoulders, one hand gently resting on the back of his head.

She started to stoke his hear and he felt an unexpected rush of tears. He tried to blink them away, but they were too quick for him. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her further up his lap.

“I’m sorry, baby.” She told him quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I should’ve been there for you today. I should’ve made sure you were okay.”

Eddie shook his head disbelievingly, “S’not that.” He mumbled into her neck. “You don’t have to be sorry, I’m.. I’m the…” he let out a shuddering breath, “I’m sorry Chris.”

“What for?” She asked, still stroking back his hair, rocking them gently side to side.

“I ran away.” His voice was so small she barely heard him, but it broke her heart all the same.

“Eddie, no. Baby, don’t…”

“I thought you were dead.” He whispered, tears flowing freely down his face and bleeding onto her neck.

“I thought I was dead too.” She pointed out, crying with him now. “Even when I woke up in hospital I thought I was dead. I don’t blame you Eddie.”

“You should.”

She shook her head again, “I kept wishing he’d really killed me. I was so mad at him for breaking his promise to take me away from it all.” She admitted. When he didn’t say anything she continued.

“I’m not mad at him anymore. I’m so so glad I’m alive, and that’s because of you. Are you listening?”

He hummed against her neck.

“Not because you helped kill him, or... made me a mixtape, or... got high with me. You just… I never felt like I was… less, with you. You just… you didn’t treat me any differently. Like I was broken or weak or—”

“Well, you’re not.”

“No, I know.” She agreed. “and I know you ran away. Anyone in that position would’ve ran Eddie. I know I would’ve.”

“You wouldn’t.” Eddie told her, finally emerging from his hiding place against her neck, pushing her hair out of her face. “You’re my brave girl.”

Chrissy grinned, covering his hand with hers and holding it against her cheek.

“Would you run again now? Knowing everything?”

“No.”

“Then stop letting it eat at you, Eddie.”

“Poor choice of words.” He joked, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“Idiot.” Chrissy laughed, releasing his hand, and pulling her sleeve over her thumb to clean up the tear tracks down his cheeks. “Is that why you had a fight with a sink?”

“I kind of… fought the whole restroom. Principal Higgins is not impressed.”

“Eddie!”

“It’s fine. Ms Kelly came to my rescue so, I’m not in trouble.”

Chrissy looked mollified, but she wasn’t all too impressed either.

“I just… I feel like I keep letting you down.”

“Well, you don’t. So pack it up.”

Eddie smirked, “Yes ma’am.”

Chrissy grinned, “That’s more like it.”

Sneaking out to Rick’s in the middle of the night became a regular – and very dangerous game. Eddie thought she was growing too bold, and Chrissy would’ve reluctantly agreed with him, except that with Eddie snoring gently beside her, that red sky and sinister whispering didn’t come to her and torment her at night, calling out for something to come to them, to… complete them? Chrissy didn’t understand it, but she felt the longing in the whispers. The one night her mom had been up late and she couldn’t sneak out – she’d got Eddie to sneak in. He hadn’t stayed for long, his heart in his throat the whole damn time even as he took in every inch of her bedroom.

She didn’t seem to mind him pawing through her things, giving him an amused nod when he started pointing at things to get permission for a closer inspection, even if she had been planning on get getting handsy with her rather than the layer of papers on her desk, or the knick-knacks on her shelf – or the junk piled in one corner that she needed to donate or toss out.

Perpetually curious, Eddie smoothed out the crumpled-up piece of paper he’d accidentally knocked to the floor, recognising Chrissy’s handwriting. 

Your my mom, I won’t always like you but I will always love you. I promise that I’m doing everything I can to heal, but I need you to promise that you’ll let me. That you’ll give me the space I need to figure it all out.

If you can do that, if you can promise, then I’d really like to come home. Please?

Eddie raised one eyebrow and then waved the piece of paper at Chrissy.

“Oh. That’s what I gave mom when I got home from Ricks.”

“Is this why you’ve been able to get away with murder recently?”

Chrissy shrugged, “That, or guilt. I don’t really know. She did promise.”

Eddie resisted rolling his eyes, putting the letter underneath an almost-empty bottle of perfume on her desk. He was glad Chrissy’s mom had let up. He felt much better knowing Chrissy spent barely any time at home, and that she was getting proper meals most evenings, but he didn’t trust Laura Cunningham any more than he’d trust a demogorgan.

