#this series RULES. no one has ANY IDEA WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT

[reiderwriter]

My Love Is Mine All Mine

Week 2 of my Playlist series 🎧💕

Summary: Spencer Reid always liked broken things, but you didn't think you could be fixed. Maybe all you needed was understanding and companionship.

Warnings: slight angst, case details mentioned - misogyny, kidnapping, etc, but no graphic/ explicit details. Hurt/Comfort.

A/N: Tumblr, please let me post haha I've been good, I promise 🙏 This fic is so late because I've been having some technical issues with tumblr and it has greatly annoyed me, so hopefully if you're seeing this it's been fixed? Who knows... Thank you to everyone who has sent in songs so far for the Playlist series, I'll be cresting the playlist today and posting it for everyone to see and use!

Masterlist || Series Playlist

Falling for Spencer Reid wasn't in your plan for the new year, but looking back, it was probably something that was just bound to happen. 

He'd been the first person to show you any kindness after everything you went through, the first person who hadn't put their own rigid horror at your past before their attempts at sympathy. 

You watched the way people recoiled from you as you told them - bluntly, you had to be blunt - what the man in the cabin had done to you. 

He listened to your words, didn't interrupt, didn't quietly shake in anger, and refuse to meet your eyes like your father did, didn't weep for her baby like your mother did. He took your hand as it shook. He held your gaze. 

It was his job to ask questions, but there weren't many left to answer. 

The only reason you were alive was because his team had tracked the string of bodies to your kidnappers home. You were alive because one of his coworkers had put a bullet through his head, ending your nightmare. 

The very idea of love was repulsive to you as you emerged from that basement in the first days of the next year, and you remembered thinking the snow looked fresh and soft. You remembered wanting to lay in it, to wrap it around yourself like a warm blanket and drift into sleep. The cold ground would be as much comfort as you would allow yourself. 

Because after everything, you knew you didn't deserve love. 

You accepted understanding from him, though. 

When the shock wore off, you were awash in all the misery inflicted upon you. You raged, kicked, screamed, broke things, and made people uncomfortable. Nothing would numb the pain of being trapped inside your head, your head still trapped inside that basement, that cage. 

He came to visit you at the hospital. The nurses had given up on you, were content you were physically healing, and that they had technically done their job but not bothered by your deteriorating mental state. Some days, you swore that they pierced your skin in the wrong places purposefully, not even searching for your vein. 

But then he was there, with a book and a chess board, and he'd asked you if you'd ever played before. 

“No. Chess always seemed too…” You swallowed the bile that drowned your lungs and tried again. “Before, it was boring. An old person game, too many rules. Now… He said we shouldn't do things like this. Said we shouldn't cultivate our minds.” 

It was a confession again, but one that took a weight off your shoulders, and not one that pushed it further down. 

“Would you like to learn?” His tone was so soft and awkward, like a teenage boy asking a girl out on a first date, that you almost giggled. 

“I'll be honest and say you'll never beat me, I've played through most board combinations, including a large proportion of the 10^80 theorised checkmate positions, so if you'd rather do something else, that's fine, or I can leave, too, if… you'd… prefer?” 

You had laughed then, a thing that bubbled up from the pit of your stomach and left your shoulders shaking as you gasped for breath doubled over. 

You'd been in hell for six months, and he'd drawn you out of it for a few moments by rambling about chess. 

“Are you a patient person, Doctor Reid?” 

“I think so.”

“Then set up the board and let's play.” 

He beat you every time, obviously, but you enjoyed his small explanations of the moves, and you did improve slightly. 

More than that, you enjoyed his company. It wasn't that you talked extensively In your hospital room, oscillating between your lowest point and somewhere just a rung above that where the snow was falling and the air was fresh, but that he never looked at you the way others did. 

You were discharged and were sad to lose that small glimmer of normality. He'd come twice a week throughout January, and now you were back in your usual shape. You were being discharged, and so that would end. 

You were surprised that he came to pick you up from the hospital the day you left. 

The parents who had looked everywhere for you for half a year hadn't wanted to, and the close friends from before hadn't spared you a thought since reposting your missing poster on their social media pages. 

But the man you played chess with twice a week, the man who'd carried you out of hell himself was there. 

“Ready to go?” You nodded, dumbstruck, and followed as he grabbed your bag. 

You weren't exactly sure where it was you were going, but you followed the man anyway, only a small part of your brain shouting in protest considering the last time you'd been blindly trusting.

He led you back to an apartment with some bare furnishings but a large window and a warm soft blanket covering the bed. It wasn't his, but yours. 

“Your parents are paying for it. They're taking the city to court due to the circumstances. Apparently, there were numerous phone calls to law enforcement that went unnoticed, but the city is looking to settle, so you don't have to worry about rent for a while, maybe ever again. The WiFi is all set up, hot water is working, and so is the heating. The locks are triple enforced, and I'm right down the hall, so if you need-” 

“What?” 

He blinked at you and suddenly, looking sheepish, as if becoming aware that he'd presumed a friendship between the two of you without consulting you first. 

“I live down the hall.” 

You stared at each other for a few moments as you processed his words. He lived down the hall. He'd driven you to your new home, set everything up for you, and he lived down the hall. 

“You're a good man, Spencer Reid.” You whispered, turning away to not let the moment linger anymore than it already had. 

Chess nights became routine. You'd set up the board and play for an hour or two or until you were sick of losing. 

Gradually, though, the nights got longer. He'd arrive just as you were eating a meal, and you'd invite him to join you, or he'd bring along takeaway and you'd eat quietly together, talking about everything and nothing.  

One day, you'd mentioned a film. A popular one, one you'd loved as a child and still rewatched to this day. 

“I've never seen it, is it good?” He'd said. And in your shock, you jumped up and sent half the chessboard flying. 

“Well, it seems that now our game is over, that we have time to give you an education, Doctor Reid.” 

“I have three PhD's-” 

“And still you haven't seen Clueless?” 

You'd pulled him over to the couch he'd picked out for you, loaded up the movie and then invented a new tradition. 

Chess nights and film nights were separate days of the week. So he could always promise to be around for one of them even if he had to miss the other because of work. 

You didn't ask him about his job anymore. He saved people like you, and you didn't need to be thinking about people like you too much.

What they went through, if they survived physically. If they survived in other ways. 

He always visited you first when he returned, though. There would be a knock on your door at some point in the day or night, and he'd let you know he was home safe. 

Another tradition. You'd opened the door to let him in the first time he'd returned from a case after you moved in, and he'd leaned down and wrapped his arms around you. 

You heard the breath of relief, loud and emotional, and hadn't quite realised it had come from you until a few minutes later. Some part of you had thought he wouldn't come back. 

Now, every time he came home, you ran to the door and quietly comforted each other, reminding the other that no matter what happened, you were both there for each other. 

You weren't sure when traditions and movies turned into love or if it had lingered over you the entire time. You didn't think you could love someone right then, your heart broken into small pieces with the torment you'd suffered. 

But it was stitched back together with pieces of him still lodged inside. He was in the very fabric of your being as you became whole again. 

The truth was that you most likely couldn't find love again because there was no room in your heart for anyone else. And you'd never be able to reschedule chess nights to go on dates anyway. 

You weren't sure if Spencer ever figured out how much of hum you carried around with him, how your eyes followed his lips as he ran through decades of memories to give you the fact he thought would please you the most. You weren't sure if he loved you as much as you did him until you were.

You'd agreed to watch one of his movies for a change, agreeing to stop the streak of 80s brat pack classics to watch a black and white war film from Russia with no subtitles. You'd sat together on that couch under blankets you'd bought together months earlier, and he'd pulled you in closer.

“I want to watch the movie and translate at the same time. You should sit here.” He'd pulled you into his lap, letting your back fall against his chest as his lips fell to your ears, and he began to whisper. 

Sitting there so closely, so intimately, was almost torture. Unconsciously, your head tipped back with his words, displaying your neck and shoulders, silently willing his lips to drift even once. His arms wrapped around your waist, and you did your best not to squirm the entire movie, but with your heart beating out of your chest, it was a hopeless cause. 

“Did you enjoy it?” He whispered as the credits rolled, but you hadn't even noticed the movie had ended. It wasn't until the silence that followed his question stretched out notably that you came back to reality. You couldn't answer, in fact. You gaped for a few short moments, hoping something vague but accurate enough would just pop into your mind. 

As you attempted to negotiate yourself out of distraction, you turned your face to his, but he was closer than you thought.

Your noses touched, and your breaths mingled. His arms still wrapped around your waist, and your blankets still anchored you to one another. 

“I wasn't paying attention to the movie, Spencer. I'm sorry.” The words came out of you so fast, yet so quietly that you were surprised yourself how honest you had chosen to be. 

“Why not?” He asked, eyes having drifted sleepily down to gaze at your lips. 

You didn't answer his question but felt your cheeks flush red. You thought about pulling away, moving back, or at least laughing everything off, but you didn't. You stayed there, still like a deer in headlights. 

“Your voice was too distracting,” You forced some of the tension out of your body and let your head fall against his shoulder again, hoping this moment wouldn't end anytime soon. 

“Distracting?” He sounded concerned and shifted in his seat, lifting you up from your happy place in his arms until you were again face to face. “Did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The look on his face was so concerned and focused that you had to pause for a second to catch your breath. He cared about your comfort so much and paid attention to each word that came out of your mouth. He wanted your happiness more than anything in the world. 

“No. I'm never uncomfortable with you, Spencer.” You were back to whispering now, hands floating up to grab his own, fidgeting by his sides. You bought them up to your face and guided his hands to your cheeks, needing to show him just how comfortable you were with him in actions, not just words. Words could be dishonest. Actions were honest. 

His concern melted away as he began stroking your cheek with his thumb, smiling sweetly at you. 

Though you were both content, you'd never been quite this intimate before. So when his thumb swiped over the corner of your lips, your eyes both caught on each other. You could see him weighing up the outcomes in his head, going back and forth between pulling away and pushing in closer.

Slowly and softly, as though he were trying not to startle you, his head moved closer until his lips were on yours. 

It was a quiet kiss. You wouldn't describe it as fireworks, or butterflies, or anything loud and grand and passionate. It was quiet, and it was right. 

He pulled away seconds later, trying to gauge your reaction, but you followed him away and kissed him again. 

When you finally pulled away, it took you a few seconds to realise you'd climbed back into his lap, unconsciously having moved closer to him. You guiltily looked up, waiting to see any discomfort on his features, but to your surprise, he was busy straightening out your hair. 

“I love you, Spencer,” you whispered as he took care of you. He smiled, looking down at you once again, pulling his arms around you to gently lower both of you down to a laying position on your couch. 

“I love you, too,” he said as you held each other and drifted into contented sleep.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid hurt/comfort

[risuola]

IV — EPIPHANY — F. READER x SUKUNA RYOMEN

Sukuna thought nothing can break him. He's powerful, he has influence and means to always come on top – or at least that's what he thought, because now he realized that he's nohing but weak.

cw: angst, blood, usage of weapon, reader discretion is advised — 2,6k words

a/n: in this part i wanted to give you a little insight into Sukuna's persona. show the menace in him, show the threat and how he is when he's not influenced by weakness that is our precious y/n (aka when he's not confused as hell by what's happening in his heart). i rewrote this part four times before i was finally somewhat satisfied with it.

series masterlist

You are safe with me.

Sukuna thought about the words with hilarity. The sentence so simple and kind, it felt foreign to realize that his own mouth allowed it out of his system. An odd sort of disdain washed over himself and he found it laughable that throughout his entire career of blood and murder, what made his blood pressure raise up was a lie he told you. A strangely comic amalgamation of letters and syllables that each time he thought of them made him more angry and more amused.

You were safe, technically, or maybe that’s what he wished to believe when he replayed the events of one very unlucky Sunday evening in his memory. It began lovely, too lovely in fact, but he chose to actively ignore the oddity of it – he came to terms with how easily you were able to render his senses useless whenever you came into the field of his view wearing something as pretty as the dress you picked for the date that day. It was in a shade of pink that you deemed similar to the color of his hair, a dusty rose, you called it, and Sukuna wasn’t sure exactly how much truth was that, but he couldn’t care less about it when you looked so drop dead gorgeous. When he watched you walking next to him through the crowded alleys in the park nearby your apartment building, he couldn’t help but notice only you in the mass of people around him. He felt like a teenager in a way, with his heartbeat drumming against his ribcage with pace similar of this after sprinting for long time. You were capable of triggering reactions in his body that he thought were long gone with the days of his youth but he was fine with it. As long as he could witness your beauty, he was fine with everything.

Sukuna laughed gravelly as the sequence of memories played in his mind – the dark sound of his voice causing two police officers outside the bars of his cell to tremble. Oh, how much he hated you and your stupidly breathtaking face for whatever the hell you did to him. If he could, he would tell you what he thinks of it right now and if not careful enough, he might tell you a little too much. Confess maybe. Yeah, he might do that someday. And maybe move out somewhere where you’d truly be safe. Where he wouldn’t feel like a fucking idiot for saying words that are so damn obviously a lie.

Moving out felt like a good idea. In couple of years, when he’s done ruling the criminal forces, he could take you out of Japan, somewhere far away and protect you from any harm. He’d take you somewhere warm, where he could shamelessly admire the way your skin tone looks under the golden rays of sun and the way your eyes shine and glisten like the most expensive and rare gemstones. The thought of you brought a wide smile to his face, as the picture spread in front of his closed eyelids. In the cold of his cell, he could almost feel the burning touch of your fingers tracing the shapes of his body.

* * *

Sixteen days.

It’s been over two weeks since you last saw Sukuna and it was getting harder and harder to go about your days. You missed him. You missed his face, his strong arms that manhandled you around despite your playful taps and tugs. You missed the huskiness of his voice, the low purrs he made in the morning whenever he’d nuzzle his nose against your temple inhaling the scent of your skin that he swore he was addicted to. And above all, you were worried and restless, and scared.

Whenever you closed your eyes, your mind was flooded with memories of the Sunday date you went on with Ryomen. He picked you up and handed you a little bag filled with your favorite mochi – the ones stuffed with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, a delicacy made in only one place in Tokyo and you remember how your heart swelled with warmth and love when you realized he had driven to that shop on the other side of the city just to get you few pieces of sweets. He was wearing his usual, black dress pants and a leather belt, perfectly polished boots and a dark grey sweater that made him look both casual and dangerous, with the tattoos around his wrists exposed under the rolled-up sleeves and his sharp features, that somehow whenever were turned towards you seemed a little bit softer.

You felt like a princess next to him, you felt loved and protected with his large hand enveloping your smaller one in his warm embrace. It was perfect. It was perfect until–

You didn’t exactly pick up what happened and how it happened. Even now as you think of it, you can’t truly recall how that tale-like evening turned into a mess that led you to lose your sleep every night that followed. It was a flash. One second you were leaning into Sukuna’s palm, greedy to steal his warmth and love and next one you were pushed tightly against his chest behind a bench. His hand, that was embracing you with as much delicacy as one would use to touch a doll made of porcelain was suddenly pressed harshly to the side of your head, covering your ear. Someone was shooting, Ryomen was shooting. You felt the impact of each bullet being extracted from his weapon. Each one of the subtle shakes of his muscular body reverberated throughout your smaller frame. You heard guns, despite his effort to protect your eardrums, but the loud explosive sound mixed with screams of people around was loud and clear in your head. An echo of danger and violence that you witnessed firsthand even though the man that held you did everything he could to protect you from the event.

You remember vividly the moment Sukuna groaned and cussed lowly. It followed a soft tremble of his large body and at first you didn’t realize what happened, but then you felt the unexpected wet warmth on one of your hands. “It’s fine, don’t worry,” he was telling you over and over again as your eyes began to water at the realization that one of your palms was covered in blood. His blood.

“It’s just a scratch,” he was lying to you, but you didn’t know it was a lie until you saw him later. The magazine in his gun was empty sooner than you thought it will be and the foreign shooting continued. It seemed like there were few attackers, but you couldn’t tell where all of it was coming from. All you remember was that you stayed hidden in the large body of your lover for the entire time until the police sirens broke the scene.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, doing everything in your power to hold back sobs, as he kept you close to himself. You knew that police couldn’t be good for him and if not for you, he would most likely run away somehow, but he stayed there, behind the bench, holding you tightly and making sure not a single bullet could land on your fragile body.

He didn’t look mad, not even annoyed, when he was telling you what to do next and how to act in the face of what was to come, and even though you had the hardest time registering it through the immense fear you felt regarding his future, you were nodding. He was calm, and you thought that he stayed calm for you because the scene of shooting was enough of a distress for you already. And then, you saw him in handcuffs, with his hands shackled behind his back, guided towards the police car. Cops that were responsible for escorting him looked almost funny next to his towering frame and if he only wanted, he would quite easily throw those officers away. But he didn’t. And he didn’t do it to save you.

You remember the last time you saw him he sent you a smile, more so a smirk, when one of those cops harshly pushed his head down, making sure he got into the car. Few moments later, he was gone and you were left with the mess of the crime scene and the burden of a witness.

Later, you were informed by one of his pawns that it’s not gonna take long, but you knew that things were serious because few days slowly turned into a week and then two weeks and he still was in jail. And you couldn’t go visit him because he said so. You stayed in his house, safe and sound in the bed you always shared with him, except now you were alone and cold. You missed him. And you were worried.

It killed you inside to think Sukuna might face charges. A life sentence, most likely. There was only so much that you knew about his criminal past and you were sure that he kept many secrets from you, that he wanted to save you from the heavy burden of his misdeeds and cruelty. You knew how dangerous his lifestyle was, how dark was the path he chose to fallow and you knew that even someone as strong as him couldn’t escape the jurisdiction forever. But why now?

You couldn’t shake off the devastating feeling of emptiness whenever you wandered between the luxurious interiors of his mansion. It felt like you couldn’t stop worrying, day in and day out you were thinking if he was alright. Was he properly fed? He told you that he won’t contact you while in jail to protect you, but all you wished for was just to hear his voice. You were worried about the way authorities treat criminals of his sort. What will they do to him? The mere thought of torture or interrogation filled you with dread and anxiety. You never felt so alone and helpless.