He couldn’t understand why Chrissy had come home, even if he’d let her win that one. But more than that, he couldn’t get his head around Chrissy’s blind faith in a woman like her mother. Someone that had hurt her, bullied her. Eddie could never be like that. Not with his dad, not with anyone.

“You kept your uniform?” He asked in a whisper, brandishing the tiny green cheerleading skirt from on top of the pile of stuff in the corner to change the subject.

“It doesn’t fit anymore.” She whispered back, stifling a laugh as he tossed the skirt over his shoulder dismissively before opening a box and recoiling at the creepy china doll he found inside.

“Yeah, there’s a reason she stays in the box.” Chrissy teased, before tipping her head to one side. “Eddie, what are you doing?”

“I’ve never been in a girl’s room before.” He explained. Then as an afterthought added “Well, I’ve been in Nancy’s room, but she wouldn’t let me touch anything.”

Chrissy watched fondly as he made his way around her room, slightly more cautiously now that he’d uncovered the (absolutely possessed) doll.

“You know, the normal protocol when you’re invited into a girls room is to sit on the bed with them, maybe fondle them instead of all their stuff?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows.

“Your girlfriends room, anyway.” She amended, patting the bed.

There was a noise from downstairs and they both froze, listening intently.

“I should go.” Eddie whispered regretfully when it seemed like it was safe to speak again. Chrissy nodded, looking unhappy.

He gingerly stepped across the room to her bed and cupped her chin. “I’ll fondle you tomorrow, okay?”

Chrissy had to fight not to giggle.

His parting kiss scorched her lips, awakening a deep ache that spread across her entire body. She briefly contemplated following him out of the window, or summoning him back, but she could hear the low hum of the television downstairs and couldn’t justify the risk.

When she’d told Eddie how tempted she’d been the next day, He had smugly pointed out that if Chrissy hadn’t insisted on going back to live with her parents, she’d have made their lives infinitely easier.

“and safer.” He added one morning when he’d casually slipped this little fact into conversation for the millionth time as he dropped her off just as the sun was starting to appear on the horizon. She cut him off with a quick kiss.

“See you at school.” She said with a yawn, climbing out of the car.

“We’d get more sleep too.”

Chrissy ignored him. He was wrong about that one.

Eddie had two exams today. Math and US History. He’d always got through math okay, and had managed to pass US History the second time round. The third should hopefully be no different, even with his hand still protesting every pen stroke.

It was tomorrow that would be the real test. For both of them. Their foreign language exams.

Ms Kelly had tried her best to stagger their exams so that Eddie could sit in with Chrissy, but after she’d saved Eddie from expulsion, she wasn’t in Principal Higgins best books. Of course it was Chrissy that was going to suffer for his mess.

There was no chance they’d be able to get to Rick’s again tonight. Robin was coming over for one final attempt to drill el gobbledygook into his denso head, and Chrissy had originally planned on going to Family Video to hang out with Steve. The theory had been that it would be a typical quiet weeknight and there’d be dribs and drabs of strangers to try to talk infront of with plenty of recovery time in-between. Steve barely knew a single word of French, but that didn’t matter.

It would’ve been a good theory. Except that Chrissy’s ‘safe list’ was still only Dustin and Eddie. She had managed a few words to either of them with other people in the room, but it was still only the two of them she could talk freely to.

The new plan was to talk to Dustin in his and Eddie’s room while Dustin continually changed frequencies on his radio, so that there was a high chance that no one was listening, but a possibility that either Will or Nancy (both selected by Chrissy) would hear.

Eddie couldn’t see how this would help. But he plastered on an encouraging smile and told her she had nothing to worry about, even as his stomach backflipped.

“Eddie, you’re not listening!”

Eddie let out an exasperated groan, “I’m trying Robin!”

“No, you’re not!”

She put her hands on his shoulders and forced him to look at her.

“You. Are looking at that door. You’re thinking about how Chrissy is screwed if Dustin can’t dig out the chatterbox we all know is hiding somewhere in there. That is not helping. It’s not helping you, and it’s not helping Chrissy. Do you want to know how you can help Chrissy?”

“Huh?”

“Español! Edwardo! Español!”

Eddie batted Robin’s hand from his shoulders, scowling.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Alright.”

“En español!

“Sí.” Eddie said grumpily.

“Good, now ask me where the restroom is.”

Eddie wracked his brain, his eyebrows drawn.

“Dón… Dónde… está el baño?”

“Muy bien! Cuáles son tus pasatiempos?”

Damn it he knew this one. He did. She was asking him what… what he did in his spare time? He hadn’t been able to think of anything to begin with. Robin had reminded him that he didn’t actually have to answer honestly, he could make up whatever crap he wanted as long as he said it in Spanish.

“Mi pasatiempo favorito es tocar la guitarra”

“Qué música te gusta?”

He knew what she was asking only because she asked this every time. He was screwed if his teacher didn’t follow ‘what do you do in your free time?’ with ‘what music do you like?’ because that was the question he’d be answering.

“Mi favorito es metal.” He recited back.

Robin only released him when Dustin has freed Chrissy, and by that point he was exhausted and his head was throbbing. It wasn’t the words that were hard, it was the different order they went in, the stupid gender thing, all the weird idiosyncrasies that he couldn’t categorise in a way that made them easy to pull from his brain. He could remember complete sentences and what they meant, but if he was asked something new, something without a pre-prepared answer he knew he’d be a goner.

Chrissy grinned at him, but her nose didn’t do that cute little scrunch so he knew it was as fake as the one he gave in return.

“Comment ça s'est passé?”

Chrissy waved a hand dismissively and shook her head, Robin’s toothy grin twitched but she kept it in place. “You’ll be fine.”

Steve picked Robin up when he finished his shift and offered to drive Chrissy home. It was dark and cold, so Eddie had planned to drive her home anyway even though it was such a short trip it was barely worth putting a seatbelt on, but he kissed her goodnight and watched her leave.

When Steve’s taillight had vanished, he turned to look at Dustin.

Dustin shook his head sadly, “She managed for a bit, but then… I think she got in her own head and she clammed up.”

Eddie sighed.

“Ms Kelly is sitting in with her though, right?”

“She hasn’t spoken to Ms Kelly since Patrick’s autopsy results came out.”

Dustin looked crushed, and Eddie wished he hadn’t said anything. He ruffled Dustin’s hair and shut the front door. “I think she’ll manage.” He lied.

“Yeah, no yeah, of course. Definitely.” Dustin lied in return. “What about you?”

“No te preocupes hermanito.”

“What does that mean?” Dustin asked.

“It means I’ve got this, shit head. Go to bed.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what that means.” Dustin laughed, letting Eddie shove him down the hall.

Robin might have just been able to fill his head with enough prepared sentences to get him through. It wasn’t as easy as when they’d practised. Robin tended to speak quiet slowly for him, and he was used to how the words sounded when she said them, so there were a few occasions where he just couldn’t figure out what he was being asked. She’d prepared him for that too though. ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that again?’ and ‘I didn’t understand that. Could you repeat it slowly for me?’ were two of the phrases she had drilled into him until he could recite them effortlessly.

But even slowed down, there was one or two questions that he had to give up on, and judging by the amused look on Miss O’Donnell’s face there had definitely been one he had misunderstood and given the wrong answer for. She smiled at him when he was done though, and that was definitely a first.

When she told him he was free to go, he thanked her (in Spanish, hoping that may be worth an extra credit) and then went to Chrissy’s locker to wait for her to finish her own exam.

He waited.

And waited.

#hellcheer #fanfiction #eddissy #eddie munson #st fanfic #stranger things #chrissy this is for you #eddie x chrissy #st fanfiction #eddie munson x chrissy cunningham #chrissy cunningham

[louiloeve]

Whether by Fate or Necessity - part 4

Part 4 is ready and up on AO3 here. Please mind the notes: There will be graphic depictions of bodily harm.

Self-indulgent tagging list: @user1286 @baldur-my-beloved @kathrynthekind @let-me-burn-in-peace @dreamingsarana @ivantheomitted @shycandykitty @gdymilosczapukawmedrzwi @casual-espeon

CHAPTER 4 - UNDER

And if you wanna know what it is like below Reach your hand down here And I won’t let you go until you’ve broken through The surface of a tear Kellermensch, Under, 2022

Mimir had been very pleased with his earnings from the day before, and now he wanted to share—all right, fine, gloat, he wanted to gloat – and he decided to invite Sigrún along to the tavern for a drink. He paid a round for everyone present and was animatedly recounting the story of Baldur’s newly acquired invulnerability to anybody who would listen as well as making conjectures about its possible limits, when the door banged open, making the wooden wall shudder.