* * *

It took too long.

In fact, detention took much longer than Sukuna anticipated but time behind the bars was nothing but an entertainment for him. It was amusing, it allowed him to let loose. Surrounded by an air of sadistic satisfaction he didn’t get to experience in years, he played game of pushing and pulling, a game of power. Despite being enclosed and surrounded by dozens of officers and guards, Sukuna had a sense of control over his situation, and it amused him. He was enjoying the misery that he caused others, relished in the fact that he was feared and hated. It made him almost giddy. There was a twinkle in his eye and a playful grin on his lips, he relished the experience.

“I’ve got few questions to you.”

He smirked, sitting smug and relaxed. For the nth time he was questioned; a futile attempt of getting information out of him, yet another display of the illusionary power that authorities thought they had but lacked severely. It made Ryomen laugh out loud each time he sat against a new face, it pleased him, he loved the feeling of having the interrogator’s full attention. Detectives that tried to enforce the law onto him looked tough, each one of them, until they dropped their weight onto the metal chair in the interrogation room. The heaviness of the sinister aura was unnerving to anyone who dared to approach and the criminal enjoyed breaking them one by one.

“Do you?” Sukuna spoke, his voice low and menacing, but bearing a thrill of amusement and excitement. The heavy chains that grounded his frame clinked as he moved just slightly and the shiver that went down the spine of the man in front of him did not escape his watchful eye. “Afraid?”

“Hardly,” a tone of false confidence responded to the question and Ryomen chuckled. To him, this was a game, and he was winning. He found joy in annoying the interrogator, knowing that he couldn’t get anything out of him. It was stimulating, it was fun. It was a game of cat and mouse. It felt euphoric to answer the questions, knowing that his words were confusing, that he was able to mess with the man’s head, make him question his own judgement.

Years and years of being on the top of mafia managed to clear his memory of being vulnerable and the caricature of it that he was now experiencing served for a nice refresher. He felt excitement to play with the law and as he sat there, restrained by metal bounds, he realized why he became a criminal in the first place. The constant chase of thrill and power was what made him who he was.

As the detective sat there, intimidated more and more with each passing second, Sukuna watched the disaster unraveling with a dark glint in his eyes. He enjoyed every moment of the tension and knew that chills were running down the spine of his current opponent. He was imposing, savoring the fear and the exquisite feeling of danger that surrounded him. It was intoxicating, it made him feel alive. He played with the interrogator as if the predator would play with its pray, he stared at him with a small grin of pure evil.

“You’ve been stubborn this whole time,” the officer said, clearing his throat and straightening his spine to make himself appear bigger but to Ryomen, he was merely a source of amusement. The criminal stayed relaxed and leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between his own face of death and the eyes of the person in front of him.

“Was I stubborn?” He questioned, his tone low and menacing and his lips stretched slowly, baring the teeth. “You’ve got me all chained up and still, you can’t get your job done?”

“You’re chained up because of the potential threat you might pose.”

Sukuna laughed. A raspy and low chuckle came from his throat; a dark omen that hung heavy in the air as if signifying the upcoming danger. It was cold and malicious, an ominous showcase of his real persona, of someone who has no compassion and knows no mercy. He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction at the sight of sweat running down the face of the man in front of him. He exuded an aura of fear, leaving everyone in the room unsettled.

“If I only wanted to, I could rip out your throat with my bare teeth.” Ryomen’s voice was low, it was quiet and nearly whisper like but the message it carried was more than enough to freeze the blood inside the veins of the interrogator.

“I assume you’re familiar with the idea of good cop bad cop method,” the man spoke again after a moment of dread. He cleared his throat once more, squared up his jaw.

“And which one are you?”

“Oh, I’m neither, but allow me to show you something,” interrogator reached to the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a phone with his sweaty palms and pressing down few buttons.

The moment Sukuna looked down on the screen, his expression changed. A ghost of anger washed over his features as he took in the picture. Suddenly, he felt a wave of burning hot filling his veins and reaching his face; a dizzying sensation of dread and rage and then he realized that the power he wielded was nothing. With his eyes fixed on the little phone and his jaw clenched, shaken by the rush of adrenaline and with his knuckles white, Sukuna Ryomen experienced acknowledgement. An epiphany of sorts. The illusion of might and influence burst like a bubble made of soap and slowly he realized that he’s nothing but–

“Seeing something familiar?”

–weak.

» PART FIVE SOON

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#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jjk fanfiction #sukuna #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna #ryomen #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna mafia boss #jjk smut #sukuna ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna angst #sukuna ryomen angst #ryomen angst #ryomen sukuna angst

[amongemeraldclouds]

better than revenge | chapter two: practice?

Lorenzo Berkshire x Slytherin!reader (ft. Ex!Mattheo Riddle)

Series trope: Fake dating 

Chapter two summary: As with any good fake dating scheme, you’ve got to have rules and perhaps a little bit of practice.

Warning: Kissing, mention of cheating, no use of y/n

♡ main masterlist

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

“We have got to come up with a nickname, something like Operation Freedom,” Enzo says, leaning back at his desk, using his hands to support him.

I look up at him from the chair and snicker, “cute but kind of obvious. Wouldn’t work if we want to keep our arrangement a secret. Hmm how about calling it an ordinary item like shoes?”

“Because of how we’ll walk over Mattheo’s patience?” Enzo quips.

I grin, “or a broomstick because of how we’ll beat his sorry ass for cheating on me and all the brotherly trauma he has no doubt caused you.” It was fun hating on Mattheo with someone who gets it.

Enzo laughs then suddenly gets concerned, “So he cheated on you, huh? I never expected much from Mattheo but what a shitty thing to do.”

I curl my fist, “well, what we’ll do will help me get my revenge. I don’t think we can keep mentioning shoes and broomsticks though, let’s keep it simple like,” I scan his dorm, “the book! Since this all started in the library.”

“So every time we talk about The Book, people will think it’s an inside joke between us,” Enzo says.

I nod, “let’s go over the rules one more time. Rule number one, no more hiding from Mattheo. It’s time for me to reclaim my space. Number two, we hang out at areas where he would be 50% of the time so he would see us a lot but not all the time. Just enough to rub it in his face.”

“We do have a life, after all,” Enzo adds. “Number three, I tell my father I am smitten by a wonderful lady,” he says gesturing to me with his hand, “who also happens to come from a powerful family.”

I mock curtsy in the chair, waving both arms to fan my imaginary dress and raise my chin. 

“And we have to attend a ball together,” he adds. “I know you hate them, but I promise I’ll make it fun.”

I nod and continue, “Number four, only we know about the arrangement. Now officially called The Book. And I think that’s it.”

“Nope,” Enzo shakes his head, “there’s one thing we haven’t discussed yet. Kissing,” he says playfully.

“Kissing?” I ask, blushing. I look into his dark eyes. He may be smirking but he’s looking at me intently.

“All this may be fake but I don’t hate the idea of kissing a beautiful girl like you to really sell our story. One of the perks of The Book,” he says.

“I haven’t kissed anyone since Mattheo,” I admit and I hate it. I hate that Mattheo is still the last person I kissed. I hate that I miss the way he used to kiss me like his life depended on it. My lips would be haunted for hours by the ghost of his lips on mine. Now all that haunts me are the memories. I need to do something different, to feel different.

“No pressure, we will only do what you’re comfortable with” he raises his hands and flashes me a kind smile.

“You know, you’re not bad yourself,” I stand up and move towards him. “Maybe I don’t hate the idea of kissing a pretty boy like you too.”

“Practice?” I ask, standing on my toes to move closer to him.

He moans his agreement and closes the gap between as he presses his lips on mine. He kisses me gently and I feel something like butterflies in my stomach. It feels nice to be kissed again and to kiss him back. As our lips move in a steady rhythm, I move my hands up his soft hair and he takes this as a cue to pin me against the wall behind us.

I feel his body against mine, he’s so warm and nice. I take his lower lip between my teeth and I’m rewarded with a moan as the kiss deepens.

He places his hands firmly on my waist, his grip strong and reassuring. He licks my lips gently and I open my mouth to accept his tongue. I feel warm and electric from the core of my stomach all the way down my toes.

Theo suddenly opens the door, “Enzo, would you tell your brother he can’t just—” 

The kiss ends way too soon as Enzo looks at his roommate, face flushed and hair disheveled. I stare at his angular jaw and admire how good his side profile looks. I lucked out with my fake date. 

“So you really did get a room,” Mattheo’s voice breaks my gaze from Enzo, sounding amused. He enters the dorm behind Theo and I move to leave but Enzo keeps his reassuring hold on my waist. He shoots me a meaningful look, reminding me I no longer have to run away.

“You’re killing my game,” he tells Theo. “Either leave or we will continue even with you around.” Enzo looks at me with a mischievous smile and resumes our kiss. I smile on his lips and close my eyes, drowning out the world around us.

His kiss is hungry this time, committed to the show. When he trails kisses down my jaw and neck, an involuntary moan leaves my lips and I raise my chin to give him more access. My body feels alight with fire. As I tilt my head, I notice Mattheo staring at us, his jaw clenched and murder in his eyes.

I move my hand back to Enzo’s hair as Theo turns to leave, pushing Mattheo out with him. 

When the door closes, Enzo takes another second to kiss my neck, gently biting the skin. My toes curl.

“That was — wow,” I say out of breath when he moves away, putting more space between us.

“Yeah,” he says equally flushed, grinning. “And to think we’re just getting started.”

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

♡ main masterlist

Author's note: Thank you for all the positive feedback on chapter one! Feel free to comment if you’d like me to tag you when the next one goes live.

I told myself I would publish weekly, but here I am just days later. I didn't expect to write as fast as I have! I have six chapters written and am nearly done with the seventh one. More or less, there will be eleven chapters in the series.

Enzo was the first Slytherin boy I liked and I was frustrated there wasn’t enough fan fics of him. A lot of this is for my fellow Enzo girls (and guys or them). The next chapter will be for Mattheo lovers, it's my fave one so far!

Taglist: @hoeforvinniehackerrr @i-think-you-are-gr8 @thecraziestcrayon @adreamingpendulum @themarauderswife7 @midsoulz

#mattheo riddle x reader #lorenzo berkshire x reader #slytherin boys #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x you #lorenzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire imagine #mattheo riddle imagine #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #enzo x reader #mattheo riddle #lorenzo berkshire #mattheo x you #enzo berkshire #slytherin x reader #slytherin x slytherin #amongemeraldcloudswrites

[talesofesther]

tangle me in all your broken pieces (and watch me stay) | ch 2

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: An Asgardian god has just threatened your planet and you were called in to provide a little help. What you didn't expect was to develop a strange soft spot for said god, who hid more pain behind his cold facade than you thought possible.

A/N: I'm not sure if I completely like how this turned out. It feels a lot like a filler chapter, but nonetheless, a very necessary one. Next chapter will be more interesting and have more of Loki as we head into the main plot, I promise. <3

Word count: 4k

Masterlist | Read ch 1 here

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Fury screamed, he dragged you by the arm all the way into Banner's laboratory—nearly making you stumble on your own feet as you struggled to keep up with him—where Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bruce, and Thor, stood waiting.

You shook yourself off of his grasp, huffing angrily and adjusting your black cardigan over your shoulders. Everyone's eyes were on you, but they kept silent. Your chest heaved with adrenaline. With your sleeve, you brushed away the trail of blood under your nose.

"One minute you tell me you just want to talk, and wouldn't take any risks," Fury kept his tone loud, gesturing with his hands to where he'd just dragged you out of the room Loki was kept in. "And the next, I look at the cameras and what do I see? You're standing in front of him, inside the damn cage."

You gritted your teeth, breathing sharply through your nose. Your eyes were downcast, and you felt like a child being reprimanded for misbehaving.

You stole a single glance at Tony, who stood just a few steps behind Fury. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his lips hung open and he shook his head with indignance. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea of what could've happened?"

"Give me one single reason as to why I shouldn't send you home. Right. Now." Fury spoke with finality, both hands resting on his waist expectantly. He was fuming, you doubt you'd ever seen him this angry.

You knew you had been reckless, unbelievably so; in deciding to ditch the rules and simply take Loki's fate and mind into your own hands. But his pain had spoken louder then. And damn your heart, maybe it still does.

"I was right," you stated, raising your chin and quirking an eyebrow at Fury. "Loki's mind was being controlled. Not completely, but he wasn't the only one there. Something else was twisting his thoughts and pushing him into doing what he was doing." You took a step closer to him, sparing a glance at every person in the room before focusing back on Fury. "I. Fixed. It. You're welcome."

Fury scoffed, a small, slightly mocking smile coming to his lips. "Oh, you fixed it? Just snatched the bad out of him then?"

"There was an enchantment, a connection to the same person who tortured him into obedience,"

"Tortured?" You heard Thor wonder quietly.

"I reached into his mind and severed it, just like you brought me here to do." You finished.

"I brought you here to fix the people he messed up, our people. Not him," Fury argued back, again pointing a finger toward Loki's general direction in the Helicarrier.

"So is he not worth saving?" You asked quietly, tilting your head slightly sideways with furrowed brows. It was rhetorical, and he knew. You held his gaze for a while longer, daring; until you turned to look at Loki's scepter that now rested on a table near the windows; "the plague in his mind came from that," you nodded towards the weapon, "I suggest you get it as far away from us as possible, it's not worth the trouble."

"It- it makes sense," Bruce spoke up for the first time, adjusting his glasses as he took a single step forward. "Loki had used the scepter to mind control people, it's not farfetched to think he would be under the same fate." He shrugged.

You met his eyes and gave him a grateful nod, noticing the way Natasha also raised a brow in agreeance.

The tension inside the laboratory lay thick in the air, conflicting opinions charged it with electricity and gave you goosebumps. You crossed your arms over your chest to create some sense of self-reassurance. "When I freed Loki's mind, I cut his connection to the alien army he would bring to Earth. He has no means of doing it now, no location to open a portal to. It's over."

There was a beat of silence, everyone exchanged curious glances with each other. Yet you could see Bruce breathing out a sigh of relief, a smirk appearing on Tony's face as he gave you a sneaky wink, and a new look of concern crossing Thor's face.

Fury was still very much pissed at your actions, but as he glared at you, you could feel just a smidge of pride in there too.

"I'm sorry," you said, voice gentle. "I did what I felt was right."

Tony came up to you then, he laid a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. "Good job, but never do something like that again. Or you're gonna give him a heart attack," he gestured at Fury, who only told him off with a gesture of his hand.

All you did was close your eyes and nod. You couldn't know if your decision had actually been the right call or not, but what was done was done.

And when Clint and the others attacked the Helicarrier, you were able to free their minds pretty easily before too much damage was done. Clint was lightheaded and tired, but he knew enough to point agents to the location where Selvig was being held. The dust started to settle then.

─── ·❆· ───

Now that Loki's plan was no longer a threat, the scepter had already been moved to a facility on the other side of the ocean, and the Tesseract had been recovered, the only problem that remained was; what to do with Loki.

You sat at the round glass table in the Helicarrier's main control room, sunken in your chair and fumbling with the long sleeves of your cardigan while your teammates discussed Loki's fate. You tried to keep to yourself, feeling as if you had already drawn too much attention today as is.

You couldn't help but notice the different energy in the room, however; all the other agents walking about and between the rows of computers were much calmer than they had been this morning. The glow of a setting sun seeped through the huge main windows at the front with an air of tranquility.

This was your doing, at least partially. You'd always been one for helping people, but never at the expense of your own safety. Yet today you'd put that on the line, and it turned out okay. It began to feel selfish that you'd kept your abilities to yourself for so long, when maybe you could be using them for good.

The god of mischief himself had been… quiet. Strangely quiet. You kept glancing at the displayed image of him near the control panels; he still sat on that same bench inside the glass cage, slumped against the wall, and staring at nothing. It brought more questions than answers to you—for a second you panicked with the thought that you'd somehow broken his mind, but then you remembered who he was, a god. Part of you wished you could go in there again to see him. Of course, that was most definitely not an option anymore.

You still couldn't place why you cared about what would happen to him at all. You came, and you fixed people's minds. Your work here was done.

So why did you feel like it wasn't?

Thor was in the middle of an argument with Fury about how his brother was, in fact, not evil incarnate when you finally spoke up; "Why not keep him here?"

There was silence, and everyone's eyes were immediately on you again. You cursed under your breath. You should probably start thinking before you speak.

"Excuse me, I thought we'd just agreed on no more shit ideas from you," Tony pointed a finger at you as he spoke, with an eyebrow raised at your audacity.

You shrugged, "It's just a thought, okay? Loki sees humans as below him, he wanted to rule over our planet," you reasoned, "Well, make him learn his lesson here, live in our shoes, and see that he's not above us."

Tony narrowed his eyes at you, "Have you been drinking?"

You gave him the middle finger with a deadpan look.

"I must agree with the lady," Thor finally spoke again, his gaze cautiously shifting from you, to Tony, to Fury, "It was only after I was stranded here on Earth that I truly understood the purpose of being worthy."

"And how exactly do you suppose we do that?" Fury scoffed, leaning back on his chair, "Keep him on a leash, tell him to sit down, and just hope he doesn't retaliate?"

"That would be a sight," Natasha mumbled against the rim of the coffee mug she held, before taking a sip.

Thor seemed to be in deep thought for a moment, and then; "I can speak to my father, Odin, he should be able to help with keeping Earth safe from Loki's tricks."

"Am I the only one who feels a little uneasy about allowing the guy who just threatened to bring an army to our planet, to stay?" Steve looked from one end of the table to the other, gauging everyone's reactions.

"No, you are not," Fury spoke matter of factly, making sure to throw you a glare in the process.

"I for one want him as far away as possible," Clint grumbled from his place leaning against the wall.

"I don't love the idea either," Bruce joined in for the first time since you all sat down, "But she singlehandedly prevented a possible war, people," he gestured toward you, "I think it's worth considering her idea."

You sat up straighter, leaning your elbows on the table, "I can keep an eye on him myself if you let me. I'm pretty sure I would be able to feel it if he tried anything more… severe."

Everyone exchanged glances in silence, all of them holding the same apprehension.

"I shall speak with my father," Thor decided, "And if he assures me that Loki would not be a threat if he were to stay, then you can decide."