“Lo, there! Smartest Man Alive!” Baldur quirked his chin upwards. “Care for another round of bets?”

“Aye, little brother.” Mimir smiled and got up from the bench, happy to test a few theories he had brewed up. “What did you have in mind?”

Mimir’s enquiry made Baldur grin with a strange edge of viciousness to it, and Mimir filed the observation away for later. He called for attention around the bar, ready for a little more of yeterday’s friendly competition, but, as it would soon turn out, Mimir became hard pressed to reach the limit of Baldur’s tolerance for pain: It seemed to be endless.

First, Mimir wanted to see who could first bruise Baldur’s skin. Several Aesir volunteered to beat him as hard as they could with knouts and cudgels, but none of them made a lingering mark on him. Thor was also happy to give it a try, and while swinging Mjölnir did leave a bruise, it quickly faded again. Baldur merely laughed, but a bit too intensely, Mimir thought. He noticed that the supposed mirth didn’t quite reach Baldur’s eyes, but he said nothing about it.

Then Mimir proposed trying to break Baldur’s bones, but it had to be done by a god with enough strength, which became evident when several Einherjar gave it their best, and still failed. Thor gamely obliged to partake in the bet, but his elation soon petered out, when it became obvious, that no matter how or where Thor broke Baldur’s body, even with the increasingly gruesome angles with which Thor had laid Baldur out, the latter only laughed harder and harder at Thor’s efforts.

“What a wimpy, slow-witted, lardass bonehead you are! Is this supposed to be your best? No wonder the All-Father only gives you the dumb assignments!” Baldur sneered at Thor, even as Baldur’s lower arm flopped awkwardly as he gestured at his older brother. Heimdall snickered at the insult while Thor huffed irritably.

“Whatever, you little prick.”

[...]

Keep reading

#God of War #God of war Baldur #GOW Baldur #Baldur god of war #Baldur GOW #God of war Thor #GOW Thor #Mimir GOW #Mimir God of War #Freya GOW #Freya God of War #einherjar god of war #ao3 fic #black thunder #self-harm #consensual torture

[wi-fier]

so english isn't my first language and it isn't even my second and i was sure that the swing set is something like a bench but i thought what if it's not and i translated it so the painting does not look like a swing set at all and i've seen that theory about it being Mind Flayers tentacles so i'm probably gonna stick with that

#byler #mike x will #will x mike #mike wheeler #william byers #will byers #stranger things 4 #stranger things #st #st4

[toonegards]

so ridiculously mad at jesse for choosing nottingham forest. although, i believe it wasn’t a money driven decision like media outlets initially reported, i just don’t get the logistics behind it. well i do, in theory. it’s a place he can play football without having to battle for a spot in the starting line-up, cooper is still incredibly close to the england set up so realistically he’s a manager that could get you in the world cup squad should your performances warrant it & if jesse were to singlehandedly keep nottingham from getting relegated it would look amazing on the resume!

however, forest are a team that are really going to struggle in the premier league. and i don’t think him or his team really factored that into the decision. just from todays game, cooper set up so defensively that jesse had to swing between LW and CM. plus he’s the only individual name on that starting sheet that’s going to pose a threat which means, like today, opposition players are going to swamp him and not give him the space he requires to play in his element. a team like west ham, everton or newcastle have a number of players who pose a threat that would’ve taken the heat off him.

saying all that, the hate he’s getting from west ham fans and the media is so irrational. he doesn’t owe west ham anything. they took a chance and loaned him and he repayed that loan with the season of his life to get them into europe. nothing more is required. not to mention west ham truly had chance after chance to buy him --- to the point where louie confirmed had they matched man united’s price that summer, jesse would have gone back. they’re about as responsible as man united for him being stuck on our bench because they were so convinced they would get him as a free agent that there was no true effort put into getting his signature.

and that isn’t an attack on fans, or moyes or the players because as a unit, i’m sure he felt love from you. i don’t think he ever felt that love from your owners though and was ultimately let down by them.

i hope the risk pays off for him but i just have a sinking feeling he’ll be overwhelmed. i truly think he’s committed career suicide with the decision he’s made but i’m going to continue supporting him and hope for the best.

#jesse lingard #nottingham forest #west ham #man united #thoughts to answer all the asks i've neglected #in my inbox

[cavenewstimes]

Naz Reid's stint as a starter might be what swings the Sixth Man of the Year race in his favor

The NBA’s Sixth Man of the Year award seems relatively straightforward on first glance. In theory, it is meant to go to the league’s best bench player. Lately, however, the exact definition of “sixth man” has come into question. The league’s only guideline is that a player must start fewer games than he comes off of the bench, but where is the practical line? Last season’s race between Malcolm…

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[xarrixii]

Cinder_24 : "Jackstalk" ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

CW: previous chapter | beginning | masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▼

“Again, come on. Don’t hold back on the teleporter.” Liam keeps an icy gaze locked on him.

Harlow had a lot of strength to take back before Liam would let him go home. He understood why, but it still hurt that he couldn’t check up on Gabriel with his own eyes.

“There’s a reason that people say ‘shake it off,’ kid. You’re not shaking it off.”

“It’s lightning.”

“And you’re kind of being a little bitch about it.”

Harlow jammed his fist into Liam’s shoulder, sending them teleporting back a bit further down the mat. “See, now you’re getting it. Do more of that, we need you walking.”

“I’m not in Cinder.”

“Yeah, we need you walking so you can be fighting and passing your exam you insisted upon passing.”

“Shut up.”

“You told Matty, to her face, not to back out on enforcing the rules just because you beat the fuck out of a Storm op. So now, you need to get punching or my pay grade goes down.”

“You get paid?”

“How else am I meant to get any money?”

“Cinder has money for paychecks?”

“We don’t privately endorse thousands of companies for nothing. Also, the stock market is crazy.”

“Hopefully companies that⸺”

“Aren’t supporting mass genocide, don’t promote human rights violations, yeah yeah yeah. Sometimes you forget Amaterasu is a good person on the broad way. And the rest of the A-1s. Cinder’s goal makes no sense if bad people run it.”

“Sure wish Amaterasu learned not acting like a bitch makes you not a bitch.”

“Don’t we all?”

Harlow took another swing at Liam. The point was mostly to miss and just use what looked like a sparring match as a way to get him moving around outside of the new apartment him and Liam were crammed into. There was still an empty room Liam had yet to open.

He knew who it was meant to be for.

The thought pulled him away from the moment, Liam lightly bonking him (telekinetically, of course) with the pop-top they carried around to get his attention back.

“You good, kid?”

“Fine.” Harlow swallowed. “I mean, it’s fine. I just⸺”

“You want to sit down?”

He hesitated, fists lowering. He hadn’t noticed how badly he’d started shaking. “Yeah.”

Liam guided him over to the benches, rock, water, and fire going everywhere. He could only assume aerokinetics were scattered between the lines as well. He knew Kyal was one, at least.

It was difficult to see aerokinesis at work.

“We’re gonna find them. Damn kid’s probably waiting for the right moment to finish melting off the hand binders Storm would’ve put on them. Part of police training is apparently learning to use kinetics while restrained.”

“Not usually recommended for pyrokinetics.”

“I don’t think anyone could reasonably send them to rehab at this point.”

Harlow replied with a muffled groan.

“Look, I don’t know exactly what Storm wanted with Raiden, but I only know one telepath with the skills to permanently alter someone’s mind. And he works for Cinder.”

“That’s the problem Liam,” Harlow hung his head as though he held a glass of whiskey in his hands. “I don’t think Storm wanted Raiden.”

“Urban, you know how ridiculous that theory is.”

“Did you hear Raijin when he was talking to me? He kept calling me Raiden.”

Liam blinked at him a few times before mumbling out a quiet “shit” and running his hand down his face. “No wonder Raiden asked why Raijin was asking about you. Damn it. I should’ve known.”

“If I’d swung the fire any faster,” Harlow started.

“Don’t beat yourself up like that. I told you to do something, and the whole thing was stressful overall. At least I know to look for a traitor now. Telepathy’s been a nightmare hell recently.”

Harlow sets a hand on Liam’s arm. “It’s not your fault either.”

Liam lets out a laugh before looking up toward the entrance door opening, a few people floored as they went to peek.

The person in the doorway spots them almost instantly, strolling over with an unusually casual gait and holding out a hand directed at him. Everything about them screamed a deserved level of confidence. A pair of sunglasses was embedded in their messy hair, their Cinder uniform more form-fitting than the usual one. Most importantly, a yellow and black sleeve with a different design to his own.

“Jackstalk,” the guy beams. “Pleasure to be your acquaintance.”