─── ·❆· ───

When Thor came back with the news that Odin would, in fact, be able to completely strip Loki of his powers for an undetermined amount of time, things were pretty straightforward from there.

Without his seiðr, Loki would be like any other human. Easy enough to contain. So with a bit of united convincing from both yourself and Thor that the best course of action would be to keep Loki here, on Earth, so he could serve his sentence living amongst the very people he wished to rule over, your teammates eventually—albeit some of them begrudgingly—relented.

Loki's progress would be tracked and monitored regularly, and he'd only be able to leave Earth once he atoned for his mistakes and the lives he took. You'd maybe even go as far as calling it a rehabilitation program—though he'd probably actually kill you if you told him that.

Fury was not exactly pleased, you could feel the tension flowing off of him when the decision was made, but he wasn't totally opposed either. The fact that he would also be keeping a close eye on Loki was a given. More than anything, he didn't like the idea of you being involved, yet you suddenly had the urge to prove to him that you could handle this, that you were capable of it.

And Tony was… a whole other story.

"No. Nope. And have I said… absolutely not?" He spoke matter-of-factly, putting on his sunglasses even though he was still inside the Helicarrier, more specifically in the kitchen.

"Think about it, Tony," you followed after him as he opened cabinet after cabinet, looking for the mugs. "Your tower is the safest building in all of New York, if there is a right place for us to keep an eye on him, while also making sure he actually goes out and sees our world, it's there." You opened the cabinet to your left and pulled out a mug, handing it to Tony.

He paused, looking from the mug, to you, and back to the mug before snatching it from your hand. "All I'm hearing is that you wanna bring a lunatic, self-absorbed diva into my home."

You held yourself back from rolling your eyes. "I told you, I'll be the one watching him, don't you trust me?"

Tony filled his mug to the brim with black coffee and then turned to you, raising his sunglasses. "You said it yourself, you're not the hero type." He stepped closer, observing you, "You once told me you wanted nothing to do with this world, with your abilities even." He paused, looking you straight in the eye, "What changed?"

Your lips hovered yet no words came out. You didn't know. He was right, this wasn't your world. Risking your life for the sake of others was not you. And yet you felt this pull on your heartstrings every time you so much as thought about all the pain you'd felt inside Loki; all the memories, the torture, and the cries for help that no one answered.

You realized that perhaps the reason why you cared about Loki's fate, was because if not you, it seems like there would be no one who would. Not even Thor, not in the way Loki needed.

A sigh went past your lips. "You don't know what I saw when I was in his mind, Tony. What happened to him, I-" You briefly avoided his eyes, shrugging halfheartedly. "He's hurting, I just want to give him a chance." Stark knew you too well, there was no point in lying.

A low groan escaped Tony and he took a generous sip of his coffee, "Damn you and your heart and those puppy eyes," he mumbled, then said more clearly; "Alright, if we're doing this, it's on you, you hear me? You're gonna be responsible for him, if he hurts someone, or worst of all, damages my tower, I'm holding you accountable."

You grimaced and nodded once, holding back a chuckle; "You make it sound like I'm adopting a feral cat."

Tony raised a finger at you, "Keep that thought, treat it like it, and you might just succeed."

─── ·❆· ───

The sun was high and bright in the sky when you landed the quinjet on an empty, grassy field where the Allfather himself would come to see Loki. You sat on one side of the jet, beside Fury; Thor and Loki sat on the other side, the latter wearing handcuffs and a muzzle; Tony was in the driver's seat.

Even though Loki couldn't speak, he glared at you the whole way. His piercing gaze made the entire trip a complete nightmare because you couldn't relax at all.

But at last, you had arrived. The back doors of the jet lowered open, allowing for the bright sunlight to seep in and make you squint until your eyes adjusted.

You walked out first, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in as soon as your boots touched the grass. The smell of trees and the sunlight on your skin had never felt so good after being cooped up inside an airship for so long.

Your teammates followed after a moment later, Thor guiding Loki by the arm. The brothers walked ahead on the extensive field while you, Tony, and Fury hung a few steps back. No words were exchanged, the only acknowledgment given was a shared nod between Thor and Fury.

There was a sudden burst of light coming from the sky that made you flinch, and when it disappeared—leaving an intriguing burnt mark on the grass in its wake—Odin and Frigga stood before Thor and Loki. Even from a little far away, you could feel Loki's heart rate spiking immediately.

Thor finally removed Loki's muzzle, and the trickster opened and closed his mouth in relief.

"Loki…" Frigga breathed, taking half a step towards them. You felt a little bad for prying, yet you couldn't help but tune yourself to their emotions and thoughts. His mother held sympathy and worry in her gentle heart, she seemed anxious to reach out for him.

"Hello, mother," Loki spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse, "Have I made you proud?"

You clenched your fists before burying your hands in your pockets. The pain clouding Loki's heart still persisted, you wondered how he lived with it so seamlessly; on the outside, at least.

"Please, don't make this worse." Frigga pleaded to her son.

Loki tilted his head to the side; "Define 'worse'."

"Enough," Odin spoke up, his voice grave and commanding. He held his chin high, as if looking down upon Loki.

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about," Loki chuckled lightly, gesturing with his cuffed hands.

"Do you truly not feel the gravity of your crimes?" Odin shot back, his golden armor shining under the sun, "Wherever you go there is war, ruin, and death."

Loki kept a smirk on his lips, seamless. But you were able to sense the stumble in his heartbeat, the catch of air in his throat. It cut deep. Yet Loki believed the words said to him to be true, even if they hurt him.

"I came here to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent god. Just like you," Loki told him easily.

Thor sighed and shook his head, clasping his hands together in front of his body.

"We are not gods. We are born, we live, we die. Just as humans do." Odin stated.

"Give or take 5000 years," Loki shrugged halfheartedly.

Odin shook his head, "All of this because Loki desires a throne." His voice held no emotion, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience on his day.

"It is my birthright," Loki said in the same heartbeat.

"Your birthright was to die," Odin raised his voice, it echoed until it reached the trees far away. "As a child, cast out onto a frozen rock."

You had to gulp back a sudden lump in your throat, your eyes burned. You felt Loki's pain as if it was your own, and yet, when he finally kept quiet under the weight of his father's words, you knew you weren't feeling even half of it.

Loki's actions towards Earth shouldn't be excused, no. But you already knew that this ran much deeper than simply what happened on your planet.

And while beside you Tony muffled a chuckle at the sight of Loki being chastised by the Allfather, you held back tears.

You took a moment to focus on Odin then, he was difficult to read, but you sensed disdain and indifference there. Loki was more burden than son to him.

"If I am for the axe, then for mercy's sake," Loki breathed with a half smile, "just swing it."

His words sent a chill down your spine.

A beat of silence passed, the only sounds being the distant singing of birds and a soft breeze ruffling the grass and leaves. Odin took a single step forward, still towering over Loki, who also refused to lower his head.

"Frigga is the only reason you remain alive." The words calmly fell from Odin's mouth.

Loki locked eyes with his mother and drew in a sharp breath. You had a feeling he had something to say, but didn't.

"The people of Midgard have made an offer, and you will accept, as did I."

The eyes of the god of mischief turned back to Odin when he continued talking, now glinting with new curiosity.

"You will remain here, living peacefully amongst the ones you once wished to rule over." Odin's tone left no room for argument, "You will be stripped of your powers and shall remain in exile until you have atoned for all your mistakes and crimes."

Loki scoffed and stumbled backward, his lower lip trembling and bright eyes shining with unshed tears. He argued back just as fiercely; "You cannot be serious. This is outrageous, a disgrace, I will not accept-"

"You have been given the most generous offer you could ever hope for," Odin once again raised his voice over Loki's, his patience wearing thin, "Were it up to me, you would be locked up in the dungeons of Asgard for eternity, and I will make sure that is your fate if you dare disobey my orders."

Loki's breath came out in shaky puffs, he desperately looked from Odin, to Thor, until he settled on Frigga. "Mother…" The word was nothing but a quiet plea, for what, you doubt even he knew.

The panic coursing through Loki's body was nearly sending you into a panic. You had to avoid your gaze from him for a moment to breathe, telling yourself that this was the best for him even if he didn't believe it yet.

"It is decided!" Odin exclaimed. He raised a hand towards Loki then, speaking vehemently; "I now take from you your power, your seiðr." The skies rumbled in the distance and the wind around you picked up speed. "In the name of my father and his father before!" The armor Loki still wore slowly fell from his body and clattered to the ground in broken pieces, leaving him in only black pants and a long-sleeved dark green shirt.

Silent tears cascaded down Loki's cheeks, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"You will remain here," Odin spoke with finality, "Indefinitely." And with that, he harshly turned around and walked away.

The silence that lingered then was an unbelievably heavy one. Loki refused to raise his eyes, even when Frigga walked towards him. She raised a hand and gently touched Loki's cheek, a melancholic smile painted her features. "Be well, my son," she whispered to him before turning around as well.

And with another flash of light, they were gone.

You were stunned into silence. Trying and failing to wrap your mind around what you'd just witnessed. You couldn't take your eyes off Loki's broken form, heart thundering against your chest. He looked so… small, cuffed hands shaking heavily, hair askew, and clothes so bare compared to his armor from just a moment ago.

A joyfully impressed whistle came from beside you and captured your attention. "That's one way to start the day," Tony commented with an over-exaggerated grimace, "Right, let's get moving, people. I have to be in the city in half an hour." He started towards the jet as if it was just another Thursday.

Thor looked over his shoulder to Loki, undoubtedly feeling at least part of the weight of what just happened, "Come on, brother."

Fury slowly turned away and followed Tony as well. You, however, stayed glued to the ground, heavy wind ruffling your hair.

You watched as Loki took staggered steps behind Thor, seemingly still trapped in the daze of what would be his new reality. That is, until he raised his gaze and locked eyes with you. His expression turned stone cold, colder even than how it had been when you'd gone visit him in the glass cage.

"You," Loki hissed through gritted teeth, his steps grew larger and quicker toward you with a newfound urgency, eyes burning with raw anger; "This is all your fault. If you hadn't interfered I wouldn't be-"

Loki was abruptly cut off by Thor's hand colliding with his chest and stopping him in his tracks. The god of thunder came to stand between you and his brother, eyes just as stern; "Must I remind you, brother," Thor spoke gravely, "That if you so much as consider harming anyone here, it's straight to Asgard's dungeons."

A scoff went past Loki's lips as he took a step back from Thor. They held each other's gaze for a beat, until Loki pursed his lips and shook his head. "How far have we fallen," he whispered, before walking past Thor.

Loki made sure to harshly bump into your shoulder as he walked by you and towards the waiting jet.

You stumbled in your stance but remained frozen in place. "Oh boy," you breathed, eyes wide with the realization of what you had just gotten yourself into, "This will be fun."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 3 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

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#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki #marvel #loki series #loki x you #marvel x reader #loki x female reader #imagine #fanfic #angst #fluff #loki fanfic #my story #loki laufeyson x reader #tangle me in all your broken pieces

[yeonzzzn]

☁️sweet venom (literally): jungwon

a you complete me series: four / seven

pairing: jungwon x afab!reader

word count: 1.6k

synopsis: spending a lazy night with wonnie until he craves your blood and you crave eternity…

genre: established relationship, vampire!jungwon

warnings: mentions of blood, and super cute wonnie ♡

a/n: tried a little something different with this one!

p1: vampires bleeding mlist

☾ sunghoon(1) | niki(2) | heeseung(3) | jungwon(4) | jake(5) | jay(6) | sunoo(7) ☽

Jungwon laid his head in your lap scrolling through his phone while you had your nose in a book. 

You enjoyed nights like this, laying on the couch with your soulmate while reading a good book as he naps or watches TV or even reads with you. It was always so perfect. 

The living room was quiet so you nearly jumped ten feet in the air through the roof of your shared apartment ceiling when Jungwon released a loud gasp from his lips. 

“Goddamnit Won,” you slapped your book to his abdomen, “You scared me!” 

Jungwon smiled cutely at you, “I’m sorry my love, but Heeseung and __ are back from their trip.” 

You sighed, “That’s good, why is that such a gasping moment?” You understood how close the boys were, so obviously Wonnie would be excited to have his oldest brother back in town, but you don’t get why it was as big of a deal, “Are you texting them?” 

Jungwon nodded, tilting his phone up to you, “Read the group chat.” 

You glanced over at his phone, reading the messages.

Jungwon giggles and brings his phone back to himself, his thumbs typing away. 

Your phone was sitting on the coffee table and you’d have to make Jungwon move just to grab it. 

“Tell them I said congrats,” you said, tapping your book to his forehead. 

“I already did, my love.” he said, waving the book out of his face, “They are going to have a summer wedding!” 

You closed the book, tossing it to the coffee table, “A summer wedding would be perfect for them.” 

Jungwon agreed, tossing his phone onto the table next to yours. 

He sat up, wrapping his arm around you pulling you to him, “Pretty sure the main cause of their engagement is the council probably told Heeseung he needed to marry __ for her to have any say in important matters.” 

You looked up at him confused, “Why would that have to happen? Didn’t she automatically become queen when they bonded?” 

Jungwon nodded, remembering seeing that line of fate whip around his hyung and __ tying them together after defeating Dorian. 

He thought the feeling of being in a pack with the king himself was a strong feeling, but it was nothing to the feeling after he bonded with his queen. 

“From what I am assuming is that one of the first kings probably made it a rule, probably to keep the queen, or even another king, from using the vampire king in some way.” 

You blinked, even more confused than before, “How would the queen, or king, use the vampire king? Wouldn’t they be bonded?”

Jungwon shrugged, “Maybe the first king wasn’t bonded to his queen?” 

It made more sense after thinking of it in that way, the first king probably wasn’t bonded to his queen. He probably loved her and she used that to her advantage until he caught along. 

Either way, you knew Heeseung and __ would rule the vampire world perfectly together. They are soulmates after all. 

“Anyway!” Jungwon said cutely, squeezing you tightly, “Should we start planning our outfits for their wedding? We can wear matching ones!” 

You nodded, smiling so wide at your mate. Watching him as he throws out every outfit idea possible. 

The more you listened to him talk, the more your thoughts took you in another direction. 

You’ve been bonded to Jungwon for quite some time, yet you’re still just a human. 

Jungwon always said after everything with Dorian was taken care of that it’ll finally be the perfect time to turn you. 

But when would that perfect time be? 

Jungwon has to be careful with you. Whether it’s kissing, cuddling, hugging you, or gently pressing you down onto your shared bed while he carefully hovers above you gently touching you. 

If you were a vampire too, he wouldn’t have to treat you like a glass doll. 

“Y/N?” Jungwon called to you, waving a hand in your face, your attention coming back to reality. “Y/N? Baby? What’s wrong?” 

You softly smiled, “Nothing, I just zoned out.”

Jungwon, cupped your face in his hands, “You’re really cute when you zone out.” 

You giggled, rolling your eyes at him, “Wonnie, my eyes were probably all crossed.” 

He tried to hide his smile by shaking his head, “No, they weren’t.” 

You shoved him, “You’re a liar Wonnie!” 

Jungwon finally let his beautiful smile show, giving the tip of your nose a soft kiss. 

“I love you.” He said, placing his forehead against yours. 

“I love you too, Wonnie.” 

Jungwon placed his lips to yours, his thumbs rubbing gently on your cheeks. 

Jungwon’s heart rate was increasing sitting this close to you…the smell of your blood through your body made him dizzy. He wanted to drink from you. 

After the night of your first date when he got the taste of your blood on his tongue, he craved it even more. 

Drinking from the blood bags wasn’t enough anymore, it got him by, but it wasn’t the same. 

Jungwon has wanted to ask to drink from you again but was way too scared to. Mostly now that the rest of the pack isn’t around to stop him in case…he loses control. 

You trusted him, he knows you do. But the last thing Jungwon wants to happen is to drink too much and he loses you. 

He wouldn’t be able to live if he lost you. 

Normally being this close to you never bothered Jungwon, there’s only been a few times when the smell of your blood got to him. But most of the time he was able to control it. But tonight was hard. 

Jungwon deepened the kiss, his hand sliding down to cup your neck gently. He was already starting to lose control. 

You felt Jungwon’s fangs poke your bottom lip, slightly scaring you. 

You released your lips from his, slightly pulling back, “Won?” 

Jungwon looks up at you, his crimson eyes glowing, fangs peeking out from his top lips, not fully retracted yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’ll go grab a blood bag and take a walk to calm down.” 

He started to stand up, but you pulled him back, “Wonnie,” He softly looked at you, his chest rising and falling, “Just drink from me.” 

Jungwon’s heart rate sped up, shaking his head quickly, “No. Not happening.” 

“Why not?” 

“No one else is here to help keep me in check,” Jungwon admitted, “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Jungwon,” you cupped his face with your hands, “I trust you.” 

You backed away from him, tilting your head and sliding your shirt down to your shoulder, neck fully exposed. 

Jungwon’s fangs completely retracted, his breathing becoming uneven. 

“Baby…I-“

“Just do it, please.” You interrupted him. 

Without a second thought, Jungwon’s fangs were attached to your neck, breaking the skin. 

You gasped at the sudden puncture. Feeling his lips and tongue on your skin, taking in your blood. 

Jungwon placed his hand on the other side of your neck, the other tearing your shirt apart, giving him even more access to your bare neck. 

You wrapped your arms around him, hands playing in his hair as he continued to feed from you. 

Jungwon was in heaven. Absolute pure bliss. The high ones feel from smoking weed, is the same feeling he gets from drinking your blood. All he wanted to do was chase this high even more. 

“Wonnie,” you softly breathed out, “I’m starting to get dizzy.” 

Jungwon didn’t want to stop but knew he had to. Right when he was fixing to release his fangs, your voice stopped him. 

“Turn…me…” you carefully whispered, head so dizzy you could barely make out the words, “Keep…me forever.” 

Jungwon never thought you’d ask. 

He’s been wanting to wait until it was a perfect time and moment, but what better moment than right now while he already has his fangs deep in your neck?

“It’ll sting, baby,” he said in your neck, taking more of your blood down his throat before pushing his fangs in deeper, the venom releasing from them. 

You gripped onto his shirt, your whole body burning from feeling his venom, oh his sweet venom, travel through your bloodstream. 

Jungwon released his fangs from your neck, your blood dripping from his lips and onto his shirt. 

His hands held you tightly and your body went through the motions. 

You figured his venom soaring through your body would be painful, you’ve seen enough vampire movies to know that the venom isn’t a walk in the park. 

You kept gasping for air, and pulling at Jungwon even tighter. 

“Shhh baby, it’s okay, I am right here. It’s almost over, I promise.” 

You felt your K9’s coming to a sharp point, poking your bottom lip. 

Then everything all at once fell quiet. Your body stopped hurting but damn you had a massive headache. You felt the holes that were once in your neck from Jungwon were now closed up, not a scar in sight. 

You slowly open your eyes, Jungwon being the first thing you see. 

Jungwon smiled at you, seeing your now crimson eyes glowing back at him, “How do you feel baby?” 

You softly scoffed, “My head hurts, and I’m hungry.” 

Jungwon chuckled, cupping your face with his hands, “I’ll get you some blood bags, okay?” 

You nodded, observing your mate as he walked to the kitchen, grabbing a couple of blood bags from the fridge. 

“Wonnie?” You called for him, he glanced over at you from the kitchen, the bags in his hands, “I think you need to change your clothes and clean your face.” You circled your finger over your lips. 

Jungwon chuckled again, looking down at the blood on his shirt, “Yeah I’ll go change.” 

Jungwon set the bags down on the counter beside the sink, running the water and splashing his face, your blood washing down the drain. 

He quickly made his way to you, handing you the bags, “I’m going to change my clothes and I’ll be right back. Drink but do it slowly, okay?” 

You nodded. 

Jungwon placed a kiss on your forehead before running off to your shared room and returning to you within seconds. 

“You’ll have to teach me how to run that fast.” You said, placing the blood bag to your lips, and taking it all in. 

Jungwon pulled your hair behind your ears, “The only thing I’ll need to teach you is control, and even then I have full faith in you.” 

You felt different, brand new. Like you could take on the entire world. 

“Well, we now officially have eternity to figure it out.” you smiled at him.

“Yes baby,” Jungwon whispered, placing his lips to your nose, “All of eternity.”

#wonnie #yang jungwon #jungwon x reader #reader x jungwon #enhypen #enhypen x reader #reader x enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #established relationship #youcompleteme #yeonzzzn writing

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Sacrifices series: Chapter 3: Face to face with a monster

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Word count: 8k

Series Summary: After closing the Darkhold, Wanda struggled to find her place in the word. Until she met you that is. And in you, she found hope. But the past has a way of coming back and she’s faced with an impossible choice once again. A choice that’s going to break her heart. Chapter summary: Finding the layer, doesn't mean she's captured the monster, who was terrorizing the city and Wanda needs to see you at least once, before she has to go back to her hunt, but it seems the sorcerer has plans of his own...

Warning: angst!; emotional trauma; Hurt - No Comfort ; Blood, human sacrifice, gory details of a mutilated body, dark magic... violence, possession, manipulation; That should be it, but in case I missed anything, please let me know. Also, Reader will be making a very small appearance in this chapter, but she has a significant role to play in the future. Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3

Wanda dropped the piles of books in her trunk, closing it with a loud thud as she looked at the building in the distance. She could see agents coming in and out, carrying objects, while others were escorting people out. Even from afar, she could see those people were scared, worried where they’ll live next, how they’ll afford it. They held their children close, protective, even in their fear. So brave. She knew what it was like to be displaced, to have your whole life ripped from you, to watch it all crumble down in an instant. She knew how much courage it took, to make the next step, and the one after that… She didn’t know how she’ll interview all these people tomorrow. She didn’t know if she’ll be able to carry the burden of their pain and grief as well. Yet, there was no one else to do it. Only she knew what to look for, what to ask… Only she knew how to get the information that even they didn’t know they could have.

The prospect of invading so many minds, of taking on so many lives filled her with pain. All she wanted was to curl in a ball, her head in your lap. She wanted to feel your hands run through her hair, soothing and soft. She wanted to feel you close once more, to have you fully wrapped around her, until she could forget that this ever happened. She wanted peace. She wanted what was stolen from her. But she couldn’t have any of it back, until she defeats this monster first… Even after being in his apartment, after coming so close to him, she had no idea how to find him. He had left no clues as to his next move, or his plans. None that she could see. But the agents will go more thoroughly through his things and have a report for her by tomorrow morning. Perhaps they’ll find something. Until then, she was free to go home and rest. But the compound, with its grey walls felt nothing like the cozy home she had with you. Her room never felt as welcoming as the shared bedroom she had with you. It was all so empty without you. She found no joy in cooking now, since she had no one to share her meals with. She found no joy in walks, since it always reminded her of the days she’d take you and Bella out to different parks to walk and play… Even her sitcoms brought little comfort. Yes, no one got hurt in them, it wasn’t that kind of show. But the real world was nothing like a sitcom. People got hurt every day, they were hungry and poor and lived on streets with nothing but the mercy of strangers to help them face the next day. There were so many in pain. When she remembered that, it was always so hard to fight back the inner voice that told her that she could fix it all. She was the Scarlet Witch after all. She was born to rule the world. It was her birthright. Her destiny. She could make sure that no one got hurt ever again, that no child was ever orphaned, no one ever had to leave their loved ones, no one had to get hurt. She could do that. Wanda could feel the magic rising within her, the raw power of chaos opening up doors for her that were closed to everyone else. She could do anything. She could win this fight with the snap of her fingers. She could erase evil from this world. And they would all thank her for it. Those poor people that she watched get evacuated. They would all be so grateful. They would worship her, just as they were meant to…

Wanda shook her head, blinking a few times, until her eyes focused once more. Red whisps of magic were swirling around her, her blackened fingers moving through the air. She was casting. Not that she knew what. But she knew she needed to get her emotions under control. Keeping the darkness at bay was much harder, when it promised everything she ever wanted. She could have Pietro back. Her boys. And her parents. She could win you back too. If that didn’t work, she could always make you forget she ever left… “No!” She shook her head in defiance. She knew better than to listen to those thoughts. She crawled her way back from an emotional hell, fighting such thoughts. She knew better than to trust them. With a final glance towards the grey building, that seemed to stand like a hungry giant over the people below, she got into her car and drove away. She was done for today. And now she could finally see you. She could finally drive back to your house, she could see you again, hear your voice… She could feel human again for a few minutes. The redhead drove slowly, her windows rolled down, so she could breathe in the fresh air. She needed to get the stench of that place out of her nose, out of her hair and her clothes. She felt dirty. And she almost felt bad for making her way to you, covered in such filth. Then again, it’s not like she was going to knock on your door. Then again… Why shouldn’t she? Why should she deny herself this one thing, this one kindness, when she has sacrificed so much already? What was to stop her from knocking? From walking in… Who could stand in her path, should she choose to pull you in her embrace. Who had the power to stop her? She could kiss you again. Taste you and feel you, like she’s been dreaming of. She could…

“No!” She almost screamed, hitting the breaks. It was just in time too, a pedestrian was crossing the street, standing frozen in fear of her approaching car. She was seconds away from hitting him. She almost didn’t stop. She had barely even seen him. It took the man a moment to get a hold of himself, before he ran the rest of the way to the other end of the street, looking back at her with fearful, yet angry eyes. Wanda couldn’t blame him. But she also couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She could tell that something was wrong. She wasn’t usually like this. Distracted, careless, cold. She didn’t have such dark thoughts either. Not usually. She was much better at controlling them. She studied calming techniques, meditation, she went through every enlightenment course she could find, looking for a way to keep herself in check, but it was especially hard this time. There was just this voice, in the back of her head, a low murmur that had found its way in and just wouldn’t leave her alone. How long has she been hearing it? This voice. Why was it trying to get her to come to you? Except… That’s not quite what it wanted. You were just a suggestion. A means to an end. A way for her to give in. Yes, that’s what it wanted. It wanted her to give in. Wanted her to unleash her powers. Wanted to set the Scarlet Witch free. It wanted her to use that magic inside. It wanted her to let all that chaos loose and never stop.

The honking of cars behind her startled Wanda out of her thoughts and into motion. She sped away from the spot with a heavy heart and she contemplated if she should even come see you tonight. It was dangerous in her state. It was almost reckless, tempting herself like that. Especially with how off she’d been feeling and acting. It would be a mistake… She was once again pulled from her thoughts, when she saw something strange out of the corner of her eye. She was driving past some neighbourhood, all the houses framing the road. But something was wrong. She could feel eyes on her. She could see old ladies in their kitchens, looking out the windows, mothers with strollers, not even looking at where they were going, too busy staring at her… Men, who openly followed her car, as she drove. And then something else. A man with eyes so black, there was no white left in them and a face so sunken in, it looked stolen from a cadaver. A man, who seemed to smile at her, as if seeing an old friend, before he turned away from the road and walked away. Wanda hit the brakes so hard, she almost hit her head on the steering wheel from the force. She felt shaken, like she had witnessed something important, something she should be better at naming. Like she was walking in the dark, her eyes closed, allowing herself to be led. She realized that this place was not her usual route to your house, that she’s never even been here. Just as she realized that whoever this man was, he knew to expect her. He had felt her presence here, known of her arrival, he was watching her, before his eyes ever fell upon her… But how? She pulled the car over and locked it, using her magic to seal the trunk, just to make sure that the books inside wouldn’t “disappear” while she was chasing whatever this was. She had to walk a little, to reach the spot she first saw him, and she looked around nervously to see where he might have went. The eyes of strangers followed every step she took, not even considering to hide their actions, yet none of them approached her. Wanda could almost smell that same sweet, yet repulsive smell she had first felt when she entered the building she was inspecting. The one where He used to live. It was faint, but unmistakable and a strange sense of longing washed over her. A desire to breathe in deeply. To let herself be intoxicated. The voice in her head salivated at the prospect. Hungry.

She decided to ignore it. Pushing back against the low whisper, that told her to give in. Instead she started to walk in the direction she saw him turn. Beyond the first street, the houses started to look poorer, the yards smaller, the windows covered. She could see dogs sometimes, uneasy and nervous, barking in warning, but never really getting close. They were scared. Just like the people who lived here. But scared of whom? The sorcerer? She couldn’t tell. As she walked, the voice in the back of her head, the one she knew to be the witch within, kept warning her. There was danger here. She could feel it. There was darkness too. And the eyes that followed her on the street, seemed to watch her here too. It made her feel surrounded on all sides.

“It’s a trap.” Her inner voice warned. She could feel herself tensing up, readying for a battle, all her senses on high alert. Her magic was just at the tip of her fingers, making her eyes glow that deep scarlet she knew so well, yet there was no one around. At this point she almost hoped someone would try to make a move. Give her an excuse to release all that pent up energy inside, yet no one did. Eventually the street came to a sudden end, a single entrance to a building signifying her only way forward. The door had a padlock and a rusty chain to keep out intruders, runes covering the links in protection. “Pathetic.” Wanda laughed bitterly, the words loud enough to be heard if someone was nearby. That same energy she felt swirling just beneath the surface suddenly came forth, pouring out of her in a burst and shooting forward. It crashed against the building, taking the whole door and parts of the surrounding wall with it, a loud bang ringing in her ears as it fell to the ground. Dust flew everywhere and she waited for it to settle, not wanting to breathe any of it in, before she finally walked forward. The ridiculous chain was still in takt, the runes glowing a dull grey. She laughed humourlessly once more, stepping inside the building and looking around, her steps echoing off the walls. “One chain?” She called out in a challenge. “I can take down the whole building.”

Her voice rang clearly in the large space, that seemed to have been a factory or a storage hanger once, but no response actually came. There was just silence, mixed with that sweet, yet repulsive smell again. “It’s too easy.” Her inner awareness warned, a low hiss in her ear that she felt an almost compulsive need to swat away, even if it was coming entirely from within. Met with no response, Wanda walked further inside, studying the building wearily. In all honesty, she was getting impatient with this whole charade. She didn’t want to be here, playing hide and seek with a psychopath. She wanted to be at the house with you. She wanted you in her arms again, wanted to have you in a tight embrace and breathe you in. Wanted, no craved your warmth against her stiffened, aching muscles. She explored the floor, impatiently walking around, being met with nothing but decay and ruin. There was nothing but old junk, dust and the unmistakable signs of rats and pigeons taking over the building and claiming it as their own. It looked abandoned. But she wouldn’t be here if it really was abandoned, would she? He wouldn’t try to put protective runes, if there wasn’t something important here.

With that in her mind, Wanda summoned her magic, using it to propel herself in the air. From above, Wanda could see that there was nothing special in this room and she moved quietly into the next, passing through a small hallway, only to find a man hunched over a pot, stirring the content inside. He had his back to her and for some reason she felt the need to sneak closer, even though it was impossible for him not to know she was here, considering all the noise she made. “Welcome, Miss Maximoff.” He said, without turning, “I’ve been expecting you.” The greeting startled Wanda for a moment, making her stop mid-flight, before she moved forward, flying over him and the strange liquid he stirred, murky and  filled with bits and pieces of something she couldn’t see clearly enough to name. What she could recognize however was that distinct smell that she felt ever since she left his apartment. That repulsive, yet attractive smell that urged her to breathe it in deeply. That is, until she came closer and Wanda realized that the small objects Wanda was observing, were actually eyes.

“Isn’t it poetic? Stolen eyes, to grant you stolen sight!” He said with a small giggle. “That’s what you used that poor man’s eyes for?” Wanda asked, her voice shaking. She tried not to look at the ugly pot, filled with the murky liquid or to picture the man on the wall, with his empty sockets and a gaping hole in his chest. “Poor man?” The Sorcerer laughed. “He was hardly an innocent.” He hinted. “He liked to watch. In fact it’s all he wanted.” The man continued, words slow, as if explaining to a child. “Do you know how many women they forced, just so he could watch?” The Sorcerer asked, raising his hand, so he could make an obscene gesture, that imitated self-pleasure. It made Wanda sick to her stomach. “So you killed him?” She asked. “How noble.” Her voice was mocking and full of disgust. “I thought it was rather poetic in a way. He liked to watch. And thanks to him, I now see everything.” He said in a smooth voice. “Everything?” Wanda scoffed. “Aren’t you a bit full of yourself?” “I saw you coming.” He retorted in that same calm demeanour. “The all-powerful Scarlet Witch.” He said with a purr. “If you wanted to see me, there are far easier ways.” Wanda replied. She wanted to bait him, wanted to know his plans, while she still had him here. She knew that if it came to a battle, he may not survive. Once she unleashed her powers there was no telling what will happen and she needed to know why he did what he did. Needed to know if there was a greater power behind him. Truly, she needed to know why he did all these terrible acts. Needed to know if he was the monster that he was presenting himself to be. “But this one is rather effective.” He smiled at her. “I saw you look into my apartment. Saw you take things that don’t belong to you.” He accused. “How did you see me there? I was alone.” Wanda narrowed her eyes. “All living things need to eat and drink, Miss Maximoff.” The man explained. “And once they do, they’re mine to use.” “That’s disgusting.” She spat, her hands balling into fists. “Oh, don’t play innocent now. You’ve studied magic. I believe one Agatha Harkness had a very impressive collection on the subject. You’ve read her books. You know there is always a price to be paid.” He spoke patiently, as if he could somehow convince her that he was right. “Well, perhaps not for you…” He trailed off. “With control over pure chaos, you don’t need to pay that price, do you? But the rest of us… We still have to follow the rules.” “Trust me, I’ve paid…” Wanda growled, the control over her emotions fraying. “I’ve lost more than you can imagine.” “Ah, yes, of course.” He nodded slowly. “You and I are kindred spirits in that regard.” “Never compare yourself to me.” Wanda spoke through gritted teeth, the urge to hurt him growing stronger. She could hardly hold herself back, desperate to end all this. She felt so tired.

“But it’s true.” He argued, raising his finger in the air, signalling for her to be patient. “I too lost my parents very young.” He began, taking a step closer to her. “And the world is rarely kind to orphans, Miss Maximoff. Had to go hungry, dressed in the rags others gave away to the orphanage. Had to go to school in them too. Other children are hardly kind to their peers.” He lowered his head for a moment, countless cruelties passing through his memory and flooding Wanda’s thoughts. “But I found an escape.” He continued. “I found that knowledge truly does give you power. I found my first real spell when I was 16. It was just a stupid trick. Turning sugar into salt.” He laughed humourlessly. “It was useless for more than a prank, but it opened my eyes. There was real magic in this world. I knew it now. I had the proof for it. My history teacher was stirring it right into her coffee! So I looked. Researched spells and grimoires, travelled on foot, or hitchhiked to chase down any lead for real magic wielders, looked for amulets and enchanted objects. I built my collection, knowing that one day, I’ll use it to make the world better!” He exclaimed, coming to the culmination of his little speech. “But then I found something better. I found the cult of Salvain. I thought it was nothing more than a cult to a non-existing God, but I went to the forest of perpetual silence, where his followers live. It wasn’t easy, trust me, but I made it there.  Have you ever experienced mind-numbing nothingness, Miss Maximoff? Have you ever been in a place so quiet, that every sound is swallowed, to a point you can’t even scream, because nothing actually reaches your ears? It was horrible. I was lost in there for days, walking aimlessly and praying for death to mercifully take me. I was dehydrated, hungry, never met another soul… And just when I thought I would die, I heard him. I heard his voice.” He said with fire in his eyes, his face betraying real emotion for the first time. “He’s been speaking to me ever since. Helping me. Guiding me. I let him inside me and he saved me. He showed me the way to salvation and he’s going to save everyone.” He explained with what appeared to be genuine excitement and appreciation, his words hanging in the air for a long moment. “You’re actually insane…” Wanda finally spoke, her head tilting to the side. “Oh, but I’m not.” The sorcerer said with a grin. “He’s here.” He said, closing his eyes in bliss. “He knows you.” He whispered teasingly, stepping closer still. He was just a few feet away now, giving Wanda a chance to take a closer look.