Harlow stands to shake Jackstalk’s hand, vaguely remembering the name mentioned a few times. “Urban.”

“That explains quite a few things. You’re doing alright?”

He was taken aback. “Pardon?”

“I hit you with enough electricity to kill a ten-year-old.”

Oh. That makes more sense.

“I’m doing better. Not in a constant state of in-and-out anymore, which is always a plus.”

Jackstalk was now hitting the second person Harlow’s ever seen stretch a smile even wider than it had been previously without it being creepy. First being… Harlow took a deep breath, shying his hand away into his pocket.

“Now, to my understanding, you’re new to Cinder. Liam’s been keeping you up to date?”

“I wish.” Liam gets up and stretches. “I can’t tell him half of the shit I should be able to at this point because Matty decided a letter grade meant everything. Did not matter how much I pleaded not to fuck me over with two resilient little assholes.”

“Letter grade?” Jackstalk snorted.

“She really should know better.”

Harlow sighed, laughing with them both. “Legally, I am a Class-D.”

“Yeah, well, so am I, and we both contributed to sending a Class-A comatose, so they do not mean anything.”

“What?” Harlow had to take a minute to register what he’d just heard.

“I understand your grade is because of a different reason than mine, so I think I should rewind with my introduction for a second.” Jackstalk waved a hand around. “I’m Cinder A-1 Jackstalk, electrokinetic. I am limited only to electricity already existing within my range, of which may increase with an exceptional telepath.”

“Not me,” Liam clarifies.

“So⸺wait. You will never be able to summon lightning? Ever?” Harlow was at a loss for words. Kinetics being limited like that was a new concept entirely. “Why?”

“Now, Liam might not be able to tell you, but frankly, I don’t care. Cinder is a byproduct of a horrific series of kinetic experiments. Of which every single A-1 hails from. Which isn’t many, which is also sort of terrifying considering how many are currently on this continent.”

“Suzie’s locked up in the research sector, at least?” Liam has this realization as well.

“And Morgen still in the aether, or wherever that edgelord decided to hide away. Somewhere cold, or we’d be hearing of ice on the equator. Say, where did Five go? I know he’s taking a long vacation down here because of your brother’s training practice.”

“Probably off scamming a bunch of rich guys with gun aiming skills.”

“Uh, excuse me for asking,” Harlow said, sounding more confused than he would’ve liked. “Who?”

Jackstalk turned back to him. “Right. Suzie is in charge of Cinder’s research and intelligence sector. Morgen, well, Morgen used to be an A-1, but he left over a decade ago to spend the rest of his life alone, assumingly in the north. Five is a stickler for the rules and in charge of advanced, high-scale threats/training. You know Amaterasu, good ‘ol Matty is in charge of low-scale threats/recruitment/training. Just to finish off the circle, I’m in charge of Cinder programs and investments. There’s also Nacht, who I do not want to go into right now.”

“So you⸺”

“The rehab clinics are a Cinder investment,” Liam cuts Harlow off. “And before you ask, no, we did not know about the plentiful amount of horseshit that goes on inside until Amaterasu threw you on our doorstep and asked you to fuck off immediately after.”

“Immediately? I was under the impression Matty simply didn’t find an exceptional performance to consider and made a bad choice.” Jackstalk’s eyebrows raised with newfound interest.

“She ordered Liam to leave me in an armored truck on the ‘integration’ mission before it even started.” Harlow still found it hard to think about. It was something Raiden was consistently making fun of her with, just the idea of leaving him in the dirt only to leave with a bang and a case the station still had open.

Jackstalk sighed. “I’ll have to talk to her.”

“No need,” Liam rolled his eyes, “She heard about this one’s rain-resistant fire and started doing her paperwork. It’s been six hours since she’s contacted me.”

That made Jackstalk chuckle. “That’s twice now she’s made the mistake of assuming based on classes alone. Maybe she’ll finally start learning something. Maybe. No guarantees.”

Liam lightly punched Harlow’s upper arm, retrieving him from his own mind again. “Kid, you okay?”

“Just, Raiden. It’s nothing. Sorry, I⸺” Harlow rubbed tears out of his eyes with his arm, having to adjust his glasses back.

“We’re gonna find them whether Storm wants us to or not.” Jackstalk sets a careful hand on Harlow’s shoulder, sending him jerking back and sizing himself down.