Underneath the grey skin and sunken eyes, underneath the painfully thin, bony face, he was actually a young man. So young. More a boy, than a sorcerer and a monster. But there was very little of him left. She could see the corruption of dark magic spreading over him like a disease. It was probably what ate away at his mind. “Don’t you want to speak to him, Miss Maximoff?” He asked, his big eyes fixing her in a predatory way. “He’s been waiting to speak to you, you know.” “How about this…” Wanda started. “You surrender yourself quietly, and I’ll talk to him.” She suggested, hoping to be able to contain him without having to hurt him. Despite his seemingly docile appearance, he had managed to kill several people already. She couldn’t be sure what he was actually capable of. “I won’t resist.” He told her gently, hands raising in the air in a gesture of surrender. “You shouldn’t resist either. Can’t you feel him calling you? He’s been talking to you for a while now.” Wanda thought of saying something sassy in return, but the words died down in her throat, before she could utter them. The sorcerer leaped forward, grasping her head on either side, his long, bony fingers digging into her skin. “Just listen!” He hissed, before a blast of red magic pushed him away from her and he fell to the ground. She heard him gasp from the impact, his right hand clutching his side painfully, but when she looked at his face, he looked amused. “He told me you wouldn’t just hear us out.” The sorcerer said bitterly. “But thankfully, Salvain has a solution for everything.” He giggled “What did you do?” Wanda growled, her teeth bared. This was the confession she was waiting for. His next sacrifice, his next victim, his plans. Once he gave those away, she could be done with all this. “You don’t feel it yet?” He asked with a raised brow. “You have a strong mind. Pushing him away all this time. But even you can’t resist him forever.” “What are you talking about?” She asked, feeling a bit dizzy as a wave of that horrible smell hit her nostrils again and she had to put her hand to her mouth and nose just so she wouldn’t gag. Instead of a response, he waited, circling her now, though he kept a safe distance. His watchful eyes seemed to never leave her and she was once again feeling dizzy from the way he circled her. It was almost like vertigo, but it came with the unpleasant return of that nagging voice in her head, that wanted to seduce her. She could stop all this right now. She could just blast him with her magic. He had attacked her once, had he not? She could claim his death on self-defence and leave all of this behind. No one had to know what happened. There were no witnesses, no cameras…

No! She had to shake the thought away. This wasn’t her way. She could easily immobilize him and let S.H.I.E.L.D deal with him. She didn’t need to hurt him. She was not going to become a killer. But the Scarlet Witch is a killer, a thought flashed through Wanda’s mind. And even though it seemed like it came from within, even though it had her voice, she finally realized that it wasn’t. There was a presence in the back of her mind, a voice that whispered in her ear, disrupting her thoughts. “Now you get it.” The sorcerer smiled, smug and self-satisfied. “How are you doing that?” Wanda hissed at him, fighting the urge to slap his smile away. She could easily knock him down. He seemed so weak, so fragile… It would be so easy to just… Wanda shook the thoughts away again, starting to get angry at this stupid game they were playing. “I’m not doing anything.” The man in front of her responded. “I have no power to influence you.” He told her softly. “Ordinary humans are easy, but you…” He shook his head. “You’re strong. I had to find a way to help you hear Him. ” “What did you do?” Wanda asked again, her voice shaking so much it sounded like a growl. She was losing her patience. Each second that passed between them felt like an eternity, fraying her nerves. Why not just be done with him? Whatever he planned would simply be left unfinished if he were to die… No, he could have accomplices, acolytes… She couldn’t afford to leave this unfinished. Not when so much was at stake. “I only helped you open your mind to him. That’s all.” He said with a surprisingly gentle voice. “I’m only helping you see. That’s what he wants as well. For you to see the good he can do in this world.” He said with a look of longing in his eyes. “He can do anything. Give you anything. You just have to let him come through…”

As the sorcerer spoke, Wanda’s vision slowly started to blur. The dizzy feeling she’d been fighting, suddenly overtook her and she felt like she was fainting. Except that wasn’t quite it either. It was more like she was being pulled underwater, supressed so deep within herself that she no longer felt one with her body. She was floating within her subconsciousness, a passenger in her own body. Her clothes were slowly changing, her comfortable pants and soft sweater that she wore suddenly fading and being replaced by her old suit. The boots and tights came first, her magic working its way up, red swirling around her and weaving the tight corset into place, her old cape flowing down her shoulders… Magic weaved itself in the places where the suit had torn, glowing… Then came her crown. It glowed in the same scarlet as her magic, surrounding her in unnatural light that looked both terrifying and regal. She’d never seen herself like that. She always felt like Wanda. But this was the Scarlet Witch. This is the destiny she kept rejecting.

“Why fight it, Wanda? This is who you were meant to be.” A voice creeped up on her, ringing all around her. She turned frantically to look for the source, but there was no one. The sorcerer was still in his spot, staring in awe of her, a deeply unsettling smile on his face. “Show yourself.” She challenged, sounding more scared than she liked, hoping to draw out the voice. “If you want to see me, you’ll have to invite me into your world.” Salvain said in a low voice. “Invite you, huh? So you need someone to let you through.” Wanda retorted, feeling some of her confidence return. Whatever entity this was, he couldn’t move into the world on his own. “Not just anyone, Wanda. I need you. Gorden over there was a good servant. He did as he was told, performed the rituals and cast the spells, but he’s not strong enough. His body is failing. He can’t pierce the veil and let me in.” The voice explained in a monotonous tone, as if talking about the weather and not a life. “But you can.” He said, a trace of a smile in his tone. A trace of urgency. “And what makes you think I will?” Wanda lifted her chin defiantly, her lips trembling in barely-contained anger. “Because I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted, Wanda. I can bring back all your friends. I can bring back Vision… You can have your brother back! Your parents too. Your boys! I can make it so they never, ever died. I can make sure they never do again.” He said seductively, his voice bouncing around her skull with all the weight of his promises.

“I tried that!” Wanda hissed, her fists balling at the memory of Westview. “It doesn’t work. It’s not real.” She shook her head. “As powerful as you are, Scarlet Witch, you’ll always need your magic to sustain them. But I… Once I’m in this world, I can bring them back, make them real… I can make anything you want real… You can have your whole family back. I can give you back Vision. Or Y/N. Or even both?” He chuckled. “Both of them, so willing and loving… You’ll want for nothing, Wanda.” “No!” Wanda growled, but to her surprise, her body moved. Her fingers glowed, whisps of magic swirling around them slowly. “It seems your counterpart disagrees.” Salvain purred. “No! You can’t do that!” Wanda’s eyes widened, filled with panic. “I’m not doing anything.” He chimed in, amused. “You are doing this.” He explained. “It’s ok, Wanda. I understand. Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you so utterly exhausted of having to fight for a modicum of peace? For a place in the world? For even a crumb of love… Aren’t you angry? At all the injustice in this world? At the people who turn a blind eye to suffering, to poverty, to strife? You can make it stop! You’ve always had the power to stop it. You can rule this world… But you don’t want that, do you Wanda? I understand… I can help…” “Stop it!” Wanda screamed, her voice bouncing around in her head. She could see more of her magic seeping out of her, now a hurricane of red that swirled around her, building and waiting to be unleashed. The sorcerer, Gorden, was on his knees, awe-stricken at the feet of the Scarlet Witch. His bony face looked even more sickly in the red glow of her power, yet he seemed so at peace. “It’s too late now, Wanda.” Salvain sounded almost smug. “It has already started. Gorden laid the path, now you will open the door and soon… I will walk in the world…” Wanda listened to his words, the terror inside her building at the prospect of what was coming. She had never heard of this entity, had no idea of his powers and if he could truly influence reality the way that he claimed. She hardly knew if that voice in her head was real or if this was all in her head and she was about to unleash her powers upon the world and destroy it. She only knew that she needed to regain her composure and her control over herself if she wanted to stand a chance against him. She focused her thoughts, ignoring his voice and the endless tirade that served no other purpose than to hurt her further and she tried to gain back some of her control, but every time she did, she felt herself being pushed away, her path blocked by an invisible force.

“It’s useless Wanda. There’s nowhere to go…” He chimed in, making her eyes snap open in annoyance. Her power was building, crackling in the air around her like a storm, the pressure in the room growing. If she unleashed that, she would rupture the veil between worlds, creating a passage for him and God only knows what else and she wouldn’t be able to stop any of it. “You’re not in control anymore.” He reminded gleefully. The words bounced around Wanda’s head, heavy and mocking in their finality. The magic that swirled around her now rose to filling the whole warehouse, thundering and waiting to be unleashed. It was almost time and she wouldn’t be able to stop it. She would once again fail. She would fail to protect you, to protect all the innocent people of this world, she would fail herself and her legacy… She would once again be a monster. With that realization Wanda broke down, falling to her knees and letting the tears that she’d been holding back for days finally fall freely. “I’m sorry…” She sobbed, her head bowing down in defeat. “Don’t be sorry, Wanda. You’re doing exactly what you were meant to.” Salvain said with a surprisingly gentle voice, as if talking to a child. “I wasn’t talking to you!” Wanda shouted suddenly, looking up. The Scarlet Witch was now floating, the magic and particles of dust swirling around her. She was getting ready to unleash it all. “I’m sorry I rejected you. I’m sorry I pushed you down and treated you like a disease to be cured. I’m sorry, that I pretended like you weren’t here all this time…” Her words died down into sobs, as she looked through her own eyes, a prisoner of her body now taken over by another. “I’m sorry I made you feel like this all this time.” She whispered. Wanda shook with sobs, her heart beating wildly in her chest, her thoughts a frantic mess that she could hardly distinguish anymore. She thought this would be the end. And selfishly, she regretted that she’ll spend it away from you, when suddenly a red glow illuminated her face and a gentle hand rested under her chin, urging her to look up.

There she was. The Scarlet Witch, in all her glory, was standing above her, her features unreadable. Salvain’s voice had quieted down, pushed aside by the presence of the witch. “I’m so sorry.” Wanda whispered again, her face wet with tears. She wasn’t sure how this moment was possible, both of them face to face, as her body continued to float into the air, magic crackling and threatening to be unleashed at any second, but as she looked at the face of the Scarlet Witch, she didn’t care. “I should have never neglected you.” She whispered at the witch, her green eyes full of regret. “It’s not just me you were hurting.” The witch said gently, her tone a stark contrast to her stronger, more defined features. “This rift between us, hurts us both. We were never meant to be separate. You and I are one, Wanda. The divide leaves vulnerable.” She explained, her strong hands helping Wanda to her feet. “We can only do this together.” “But…” Wanda looked confused. She was still in the air, or her body was, summoning more magic, the walls of the warehouse groining with the force of it. “We are meant to rule the world, Wanda. It is our destiny.” The witch reminded seriously. “Do you really think I’ll give away our throne?” She tilted her head, a sly smile starting to play on her lips. “So you have a plan.” Wanda questioned, an eyebrow rising. “No… We have a plan.” The witch corrected, her smile growing. She offered Wanda one of her hands, their palms touching. The feeling was electrifying. Wanda felt a surge of power pass through her, making her gasp. Than the Scarlet witch moved closer, their faces so close together, their noses almost touching and a warmth spread over her, a kind of relief that made her muscles relax. She allowed the witch even closer, her counterparts free hand wrapping around her waist in a gentle, confident motion. The softness in the other woman startled Wanda. She always saw the witch as ruthless and merciless… Thought of her rough and unforgiving. She always resented her for it as well. “Those were the traits you needed.” The witch suddenly said, a knowing look in her eyes, when she saw Wanda’s confused expression. “That’s not all that I am.” She said, her eyes softening once more.

She guided Wanda even closer, their bodies making contact and making Wanda shiver. The witch’s presence gave her this inexplicable sense of surety. Then calmness. And with it, a deep sense of belonging. And then a longing for more. Her hands wrapped around the witch’s shoulders, as if they were partners in a dance, strangely close and intimate in the bubble of privacy the Scarlet Witch had made within their mind. Their breathing synched together, their eyes locked and for a moment Wanda had the strangest urge to kiss the other woman, to run her hands through her hair and down her back and she felt that desire reflected in the features so identical to hers. On instinct she closed her eyes, lips parting slowly as she leaned in, their foreheads touching for a brief moment, before she tried leaning in even further, only to find the space empty. Wanda opened her eyes to find herself alone and she blinked a few times, questioning if this wasn’t just a figment of her imagination, before she felt that same sense of surety wash over her, her mind opening up and expanding to accept the witch within herself and allow her to merge, just as they were always meant to. Her mind’s eye suddenly opened to the universe as the knowledge and power of the Scarlet Witch bled into her, connecting them, until they were whole. As they merged, Wanda felt more powerful, more alive, more confident than she ever had been in her life. She could finally sense the real, raw strength of chaos magic and she opened her eyes to find herself back into her body, the center of a hurricane of magic that swirled around her and threatened to tear down the whole building.

Without wasting too much time, she focussed her strength, guiding that magic into a single point in the floor, feeling the vail between our world and the next start to bend under her strength. The ground shook and groaned, but gave way to her will, a portal starting to open, rimmed in scarlet. Beneath her Gorden had recovered from his stupor, stopped staring at her in awe and moved closer to the portal that formed, arms open in welcome to the God he had been serving all this time. Wanda sensed the approach of something powerful, something monstrous, as it neared the portal she was holding open and she braced herself for the moment he would pass. He paused some distance from the portal, the world on the other end black and filled with nothingness, before he surged through it. He passed smoothly, landing on the dirty floor of the warehouse, the portal closing shut behind him. Dazed by the strength the journey had taken, he didn’t seem to notice the trap of the Scarlet Witch and started to stand, feeling carried by weak, almost trembling legs. He looked around, winded, breathless, his eyes landing on Wanda, who used her powers to land on the floor softly, her red eyes staring at him. “You made the right choice, Wanda.” He started to say, his voice coming out rough and distorted. It sounded nothing like him, he realized and with a distrustful gaze, started to look down at himself.

That’s when he saw it. The skinny legs, frail frame, bony fingers connected to dry, vainy hands… And a whisper… Except this time it wasn’t the distant voice of a far-away acolyte, but a voice inside his own head. The voice of Gorden Shaw… Salvain felt himself smothered in Gordon’s body, so weak, so frail… A mortal shell too fragile to contain his strength. He had but a fraction of his abilities here and he wanted to free himself from the uncomfortable confines this body provided, but he seemed unable to leave, rattling inside his cage like a wild animal, before his eyes landed once again on Wanda. “How dare you!?” Salvain roared, realization painting Gorden’s bony face. “Release me, at once!” He demanded, his voice a growl. “I’m not holding you.” Wanda smirked. “You cannot exist in this realm without a body and yours didn’t make the trip… I’m afraid you and Gordon will have to share.” “You tricked me!” He exclaimed, enraged. “I did nothing of the sort.” Wanda retorted calmly. “Creating a passage isn’t easy and the veil has many layers. I lifted enough for your consciousness to pass through, but your body… Alas, that was left behind.” Wanda explained, summoning her magic, so she could show Salvain the image of his abandoned body, a mindless heap on the ground where he had passed through the portal. “If you don’t return back to it soon, I’m afraid it would die…” Wanda said with a mocking pout on her lips, the whisps of her magic fading. “You foolish girl!” Salvain growled, low and dangerous, his hands balling into fists. “You should have done this the easy way.” He snarled at her. Before Wanda could realize what he meant, a ball of energy formed into Gorden’s hand, now Salvain’s, and it shot toward her, barely giving her time to block, before it hit her straight in the chest. Another followed, than another, magic raining down on her as he gave her no time to do much more than protect herself from his attack. He groaned and grunted with the effort of it, breathing shallow. “If you would not welcome me, Scarlet Witch, you will fear me!” He exclaimed, sending more balls of energy her way, before he used his abilities to lift her off her feet and fling her across the room. Wanda tried to cushion her landing against a wall, but still groaned when she fell on the floor, feeling several bruises form on her knees, but she pushed herself to stand upright, summoning her own powers and throwing a few energy blasts his way. He blocked them, teeth bared, grunting from the unfamiliar feeling of being inside another’s body. In retaliation he looked around, lifting pieces of metal, wood and brick into the air and sending them flying toward Wanda, who tried to dodge them, but hissed when a sharp nail flew passed her, tearing the flesh in her forearm.

“Aren’t you tired of this charade, Wanda?” He asked with a note of challenge. “Pretending to care about all those ridiculous mortals out there? Pretending to be moral, when I know what’s inside you. You wanted to kill Gorden. You want to kill him still. Be done with all this, so you can walk away and find your little girlfriend. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Why not just go do that? Or maybe I’ll go find her, once I’m done with you. Show her some real horrors.” He smiled, crooked and ugly. The mention of you and the clear threat he made had Wanda’s blood boiling. Gordon’s features, if sickly before, had now turned wild and monstrous, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth wet, like a rabid animal, cheeks even more hollow now. Salvain’s presence and the energy it took to sustain him, as well as the magic he used to fight Wanda clearly took their toll and the thought of this thing making its way to you made her sick to her stomach. “I would never let that happen!” She spat, gathering her strength and summoning her magic. She levitated in the air, the scarlet whisps of her magic surrounding her once more as she rose higher and higher, her form almost reaching the ceiling, the ground once again trembling, as she made it all crash down.

She watched the rubble start to fall, the ceiling and walls of the warehouse collapsing, chunks of concrete and metal piling over one another, a cloud of dust and a thundering crash sounding around her as she watched Gorden’s body disappear from view. A part of her regretted the unfortunate end of his life. A part of her recognized his suffering and the inner turmoil he must have felt. Another part of her felt glad. Felt relieved he was gone… Or at least she thought he was. Very few could survive the collapse of a building. But S.H.I.E.L.D would have to confirm that. She saw their black cars from the air even now, saw a few helicopters heading in her direction as well, some government, but some of it was the press. Of course, reporters would want to capture this, even if they weren’t sure what they were filming. It would be golden none the less. Even she knew that. After all, the Scarlet Witch was hovering in the air, a collapsed building on the ground… She’d be on the news and the first page of every newspaper and magazine for weeks! Wanda was about to float down, try to give them less of a show, when a sudden rumble sounded from the rubble and a deep feeling of dread settled over her. An unnerving thought crept its way to her, causing a shiver to pass through her body. The confirmation of her fear came in the form of a chunk of concreate that flew towards her head and narrowly missed her. But it wasn’t what scared her most. What she feared came after.   In the center of the ruined warehouse stood Salvain, his arms outstretched as more rubble started to float in the air. He seemed to be taking the whole building, forming a hurricane of dust, bricks, metal and wood, as well as anything left inside. And when that was all gone, he started to tear pieces of earth and rock too. “You should have walked away, little witch.” He shouted over the sound of wind, releasing his hold on the flying objects and hurling them in the air. Some were aimed at Wanda, but some flew astray, passing close to the helicopters that now hovered over the scene as well and it took everything in her to try and stop them all, a magical barrier forming in front of her and the nearby helicopters, but she still saw pieces of rubble falling to the ground, scaring curious onlookers, who had gathered to watch the fight, despite S.H.I.E.L.D’s efforts to keep people away.

In the chaos of it, she felt torn. There were so many innocents around. So many people who would get hurt, should she allow him to get the upper hand. The carnage seemed to amuse him, his lips outstretched into a sickly grin. She couldn’t protect everyone. Not like this. She could hear shouting, the cries of women and children as they ran from the falling debris, helicopters whirring around her… It was all too much.                                              *             *             * With a flick of Wanda’s wrist, a wave of magic surged through the air and although your TV could hardly do it any justice, you could see that it was a powerful blast. A deafening silence came first, the panicked sounds of people fading into utter stillness. Then came a red glow, seemingly bursting from Wanda’s chest and expanding, dipping the whole world into a scarlet hew. You watched with bated breath, your eyes glued to the screen of your TV, your heart hammering in your chest. This was the first time you’d seen Wanda since she left, and the apparent danger she was in did very little to help your anxiety. You could recognize the old warehouse, not too far from where you lived and the thought that she was so close, yet so far, made it feel hard to breathe. Then came a third wave of magic. This one however was a dull grey. It shot through the air in a cluster, like the pellets of a shotgun and everything you saw, was the way they found their target, right in Wanda’s chest, before everything went dark.

#lesbian #writing #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #scarlet witch #sacrifices #magic

[wardenparker]

The King's Queen - chapter 3

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Prince Javier of the Balearic Islands has always known that one day he would have to follow in his father's footsteps to be the caring and steadfast king that his people deserve. What he did not know is that he would be stepping into the next phase of his life alongside a woman he has never met before - and amidst a rocky sea of unusual circumstances of every kind.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 8.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: arranged marriage, age gap, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, mentions of American politics, deceased parents* Illness/cancer, not the world's best father/son relationship, abusive relationship (in marriage). Summary: The selection of your ladies in waiting is far more dramatic than you had expected...and it is still not the biggest event to happen today... Notes: Introducing our story's villain! Booooooooo Hissssssss

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2

Waking the next morning in a plush bed with linens more luxurious than the finest hotel is a little disorienting, considering you barely remember how you got here. It comes back in fragments as Frederica bustles about the room, opening your curtains and pulling back your blankets, and the image of Javi’s face swimming over yours as he placed a gentle kiss good night on your forehead comes back most strongly. You fell asleep at the cliff, that’s right…

“I have a tray for you, señorita. The king and the prince are busy this morning.” Frederica motions to the carved wooden tray on your bedside table. Crusty bread has been toasted and lined up on a plate with thinly sliced meats, and small containers that look like butter, jam, and some kind of tomato spread are all sitting ready for you along with an espresso drink and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Gracias, Frederica.” You sit up gratefully, and she dutifully sets the tray over your lap so you can eat breakfast in bed. “Is it alright that I call you by your first name?” You know that you ought to know the rules already — that most women in this position already would. But you don’t think the woman would judge you for asking a question.

“Técnicamente, señorita?” Technically, miss? On the move once again, she is at your closet pulling out clothing for you. “A lady’s maid is called by her family name. The household and the family – including you – should call me Flores.”

“Flores.” You nod and file away the information as you sip your coffee. It’s only mildly sweet and just warm so that it doesn’t burn your mouth, and you love it. “What does one wear to interview ladies in waiting, Flores? Do you have any ideas?”

She hums thoughtfully, looking into your closet again before looking back at you. “Something that will not crumple,” she advises, putting away the linen dress and silk blouse she had been considering. “You will be sitting most of the day. It will look messy.”

“What about that one?” She has pulled a blue wrap dress with flowers delicately printed on the light fabric and it strikes you as the sort of thing that Javi might like. “Would that be appropriate?”

“This?” She appraises the dress for a moment then nods and shoots you a mischievous grin. “We will find you a hat and you can interview your ladies in the garden. You will look like you belong in a painting.”

“Perfecto.” There cannot be any shortage of hats in a royal palace, you’re sure, but you have a few of your own and one is bound to work. “What is the prince busy with this morning?” You ask after a moment, deciding that the tomato jam and a few slices of the cured ham sound delicious in your first slice of toast. “Do you know?”

“Sí.” She nods as she starts to look through your things for an appropriate pair of shoes to match the dress. “They say some of the Crown Jewels have been brought out of storage. Though no one seems to know what for.”

“Oh, I see.” You know. You know very well. Javi must be looking at rings with his father this morning. And that gives you a certain twist of nerves and excitement that has you remembering the exact, delectable pressure of his kiss from last night. “I’m sure we’ll know soon enough,” you murmur with a smirk tucked away in the corner of your mouth. He had asked if you wanted to be able to pick out your ring. Perhaps he is narrowing down a few favourites — or perhaps his father has already decided for you both. It could easily be either.

******

“I must admit that I am surprised that you are so eager to pick out a ring.” The king’s brow arches as he tries to mask the pain of moving in the discreet motorized chair that had been secreted through the halls of the palace.

The room where the selection of jewels had been brought this morning is well-hidden, an extension of the library that was once used as a private prayer room for medieval kings. For the last few centuries it has been more of a place for meetings that the crown wishes to remain under wraps. Or, like this morning, official business that is to be kept quiet. A dozen brilliant rings of all shapes, sizes, and origins have been selected for the prince to choose from for his bride-to-be.

Javi’s eyes speculatively contemplate the rings and dismiss several heavier sets outright. He doesn’t want your hand weighed down by something too ostentatious. “I want my father to see me settled before the end of his time.” He had stayed up most of the night thinking about everything after he had put you to bed. It was quite possibly the most internal reflection he has had in a long time.

“I will be announcing my abdication the week after your engagement is made public.” The king has never been accused of being a sentimental man, but he most certainly believes there is a correct order to things. “The people will see you settled as well.”

Javi swallows and nods seriously. The heaviness of the comment making his heart clench and he realizes that despite their differences, his father is dying. By next year, he will not have his father’s council to guide him. It makes him wish he had spent more time with him. “As you wish.”

“It will prevent the beginning of your reign from being overshadowed by my death.” Having given it a great deal of thought, he and his advisors have agreed on this being the best course of action. It is unconventional, which is not a word that is normally used to describe King Miguel, but it is in the best interest of the nation he has dedicated his life to.

“And it will allow you to have some peace for your last days.” Javi’s heart breaks as he touches the ring his mother had worn when she was alive. He wonders if his father had put it back recently because it had been in their bedroom safe the last time Javi had seen it.

His father ignores the idea that peace or rest should be thought of at all, but leans closer to see Javier touch his mother’s ring gently. “It would not be unheard of for a son to offer his betrothed the mother’s ring,” he admits. Although it is a terribly trendy thing to do at the moment. The English princes have cornered that market.

“I think she would like it.” Javi admits, a small amount of moisture building up in his eyes. “Did you put this back recently?”

"I did." He had been reluctant to part with the gem considering his late wife's fondness for it. The emerald cut diamond had been selected by his own mother for his bride-to-be and the setting was created specifically for their engagement. "The connection between your mothers is important. It was appropriate to return it to the collection for you to choose from."

“I think mama would approve.” The choice of ring is appropriate and he picks it up and tilts his head. “Perhaps the infinity band with it.”

Sitting sometimes helps with the pain that the king faces near constantly and sometimes it does not, right now being one of the instances where the pain is stronger no matter what position he is in. "Your mother—" He clears his throat to cover a wince. To draw attention to his pain will help nothing. "Enjoyed choosing her own band." Of course, his own bride had made the choice with her mother at her side, but that will not be possible for his son's bride.

“Then I will leave it up to her to choose.” Javi decides, kneeling down beside the chair and looking up at his father. “Would you like to be present when I propose?”

"I will be present for the photographer to take your engagement portraits." The date, time, and place of which have already been decided, though the king doubts his son has viewed his appointments with any regularity. "The choosing of her was what was important. Ask her how you will, so long as it is appropriate and private. None of these public declarations. They are undignified."

“Yes sir.” Javi agrees. “We went to the cliffs last night to look at the stars. I might take her back to ask her there.”

"Remember she will be asked numerous times how it was done." Miguel warns his son. An arranged marriage may not be the most romantic option – much to Javier's chagrin – but it will still be anticipated and talked on by the entire nation. "If she can be happy to tell the story, so much the better."

“I will arrange to have a candlelit dessert on the cliffs.” Javi decides. “Perhaps I can find her favorite one from the States and have it flown in.”

"Our chefs can make anything." Dismissing the idea that Javier's American attraction could yield anything positive, the king waves one hand dismissively. "But do as you will. She will need to begin the wedding planning immediately so plan your date accordingly." He still thinks the idea unnecessary, but his son is a sentimental sort of man. "The less delay we have in everything, the better."

“Then I will do it tonight.” It might not be on his timeline, but he will not disappoint his father.

"Good." Checking his watch, the king looks to his son once more and the ring that he is holding. What once was the boy's mother's will now be his wife's and that is not a path through sentimentality that Miguel is equipped to walk himself. "I have a meeting," he announces gruffly. "Whatever you decide to do, let her keep her appointments today. I expect to know the names of her ladies in waiting before lunch and have a report from her dressmaker before dinner." The latter is not usual, but he needs to make sure the American will be dressed appropriately. She will be an important face in the kingdom in no time at all. She should look like it.

“Of course.” There is the thread of cold civility that Javier expected. The need to conform to the schedules and demands of the crown. He nods. “Have a good meeting, your Majesty.”

******

Having Flores nearby for this entirely odd interview process is your only source of comfort at the moment. The ladies who have been announced and curtsied before you have spanned several decades in age and experience. Some of the younger ones have been nauseating suck-ups. A few of the older have been merciless snobs. At this point you're grateful for the good weather and the mid-morning tea service that was provided by the kitchens for you to have some kind of polite activity to engage in while speaking to the numerous noblewomen who have come through the gardens.

"Dama Gabriella Gutierrez." The next lady is announced and your head tilts slightly with interest. This would be the woman that married Javi's cousin when he was refused permission to propose to her. This is your almost-fiancé's ex-girlfriend. Just when you thought today could not get more surreal.

"Buenos días." You have learned that it is not expected for you to stand for each lady, so you keep your seat when you nod to hear and put out your hand to offer her the seat across from you at the small table. She's stunningly beautiful and closer to Javi's age than you are, immediately making you feel more intimidated by her than maybe you ought to be.

Gabriella comes in and executes a deep, perfect curtsy. Nodding her head respectfully since your own station will be so much more elevated than her own. Jealousy tinges her vision as she looks up, seeing the woman who would be queen instead of her. “Buenos días.” She murmurs demurely, surprised to see that while you are lovely, there is no air of pretense surrounding you.

“Hablas inglés?” You have checked with every single one of the ladies before switching over to your own native language, finding that while all of them have been fluent not everyone seems fond of the idea that their queen will be American born. By the time they have made it to your table they all know who you will be to them. At least that is one topic you do not have to broach yourself.

“Sí, yes.” Gabriella nods. “Javi— Prince Javier,” she corrects herself, “prefers to speak English causally.” She explains, feeling the urge to shift guiltily since she was in love with the man you are going to marry.

“Please join me.” This will be an insightful conversation if nothing else, and the nearby footman pours a cup of cold lemonade to set in front of her. The kitchen had been perplexed when you had asked for iced tea with lemon to sip on and sent up hot tea and lemonade separately. Apparently America really is the only place you can get iced tea. “You…know the prince well…as I understand it?”

“I am….old friends with the prince.” Gabriella wonders why you have not already dismissed her as a candidate. The only reason she was here was because Lucas had demanded that she make sure that it was known that she had been interviewed for it. A preverbal slap in the face, but that was nothing new with her husband.

“That is a very polite way of putting it,” you smile though, because you have definitely been the ex-girlfriend on the other side of the table more than once. Never to this magnitude, but you know it can be hard. “Would you tell me a little about yourself?”

She frowns slightly. Aware that you should have all the information on her in front of you. “I am married to the Count of Ibiza.” She murmurs, her hands folded in her lap and tightening slightly. “Prince Javier’s eldest cousin.”

“Yes.” The sheet of information about her that you received says that already, but you offer her a smile. “But I wish to know about you. Not who your is husband or where you fall in the line of succession, or what title your parents had.”

“Forgive me.” She pauses and calculates what she wishes to ask. “I do not understand what you would like to know?”

“Well…” The other women that you had asked this of had trouble with it as well and you don’t blame them. You have lived your whole life as a congressman’s daughter and a future queen. You, of all people, understand. “Have you been reading anything interesting lately? What are your hobbies? The way I see it, the ladies that I end up spending my time with ought to be ones that I have something in common with. Otherwise this will be a truly tedious time for all involved.”

It is refreshing in a sense to imagine that someone would take an interest in her own hobbies. “My favorite books are not appropriate for a queen to be reading.” She admits, her cheeks burning with shame. “It has been a long time since I have been able to indulge, but I enjoy baking and experimenting with new dishes.”

“I find myself deeply interested in your reading habits, Contessa.” The embarrassment in her face means she either likes what your stepmother calls ‘beach books’ or she reads smut, and either way you already like this woman much more than the others. The one who said she was too mature to read novels had been dismissed almost immediately. “But first, what cuisines do you enjoy? And what is your favorite thing to bake?”

“I—” she flusters and does the unladylike thing of shrugging one elegant shoulder. “I find everything interesting. Trying to make things that I see on TV.” She admits, wondering if you would find it as ridiculous as Lucas does. “I enjoy making…how do you say? Fritters? Fruit fritters?” She tilts her head, wondering if she has messed up the word.

“Like the fried batter with fruit pieces in it?” You nod right away and end up smiling a little wider. Without realizing it, you had expected her to be classically trained or at least have her interests mean that way. “Any kind of fritter is always worth it. But that’s probably a very American thing for me to say.”

“They are so simple and yet they are so delicious!” She insists, leaning forward happily for a moment before she realizes who she is addressing. She sits back and nods. “Yes.”

“Oh please, if you want to get excited about something I wish you would do it,” you admit with an unladylike sigh. “I have spent all morning with women afraid to offend me if they have so much as a different favorite color.”

“That is how it is done.” She murmurs quietly. “We are here to be a friend to you. Not to have our interests returned.”

“I am not in the habit of forcing my interests or beliefs on those around me.” She is right, of course she is. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it or even agree with it. “I have seen plenty of so-called friendships between women that work that way and they are not beneficial to anyone.”

“You do not want me for a friend. I am not good at it.” She blurts out before biting her lip. She had come here expecting to hate you and yet you seem so kind.

“If that is really how you feel, then I won’t keep you.” Although you have to admit that you’re a little disappointed about it. Gabriella Gutierrez seemed to have had her happiness stamped out of her and a person like that deserves a friend. “But if that is only what you have been told, then I will refuse to believe it.”

“I—” her hands clench together again. “I am…unsuitable for everything.” She admits. “This was supposed to be a lesson.”

“A lesson?” That makes you frown deeply. “From whom, precisely?”

“I should not have said anything.” Mortification rolls across her features and her chin trembles. “Please do not say anything. I will go. I will not say a word.”

“No.” It is the first time you have ever ‘pulled rank’ so to speak, and it is telling that you have done it when you are afraid for someone’s safety. “No.” You reach across the table and offer her your hand. “Was it your husband? Someone in your family? Why is meeting me a punishment?”

“It is a reminder that I was not good enough to be Javier’s wife.” She confesses quietly. “That I am a horrible wife, and that I would not even be a good lady-in-waiting for the woman who will be queen.”

“What absolute bullshit.” Even with your voice low the fury behind the words is obvious, and you feel like you’re seeing red instantly. “The king refusing Javi’s request to propose has nothing to do with your suitability. It had to do with a contract. I have no idea what kind of a man your husband is but if he is the one who told you this then I suddenly find I have a vested interest in helping you stay away from him.” It’s straight out abuse is what it is, and you feel more deeply about her safety now than any other issue.

Her eyes widen in fear and she glances towards the closed door. “I should not have spoken so…impetuously.” She demurs. “My apologies.”

"The last thing I want is to make you more uncomfortable." Fearing that you have certainly achieved that without any effort whatsoever, you sit back in your chair and try not to do anything outrageous like sigh or frown. "You are certainly not prisoner here. If you wish to go, you may."

“You are…different than I imagined.” She stands and curtsies again. “I apologize for my outburst and understand that you would not wish me to be your lady-in-waiting. We would spend time together and I have a history with the future king.” A small, polite smile is offered and she turns around to walk out.

Alone – to a point – again in the fragrant expanse of the garden, you turn to look at your maid with a frown. "Was I wrong, Flores? To be honest?"

“It is rumored that the marriage between the Prince’s cousin and his wife is a deeply unhappy one.” She confides, her own frown in place. “The count has flaunted their marriage in public, but the servants know.”

"Servants know everything." That seems to be one stereotype that is entirely true, and at least you can be thankful for having someone on your side in that way. "How many more interviews are there?" You ask after taking a moment to digest the idea that all it not what it seems within this family that you are set to marry into.

“There is only one more.” Flores tells you, wishing that she had mentioned that there was a bit of competition between Javier and Lucas when they were younger. For some reason Lucas felt he should be heir.

“Who is last?” Meeting Gabriella was surprising and has put you on your guard. Now you’re wondering if the last candidate for lady in waiting will be the same as all the others or be completely out of left field like she was.

“Dama Margaret Zurita.” Flores tells you. “She is closer to age for you than some.”