“Don’t do that.” Harlow heaved out. He couldn’t find it in him to focus on Jackstalk’s face anymore. “I don’t care if you mean well. Don’t ever⸺I can’t do this. I need a minute.” Harlow puts a hand in his hair, running off into the hallways with a heart trying to pound out of his chest. Jackstalk slowly sets his gaze on Liam, quiet while using sign language. Ah. That’s what you wanted to talk about.

next chapter

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▲ missing a content warning? let me know

i'm sure i'll get some more lore into the story soon. maybe. if it makes sense.

#fiction #original story #original characters #magic #dystopian #fantasy #angst #what a dude #such a dude #so dude of him

[thehemlockqueen]

The bench/swing theory

I highly doubt this'll make sense. I haven't thought about this properly.

So I feel like the bench and the swings have a significance in Cyrus and T.J's relationship. As we all know, the swings is where Cyrus and T.J 'officially' and it's their place, but I just thought about how the swings are separated but still joined together. Maybe this could symbolise that they're separate people/not together because although their swings are next to each other, they're separated by space and can't make contact unless they really tried.

The bench could be the symbol of their relationship or something? It's like the swings but instead of them being separated by space, they aren't. They're together on the bench. TOGETHER ON THE BENCH. They don't have that space to stop them anymore nor do they have that lack of room to be together.

Swings - SEPARATE, APART, DISTANCE, NO INTIMACY/CONTACT, NO ROMANCE???

Bench - TOGETHER, LACK OF DISTANCE, INTIMACY AND CONTACT, ROMANCE

(Also I bet you, they probably hold hands or kiss or something on that bench. Something romantic and gay.)

Does this even make sense?

#andi mack #3x21 #theory #does this even work #kl speaks #07.02.19 #the bench and swing theory

[marvelousescapism]

unpopular hc: post serum steve is actually a great dancer and there's no canon reason to say he wouldn't be. like he didn't have the energy and couldn't hear music too well before the serum but you're telling me mr genetically engineered perfection with probably enhanced senses wouldn't have an enhanced sense of rhythm too? Slander. the man started going to ballet/ballroom class to keep himself busy in the future (+ itd help in combat probably bc dancers kick like horses)

first off this hc is great because it makes sense, look at how this mf moves while he fights:

second of all this hc is great because it could start out so angsty

like, maybe circa 2011-pre-Battle-of-New-York-2012, when Steve goes to his gym one evening, he hears music he recognizes for once - music from the 40s - down the hall, and he's obviously irresistably pulled to it, and it turns out it's a swing dance class! and he's mesmerized because not only is everyone dancing like they used to but everyone's dolled up in 40s dress style (nothing is historically accurate but it's still jarring to see)

and he sits on the side and watches (just like he always used to do while Bucky danced with girls as he gave Steve bedroom eyes over their shoulders from across the room) but people keep beckoning him up and eventually he caves and joins in, and he warns everyone who takes a turn with him that he has two left feet, but he surprises himself with how quick he picks it up. and it'd be bittersweet because those classes very quickly become the highlight of his week, but he can never stop thinking if only Bucky could see me now...

he'd stop going after the Battle of New York though, once "Captain America's return to the 21st Century" stops being a conspiracy theory and starts being a newspaper headline :(

but the third thing that makes this hc so great is it would be so funny when Bucky gets back

maybe a couple years since he's settled and he's comfortable going out more and being more social, Steve encourages him to come with him back to swing classes, and Bucky's riling him up while they're on the way there like "you sure, Rogers? you can take the bench any time! I won't think less of you if you stand on my toes!" and Steve's like "😏😏 ok Buck"

and as soon as they're on the dancefloor Steve's swinging him around like a professional, and Bucky's too blown away by how well Stevie "Two Left Feet" Rogers can dance now that he doesn't let him dance with anyone else the whole night (and on the way back home he's so torn between joy and outrage because "you're such a good dancer now and that's great, but it's not fair!! I was supposed to teach you how to dance properly!!" "if it upsets you so much we don't have to--" "--hell no, we're going every week now! I'm gonna kick your ass next time!" "it's not a competition, Buck" "it is and I will win!" "whatever you say, sweetheart")

#if anyone wants to write this 👀👀👀👀👀 #steve rogers #steve rogers headcanon #stucky #bucky barnes #i still love the Steve Can't Dance hc but this is just as beautiful thank you for opening my eyes anon #also i miss going to swing classes so much #i used to go to them before uni and i havent been able to go since 💔 #ask #anonymous