“I hope that signifies something positive.” You offer her a tired smile before nodding to the footman – this one is named Raul – and straightening yourself out in your chair. “Alright, Raul. One more.”

Margaret walks into the gardens and curtsies prettily but there is a sincere smile on her face when she looks up at you.

"Sientate, por favor." Beginning the way you have begun with everyone, you offer her the seat across from you at the little garden table. "Hablas inglés?"

“Sí.” She nods and tilts her head. “If you would prefer, I am known as Maisie amongst my friends, and I hope that we will be friends.”

"Maisie?" The only person you've ever known with that name is the actress from Game of Thrones, but it seems to fit the woman in front of you nicely. She is elegant and poised but doesn't carry the immediate air of pretention that some of the others had. "It is a beautiful name. Please, tell me about yourself, Maisie."

“Oh. I don’t know what to tell you.” She’s honest to a fault. “I enjoy reading and horse riding, but I also prefer to enjoy new experiences.” She hums. “What interest appeal to you?”

"Are you reading something currently?" The last thing you want to do is answer a question about yourself and have her start to simply agree with the things you say because she thinks that is what you are looking for.

“I am reading The Wife’s House.” She admits, flustering slightly. “I don’t care for non-fiction.”

"I don't think I've heard of it." The name doesn't ring a bell at least, but someone admitting to reading for pleasure and not being ashamed of it is delightful. "Would you tell me about it? I'm always in the market for a new novel."

“It’s a thriller.” She brightens slightly, animating as she talks about the book she’s engrossed in. “If you like Gone Girl, you would love it.”

"I love Gone Girl." You're going to have to get your hands on a copy of his book as soon as you can, and the idea of having something new to read brightens you. As much as you are a bookworm, you have never been the kind of person who accumulated a large personal library. Knowing that one day you would have to pick up and move at the drop of a hat had made that impractical, and instead the local librarians had known you extremely well. "What do you like to do besides reading and riding?" This entire morning has been a parade of women who had demurred and insisted that whatever you enjoyed, they would like. It is wonderful to have someone actually express their own interests.

“I am supposed to tell you that I enjoy charity work, and I do. But not the types that have press releases.” She admits. “Real help. I have helped rebuild a house that was burned down in a fire. The resident was elderly and he was going to have nowhere to go. His family had passed.”

"I wholeheartedly appreciate a person who would rather get their hands dirty and provide real help than discuss how to be charitable over a meal that would bear a three-figure price tag in a restaurant." At last, you can't help thinking to yourself. Someone with a personality. "Can I ask who it was that might have coached you on what you are supposed to say to me this morning?"

Maisie freezes for a moment, not expecting that question but then she remembers that she had said something about what she was supposed to say. Except now, she wasn’t going to lie to you. “The Count of Ibiza.” She admits quietly.

“Interesting.” That is now the second time you have heard that man mentioned, and you can’t say you’re fond of what it implies. “And who is the Count of Ibiza to you?”

“May I speak freely?” Maisie asks, her eyes floating towards Flores and then back to you.

Of everyone here you have the least fear of Flores being untrustworthy, and instead offer the nearby footman a smile. For all you know, he has been instructed to report back to someone – like the king – and if he hears nothing then he will have nothing to report. “Raul, you may leave us.”

Bowing respectfully, the footman quickly exits the gardens and Maisie waits another few beats before she speaks. “The count is not a man you should trust.” She confides quietly, but clearly.

"I am gathering that rather quickly," you admit, picking up your glass to have something to do with your hands. "But who is he to you? His wife left here not five minutes ago."

“Gabriella was here?” Maisie’s brow shoots up and her jaw ticks a minute amount. “I had thought that she would not put in for it.”

"It seems she was made to." And the fact that this count – Javi's own cousin – is ordering and abusing his wife in this way? It makes you livid on principle. "I take it that you were made to, as well?"

“There is a…hierarchy that is unacknowledged by the rest of the country.” She murmurs quietly. “After the immediate royal family, the Count of Ibiza is the highest-ranking member of the court. And knows it.”

"And he is in the habit of abusing his station?" You could remark about what or whom else he abuses but you hold back. "Ordering the other nobility around as he sees fit?"

“He calls it….’privilege of rank’.” She snorts before she composes herself, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes.

"I take it the king is unaware of this habit of his nephew's?" Surely he would put a stop to it if he knew. Wouldn't he? Of course...there is a chance that this is just how things work in the Balearican Islands. And if that is the case you are not going to be terribly comfortable around any of these people.

“The Count is very skilled at hiding his true personality from those of importance.” She shakes her head. “King Miguel would never allow such an abuse of rank.”

"I see." This last conversation has been utterly enlightening in a rather unpleasant way, but you chew on the facts as you sip your lemonade. "Which naturally means he will hide his true face from me, as well. Unless he thinks he has the upper hand over me." When you look up again, you tilt your head at the woman across from you and hum softly. "Forgive me, I have met so many new people today that my mind is jumbled slightly. I can't seem to remember your title or who your husband is?"

“My husband is not a royal.” She admits with a small smile. “I am the daughter of the Count of Dragonera. Distant cousin to the Prince.”

“You are family, then.” Your lips twist into a smile. “However distant, family is powerful. What would you think of being a lady in waiting, Maisie? Spend time with me here at the castle and see what we can do together about the Count of Ibiza’s unfortunate habits?”

She is honestly surprised that you are extending the invitation to her, straightening slightly and a warm smile starts to break out across her face. "I would be delighted." She decides. One does not simply deny the future queen anything but the idea actually does hold tremendous appeal. She does not like her distant cousin and would like to see his hold on the family behind closed doors diminish. "Gabriella is a good woman." She adds, wanting to defend the woman who was Javier's interest before you. "Please do not judge her. There was a lot of pressure for her to marry Lucas."

“On the contrary.” Having made the decision, your stubbornness often turns to resolve. And in this instance you truly would not consider any other option. “I intend to extend the invitation to her as well. It seems to me that she could use a friend, and perhaps it will help her to spend a little less time under her husband’s thumb.”

Maisie’s expression lights up with delight and admiration for your kindness. “Ladies-in-waiting are at the whims of the queen.” She agrees with a conspiratorial smile.

Your own mischievous grin comes with a nod as you sip your drink again. “And with the wedding coming so quickly I am feeling particularly whimsical.”

“A wedding does take a lot of time and dedication to put on.” She agrees. “Especially a royal wedding to the future king.”

“My only fear is that it would be cruel to make the Contessa a part of that planning when she is so unhappy in her own marriage.” You admit, deftly not tacking on the fact that Gabriella Gutierrez almost gained her surname through marrying the man you are betrothed to.

“Gabriella would not feel any ill will. She is in love with the idea of love.” Maisie tells you. “She would be thrilled. Maybe a little heartbroken.” She admits quietly.

“I don’t want to cause her any pain.” In fact, that is sort of the motive for the entire plan in your mind. Sparing the woman that Javi had loved from the obvious pain of her situation. “If she is uncomfortable I will make sure she sees as little of the wedding planning as possible.”

“She has made peace with her fate to not be Javier’s wife.” Maisie smiles sadly. “It is a matter of pride that she be happy for him. Especially if he is happy.”

“I intend to do everything I can to ensure that he is.” Even before meeting him you had been resolved to keep your future husband happy. But now that you’ve met him? It brings a soft, smitten smile to your lips.

“He has charmed you.” Maisie sighs softly, happy to see it. She has always cared for the softhearted prince.

“Very much.” And you’re not afraid to admit it. In fact, it’s a relief. “He seems to be a sweet, sincere man.”

“He is.” She nods, happy that you seem to understand him. “I have always felt he was far too good to be royalty.”

"Or is that exactly the kind of person we want to have in charge, in a world where depersonalization and insincerity run rampant?" You shrug, not wanting to launch a full-scale debate. "I'm here to be the support he needs, whatever that ends up meaning. And for right now, that means making sure that the country is focused on happy news."

“Then I would be delighted to be your lady-in-waiting.” Maisie springs to her feet and rushes over to embrace you in a hug.

It's such an unexpected gesture that you almost laugh, accepting the hug wholeheartedly and squeezing her back before gently letting go. "Would you be willing to stay for a few hours today?" You ask, eyebrows pinched and raised with earnest hope. "I have to meet with a dressmaker today and I have a feeling that the things that American politician's daughters wear is a bit different than what future princesses and queens are supposed to wear."

“Of course.” She nods and shoots you a small grin. “I serve at your whim.” She reminds you with an arch of one perfect brow. “Perhaps we also need more assistance as well?”

"Did you have something in mind?" The idea that people serve you is something you don't know if you'll ever get used to. Even asking the palace staff for something makes you feel demanding – like a Karen ordering around restaurant staff.

“Gabriella as excellent taste.” She smirks and winks at you, “and I am sure she would love to get out of whatever is happening right now.”

"How terribly disappointed the count will be to discover that his wife's presence is required at the palace." Returning her smirk, you nod in agreement and look back to your maid who is standing nearby. "Flores, do you think you could ask the kitchen to prepare two more plates for lunch today? It seems I will be bringing the Contessa back to us after all." At some point you will have to report your choices to the king, but you can do that with or without Gabriella present.

“Yes, my lady.” She nods her head and rushes off to do your bidding. Happy that you are going to help poor Gabriella out. Even if she and the prince could never be what they wished, she was a kind soul who deserved happiness.

"Is there anything you would like to know about me?" It might be an unusual question, you don't really know. But as you and Maisie start to walk back to the palace, you find the need to fill the air with something other than schemes. Since you have done the royal equivalent of walking up to her on the playground and asking her to be your friend, you feel like you should offer something of yourself.

“Tell me something shocking.” She demands, giggling slightly. “Something that you have done or wish you could do.”

The number of things you have done in your life that could be considered acting out in any way is slim, but you hum slightly as you try to think of something good enough to divulge. "I...actually slapped the first boy who ever kissed me," you admit with a sheepish grin. "It actually caused some drama between our families for a while."

Maisie smirks and nods. “Good for you.” She hums, crossing her arms over her chest. “He stole a kiss and learned some manners.”

"My brother backed me up. He was there when it happened, and I think if it wasn't for him being a witness, my father would never have believed me." Your father's penchant for believing his son over any of the women in his life is only one of his many misogynistic traits that you had taught yourself to ignore or gloss over so you didn't go insane at home as a teenager.

“That is a shame.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “I don’t know if my father would ever not believe anything that I told him.” She had a wonderful father who believed that women were much more resilient.

"I think he sees my mother too much when he looks at me," you admit, though it pains you slightly. "We lost her to cancer when my brother and I were twelve. And it hurt him far more than he has ever been able to say."

“I am very sorry for your loss.” She tells you, giving you a sympathetic smile. “A parent that young is hard for anyone.”

"Thank you." Her kindness is more than appreciated, and you nod to the footmen who open the palace doors to allow you inside without having to even pause in your steps. "She was a wonderful, kind woman, and I think he loved her much more than he will ever admit. Mostly because he has my stepmother now."

“It is hard to be the second wife.” She had seen many of her friends’ mothers and fathers replaced by new spouses over the years and the difficulties of the dynamics. “Most seem to think that love is measurable. If they still love the lost spouse, they don’t love the current as much.”

"I prefer to think that all loves are different." Maisie has a point though, and you nod in acknowledgement. "A first love will always feel different than a second or third. You could fall in love fifteen times in one life and no two of them would feel the same. What matters is that you cherish them when they come along."

“It’s the guilt of the living.” Maisie nods. “King Miguel has spoken of it. Privately, of course.”

"My mother was friends with the queen." Somehow, of everyone you have met so far, Maisie is the easiest to talk to besides Javi. Opening up to her doesn't feel forced or disingenuous. It just feels like talking to a friend. "They were at university together. That is...how I was chosen for the prince. Because of our mothers."

“Ohhhhhh.” Her hands clutch her heart and she practically melts in front of you. “That is just so…sweet. I like that. So very much.”

"I wish they were still here, but we'll find a way to make sure they're with us when we get married." It's something you've already promised yourself, and you mean to stick to it.

“That would be very lovely.” She nods. “It is something that could be very tasteful, a memorial table.”

“I’m sure the king will have some preference of how his late wife is honoured.” And whatever it is, you’ll honour it. Because there is no sense in going against a dying man over something that you have no stake in. That would be cruel, plain and simple.

“Yes, he will.” She smiles, appreciating how you already understand that portion of the dynamic. “He is a good man.” She promises.

The halls of the palace are busy today, and though most people do not yet know who you are, those who do – and those who recognize Maisie – pause in their paces to pay their respects before hustling on. The general commotion seems to be headed in one direction, though, and you recognize it to be the wing of the palace where business is taken care of. Not the wing where people live. “Flores.” Seeing your maid amongst the people walking by, you manage to catch her attention. “Is everything alright?”

“I am not sure, my lady.” She admits quietly, her own observations making her frown. The palace is a busy place, but it normally seems very effortless. Now, there is a sense of haste that she is unused to. “Did the prince indicate there would be any event in your honor tonight?”

"He didn't, but I haven't spoken to him yet today." Heading with her in the direction of all the fuss, you are relieved to have Maisie right beside you without effort. In fact, she seems to just glide along in the crowd - you'll have to learn how to manage that to look as elegant as she does.

Maisie's eyes widen when she sees a discreet uniform, one that is never a good sign in the royal halls. "I fear there is an issue." She whispers quietly to you. "Do you see the two people with the very tiny stars on their cuffs?"

Instead of saying anything you just follow the direction she is indicating and nod slightly when you spot the embroidered insignia on the uniforms up ahead. God forbid you say something wrong and it is overheard, but you know there is fear in your eyes instantly when Maisie indicates there could be a problem.

"They are doctors for the palace." She confides. "Emergency doctors."

It only takes a moment for your mind to kick in to high gear, and you're ready to push through the crowd instantly. The only problem is that since no one knows who you are, they aren't inclined to move for you. "Maisie," you take her arm tightly in yours and remind yourself to breathe. Panicking now will do no good. "We are going to walk straight through this crowd together. I need your royal blood for a moment. Mine is not blue enough for them to let us through just yet."

“Of course.” Maisie takes the lead, wrapping her arm around yours and clears her throat. “Please excuse us.” She speaks clearly. “Coming through.”

The sea of people parts for the noblewoman, albeit reluctantly, and lets you through to the end of a corridor where four people in subtle uniforms are bent over a figure being guarded resolutely by palace guards. There doesn't seem to be a prayer of getting by to find out what is going on until you catch a glimpse of chestnut curls a few feet away. "Javi." Trying not to cause more commotion than is already happening, you and Maisie push your way to the edge of the group of guards as quickly as you can. "Javi!" You try again to get his attention, this time more insistently.

Distraught eyes turn toward you and he leaps up from where he is kneeling down a few feet away from his father. “Let her through!” He shouts, rushing towards you as if a moth drawn to a flame.

He reaches for you like a lifeline, locking you into a tight hug that you return reflexively. "What happened?" Your hands immediately come up to his cheeks, holding him still when it seems like he might vibrate away or dissolve into a pool of his own tears.

“H-he collapsed.” Javi shudders, having been walking next to him when it happened. Shouting for help and fearing the worst until he could be told that his father was at least still breathing.

The medics and guards had been shielding the figure on the ground from view, but on the other side of the line it is very obvious who it is who has collapsed on the parquet flooring. "Oh god..." Swallowing any other exclamation or even any other sound, you nod your understanding and look back to Javi with wide, sympathetic eyes. "We have to let them do their jobs, querido." The term of endearment falls so easily from you, so naturally that you don't even realize it. "We can follow them to the hospital unless there is something else you need to be doing?" For all you know there is a speech or statement to be made to the people over this. The protocols aren't exactly ingrained in your brain because you were never made privy to any of them.

Javier shakes his head right as a tall, handsome man with silver hair and startling blue eyes walks up. “Primo. He oído. Yo me encargaré de todo.” Cousin. I have heard. I will handle everything. His hand slaps against Javier shoulder almost bruisingly and he barely spares a glance at the king.

You frown in confusion for barely half a minute before you catch a glimpse of Gabriella out of the corner of your eye. So this is Lucas, you think, the furrow in your brow deepening. He looks...oily. Not as in the use of oil, but slippery. Snake oil salesman kind of oily. In a Western he would be twirling his mustache and tying a damsel to the train tracks. "How could you possibly have heard?" You ask, lowering your voice and slipping your hand into Javi's to lace your fingers together. "It's only just happened."

Brows knitting instantly, his wild eyes turn towards you and then drop down to your fingers enter twined with his cousins. “I was in the throne room.” He lifts a brow at you dismissively. “You are?”

"Not going away." Javi's understandable shock keeps him from responding, but you are very used to standing up for yourself. Being American does come in handy once in a while – including moments when you want to make yourself a bit bigger than you really are. Bombasity, your brother calls it. "I am the woman currently standing beside the Crowned Prince, who will remain standing beside him."

His smile is charming, but it doesn’t reach his glacial eyes. “The American intended.” He coos, glancing towards Javier. “It is a good thing you are here. Primo, do not worry. I will take care of things so you can be with him.”

“It will be best to let the doctors do their work.” You decide, instantly not trusting a single hair on this man’s head. Even if you didn’t know what little Gabriella and Maisie had told you, you still wouldn’t trust him. He has the blankest, coldest eyes you’ve ever seen. “I am sure that some guest quarters can be assigned to you while Javi and I find out what is happening.” Glancing back at Maisie, you nod to her as well. “You, too, my friend. I’m sure Flores can see to having a room arranged for you.”

One perfectly groomed brow arches and his eyes flicker over to Javier again, expecting him to say something. But the prince doesn’t, too focused on his father and not even paying attention to the conversation around him. “I see.”

“I am sure your contributions to the situation will be appreciated in coming days. But let’s first find out exactly what is happening before we move too boldly.” Obviously this man has not expected you to have a backbone, but you understand the terror of seeing a parent you love be very ill. It either makes you bold or weak, and neither is a judgement call. “Gabriella?” Motioning past him to his wife, you beckon them woman closer as gently as you can.

“Sí?” Lucas despises when she speaks English, due to her connection with Javier and she clasps her hands together to force a smile on her face.

“Whatever you need to get settled, we will see taken care of,” you promise her with a reassuring smile all your own. “It seems I will need my ladies in waiting very nearby, so it may be some time before you return to Ibiza. I hope that will not be too disappointing for you?”

“You have selected Gabriella?” The surprise in her husband’s voice is unmistakable, along with the expression on his face. “Is that wise?”

“I certainly think so.” The smile on your face never falters. “Is it not an honor for her, count?”

He’s been backed into a corner and he does not care for it. “It is.” He purrs, reaching over and taking his wife’s arm. “I only hope she appreciates it.”

“I am certain that it will be a wonderful opportunity for all.” If you could never speak to this man again you would be more than happy about it, but you grit your teeth and smile all the more broadly. “But right now, it would be best for you to situate yourselves comfortably and wait for news, I think.”

His brow raises again and if looks could kill, Javier would be planning your funeral. Lucas despises being told what do to. “I’m afraid that I have more connection to the family at this moment.” He insists. “I am family.”

“Which is why it will be so reassuring to have you here at the palace.” An instinct, something primal in the pit of your stomach, tells you to keep him away from the hospital and you’re not sure why but you listen to it fully.

“I can be better use helping Javier.” Lucas insists. “There is the matter of running our country.” He shakes his head. “I know that as an American, you are unaware of how things work, but our people look up to the monarchy.”

“And they will continue to be able to look up to their crowned prince without hesitation.” The emergency medics are moving the king now, and Javi is right with them as his father is being taken away. “You can be of such help to Prince Javier. It is dearly appreciated.” Barely having enough time to nod to Maisie, you are off and striding toward Javi to take his hand. You have just made an enemy of the Count of Ibiza and you both know it, but there is no way you are letting that man near the ailing king. Instinct tells you not to.

“I don’t know what is going on.” Javier is nearly in tears, biting his lip to keep from breaking down. “I was just— he just helped me pick out- pick out your ring.”

“For now just hold my hand and nod if you make eye contact with anyone.” You’ve been through a health scare as a political child before, and although he has too you doubt that he was in the spotlight then like he is now. “We’ll find out what is happening when we get to the hospital.” Looking up at him, you have a forced if pleasant smile painted on your lips but your eyes are full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, querido. But we’ll get through this. I’m right here with you.”

Grateful to have you with him, Javier clings to your hand and manages to compose himself. Making sure that no one sees the devastation in his eyes and weariness in his spirit.

A member of the king's guard rides in the ambulance with the medics and you and Javi are ushered into a car to follow behind it. Basic rules dictates that Javi and his father never travel together because of the line of succession, and right now that counts more than ever. As soon as you are in the back of the car and another guard is in the front with the driver, you take off after the ambulance at an appropriately speedy rate. Javi looks like he's going to break down any second but you haven't stopped holding his hand.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit

TKQ: @storiesofthefandomlovers @mimimarvelingmarvel

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Javi Gutierrez #Javi Gutierrez x reader #Javi Gutierrez x you #Javi Gutierrez x female reader #Javi Gutierrez x f!reader #royalty au #arranged marriage

[nvrsaidiwasinurcloset]

im not sure if youre necessarily comfortable with this, so feel free to ignore this if you're not, but GOOODDD i just thought it was the cutest idea ever. possibly a series idea?

imagining reader finding out she's pregnant with ethan's baby after the costume frat party, due to quinn's suspicions bc of how sick reader was for almost two weeks then. though being unable to tell ethan, due to the whole ghostface thing pretty much ruining whatever chance she had to tell him, especially bc the group were SUPER suspicious of him and wouldn't leave him alone with her (prob bc reader told the group during the whole dinner before ethan, as gf attacked the apartment but left reader alone) but time skip a little, ethans put in a psych ward for a couple months to deal with the trauma from his dad & just being pressured into being ghostface, and he decides to go back and visit his girlfriend because he didn't really have anywhere else to go, but when he arrived at her front door, the last thing he was expecting was to see her with a small baby girl in her arms. (in this essay, i will expand more on my girldad! ethan landry age-) BUT reader doesn't necessarily trust ethan around her at first, and for good reason to, considering he literally tried to kill her and the core five (reader was apart of the woodsboro group, was possibly dating amber??) and ethan has to pretty much work his ass off to regain her trust again. just fluff, to angst to fluff again

I hope you like this!!!!!💕

Flames - Ethan Landry x Fem!Reader

This is going to be a series! It'll definitely have a lot of angst and fluff for those kind sweet souls that have been asking me for it:)

Part 2, Part 3

Warnings: Pregnancy, mentions of death, suggestion to sex(but not graphic:)

Summary: After surviving Woodsboro, attacks are happening again to your friend group in NYC.

It’d been a little over a month since the infamous Halloween frat party. That night was crazy, especially after Sam tazed some loser’s balls. When the night was cut short, you decided to go back to Ethan and Chad’s dorm while Chad was going with Tara. You hadn’t had much alone time with Ethan, so you had to take advantage of every opportunity you got.

When the condom broke that night, you went out to get a Plan B the next morning, knowing you and Ethan weren’t ready to be parents yet. What you didn’t know was that you were ovulating at the time, and that the future-saving morning after pill wouldn’t work.

When you started to get sick every day, Quinn started to pick up on it. She had her suspicions and asked you to take a test. Your heart sank when you saw the plus sign, but you had no idea how to tell Ethan. Especially when Mindy was so convinced that he was one of the prime suspects in the most recent killings happening around campus. You didn’t know what to believe, especially after your ex-girlfriend was one of the people killing off your friends in Woodsboro the year before. She even tried to kill you, but you were saved after getting stabbed four times.

As you sat at the table with your friends, you couldn’t keep your secret any longer. Quinn already knew, but you had to tell the rest of them.

As Chad started his “Core Five” speech, and Sam confessed to her fling with Danny, you decided it was the right time to let it out.

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out, the room instantly getting silent.

Everyone exchanged glances as your cheeks turned red.

“Wait…what?” Chad asked, his shocked expression very similar to everyone else’s.

“Is that why you keep getting sick?” Sam asked, before Mindy spoke up.

“Okay, this is one of the main rules. You aren’t supposed to have sex!”

You rolled your eyes, “It’s a little too late for that advice. Shouldn’t that rule be updated, though? Everyone is sleeping with someone.”

“But you’re the one sleeping with a killer,” she smirked, “Sweet, dorky Ethan is Ghostface. Just like Amber.”

“You don’t know that,” you said, as she scoffed.

“Where is he right now?” she questioned, everyone’s eyes landing on you again.

“He’s at Econ.”

Everyone’s phones started to chime. It made you all feel uneasy, your heart pounding as you saw the picture of Ghostface with Quinn.

You all jumped up, standing outside of her bedroom door. You were hoping it was some sick prank, but after the events that happened in Woodsboro, you knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t have much time to think of a plan before the masked figure threw Quinn’s body out of the room, resting against you before she fell to the floor. When Ghostface charged out of the room, you were in the direct path, but they went around you. You noticed Chad and Tara running out the front door, following them to what would hopefully be safety. The second you made it out, the door slammed behind you, and you heard the numerous locks on the door click.

“Fuck, guys!” you yelled to Tara and Chad who were a few sets of stairs down from you. “They’re still in there! The door just got locked!”

They ran back up, the sounds of Chad’s fists banging on the door and the screaming coming from inside the apartment echoing off the walls.

“I don’t have my keys or my phone,” you panicked, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“I don’t either,” Tara said, pounding on the door and screaming for Sam.

After a few minutes, the screams became fainter. You started to lose hope, thinking that all your friends inside were dead. The three of you were crying outside of the door, before Chad spoke up.

“I need to get you two somewhere safe,” he said, nudging you and Tara towards the stairs.

When you made it outside, you bumped into Sam, Mindy and Danny. Mindy was sobbing, and Sam’s face was somber.

“Where’s Anika?” you asked, as Mindy cried harder. Your eyes went wide, “No…”

“Anika and Quinn,” was all Sam could get out before getting choked up.

You all cried as you hugged each other on the sidewalk when the cop cars pulled up. Everyone was questioned before Detective Bailey arrived. He was closest to you because you were the closest to Quinn. He treated you like a daughter, regularly taking you and Quinn out for dinner. You tried to comfort him as he cried, but you didn’t know how to. He’d already lost one of his children in a car accident, and the other was murdered in the room next to yours.

When the ambulance arrived, they kept trying to find the source of your bleeding. You started to feel faint as you tried to explain that it was Quinn’s blood on you, your vision getting spotty. You dropped to your knees, unable to keep your balance. When Sam told the paramedics that you were pregnant, they put you on the stretcher and monitored you as the sun started to rise.

“I’m okay, really,” you said, after an hour of laying there. They were in the process of giving you an IV, hoping the fluids would help with your extreme dizziness.

“The bag’s close to empty. You’re almost done,” the paramedic said, hooking you up to the machine to check your vitals for what felt like the hundredth time.

You watched Mindy get her stitches, completely unfazed. She was so heartbroken, and you just wanted to hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay. You could only imagine what it would’ve felt like if you were in her position, and Ethan was the one laying under the tarp.

As your IV was finally getting taken out, Ethan pushed through the crowd of people and lifted the caution tape to walk over towards everyone. Chad jumped up, having a heated exchange with Ethan as he shoved him against a car.

“I had Econ!” you heard him yell, his eyes scanning the friend group. “Where is she?”

“Ambulance,” Chad said, as Ethan’s eyes connected with yours. He ran towards you, before Mindy stopped him.

“Stay the fuck away from her, Ghostface,” she snapped, as Ethan looked back towards you.

“Jesus Christ, I had Econ!”

“It’s okay, Mindy,” you mumbled, as she moved so Ethan could join you in the back of the ambulance.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asked, grabbing your hand. His eyes were filled with panic.

“I’m okay, I just got really dizzy earlier.”

“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” Mindy scoffed at his words, thinking about Anika.

After checking out the abandoned theater, and Gale getting attacked, you decided that you needed to head back to Woodsboro. You needed to be with your family, and as much as you wanted to be there for your friends, they were all supportive of you going home. You didn’t have just your own life to think about anymore, so you needed to be somewhere safe.

Ethan was really sad when you left, crying as he said goodbye to you at the airport while the rest of your friends watched. They didn’t trust you alone with him, they all had their suspicions that he was the cause for everything that was happening.

“Please be safe,” you said, hugging Tara.

“You too. Let me know how everything goes after you get back home,” she said, alluding to the current situation, not wanting Ethan to overhear and wonder what she was talking about.

“I will.” you said, “I love you guys,” you waved, walking towards security.

You couldn’t tell Ethan about the baby, even though you were terrified that something could happen to him, and he’d never know he had a child. There was this awful feeling in the pit of your stomach. It could’ve been the trauma from your relationship with Amber, but you had no idea she was behind the Woodsboro murder spree, when you thought you knew everything about her. You thought you knew Ethan, but now you weren’t so sure.

When your plane landed, it felt surreal. Woodsboro was never a safe place to be, and now it was. When you made it to the entrance of the airport, your mom was crying, so happy that you were okay. You hadn’t told her about the baby yet, not wanting to send her into shock. She wanted to take you out for dinner, which you agreed to. The lack of food over the last couple days made you feel weak.

“Do you have anything special you want to do when you get home? Do you want to watch a movie or something?” she asked as she sat across the table from you.

“No, I really just want to sleep. Maybe tomorrow,” you smiled, taking a bite of your food.

You pulled out your phone to see a few texts from your friends, all of them checking to make sure you made it back okay. Then you noticed one from Ethan.

Ethan: I love you so much, and I miss you already. I can’t wait to see you again.

You: I love you too, baby

“You okay?” your mom asked, noticing the sad expression on your face.

“I can’t stop thinking about last year…about Amber. How could I have been so wrong about her?” you sighed, your mom’s sympathetic eyes meeting yours.

“She was sick, baby. I’m not trying to downplay it, because she killed two of my friends…and I know you were devastated when Wes and Liv were killed. She just had issues and needed serious help.”

Your mom got sad every time she talked about Dewey and Judy, you did too. You hated when she mentioned Wes because that was the death you took the hardest. Liv was the one Mindy suspected last time, and she was wrong then. You wanted so badly for her to be wrong this time, too.

When you made it home, you went upstairs and crawled into your bed. You felt safe with the alarm set downstairs, and your parents close by. You were finally able to get some much-needed rest.

Your mom woke you up the next morning, wanting to make sure she told you the news before you woke up and saw it yourself. Your heart broke as you listened to her speak about the few details that had been released. You checked your phone to see a text from Tara.

Tara: We’re okay, Chad’s in the hospital…but Ethan was in on it.

#ethan landry x reader #ethan landry #scream

[oneatlatime]

Any predictions for season 3, or are you planning to dive straight in?

You're not the first person who's mentioned s3 predictions, so I'll give it a shot, but I'm really not sure if I have anything to use to make predictions. S2 ended in a very final, end of arc kind of way. Lots of things have been tied up. I don't even know where they're all flying off to. Back to the Southern Water Tribe, since the Earth Kingdom's a bit of a bust? The Fire Nation's out of the question, the Northern Water Tribe probably has mixed feelings about seeing them again, maybe the Eastern Air Temple? Although even that might not be safe, since Aang's travel plans to said temple to meet the Guru were known by various Earth Kingdom generals. And that stupid King.

I think the Fire Nation contingent are going back to the Fire Nation, and I am looking forward to a Zuko with eyes at least somewhat open interacting with FN citizens/nobles/military etc. who are still completely drinking the kool aid. I think it's going to suck for Zuko. Should make for good TV though. Lots of conversations where both people are saying entirely different things while thinking they're talking about the same thing.

I said it before, but I'm worried for Iroh. He's for sure arrested, but is he going to be executed? Obviously I don't want that, but unless Iroh still has enormous popular support, and the Firelord's grasp on power is incredibly shaky, I don't see how permanently eliminating a traitor (from a FN perspective) can be avoided. Then again. Kids' show.

As for the Gaang? In broad strokes, Aang still needs to learn firebending to fully Avatar himself, then he needs to defeat the Fire Lord (who is quite the homebody apparently - seriously, where is this guy?). So next season Aang will shake off his lightning hangover, find a firebending teacher, defeat the firelord. He'll probably have to commute to the Fire Nation to find the Fire Lord first. No idea what he'll do in between those things. Perhaps inadvisable shenanigans? That would be in character. His biggest story arc all series has been learning to accept his status as Avatar, but between his talks with the Guru and opening his last Chakra in the finale, I think he's done it. So all that's left is the main plot and goofiness.

Katara has the same problem she had going into S2 - she's mastered waterbending, so she needs a new conflict/arc. S2 answered this demand by... having her hang around? What did Katara do this season? Bend a bunch, set up camps, tear down camps, wreck Jet, support Aang, be nice to Toph that one time, yell at people. I hope she gets something meatier in S3. I still think she should meet some good FN citizens that challenge her morals.

Sokka was also kind of just there this season, although if I'm being mean I'll say that he was also kind of just there for S1 too, which is why it doesn't feel as odd as Katara's lack of purpose. I loved his stuff with Suki. Suki is officially the glow up of the season. I loved their interactions together, and I love the growth she poked him into doing. I'd like to see more of that. So less a prediction and more of a hope: S3 Sokka develops the ability to rely on/trust others (or maybe realises others can be relied upon/trusted is more accurate), hopefully with Suki somehow involved. And I loved his dad too. I want to see more of that guy, but since a cardinal rule of kids' stories is getting rid of the authority figures asap, it won't happen.

Toph. Honestly I'm stumped. She already broke the universe. Where can she go from there? Unless she's going to devolve into an antagonist, which I absolutely don't want, I don't see how she can top her S2 plot. And Aang's got earthbending down, so I guess she'll be like Katara was this season: tagging along. Not that I'm complaining; I love me some Toph in any form. We have seen that she wants to make peace with her parents, sort of, probably? Or at least give them another shot? But I kind of don't want her within 100 miles of her parents. So I don't know.

Appa & Momo will hopefully be tagalongs in S3 too. I learned my lesson this season about wanting the animals to have character arcs.

I guess the antagonist in S3 will be the Fire Lord, finally. Who else is left? Zhao tried, he died. Azula tried, she won. Unless S3 has an Azula rematch. But would she want that? She's already proven that she won. She can go home and enjoy the spoils of her victory (which may or may not include Zuko - I'm kind of unclear on exactly how much agency Zuko is going to have in the FN, especially since I'm not actually sure that he has permission to be there as a free man - didn't the arrest warrant Azula was executing in episode 1 list both Zuko and Iroh?)

There's nothing left for the Gaang in Ba Sing Se, so I doubt they'll go back there. Frankly it's the FN characters who have roots there. I wonder what will happen to Iroh's tea shop? I wonder if his investors will find out who he is? I wonder if money talks louder than national loyalty? (It's the Earth Kingdom - the answer is yes) Wouldn't it be funny if Iroh busted out of imprisonment and went right back to serving tea? And everyone sent to find him would be thinking "this is the famed tactician the Dragon of the West - he's probably travelling the FN plotting a coup as we speak. That devilish mind of his must have safe houses set up all over the nation." When actually he's right back where he got caught, doing exactly what he was doing when he got caught, to great and not-very-quiet acclaim?

I think S3 might have an overall darker tone too, within the bounds of a kids' show. I don't know what place Ba Sing Se occupied in the mind of the average person in the Avatar universe (although refugees seemed to revere it), but the city's fall to the FN represents a very big FN victory. The Gaang will probably be the most underdoglike in S3. S1 was mostly stalemate, then a big FN defeat. S2 was opened with the FN taking Omashu and closed with them taking Ba Sing Se. The FN have never been in a better position, and I bet the NWT is safe from further invasion only until the FN have built their fleet back up. So even the few free areas could have an expiry date on their freedom.

This is rapidly devolving into rambles, so I'll conclude by saying I have no clue what's going to happen next season, and that's exciting.

#ask

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ his sick darling]❜

ft. hex haywire x gn! reader — xsoleil, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ after losing some parts of your memory for unknown reasons, you seek treatment but your therapist knows a lot more than he lets on┊1.1k words

contains: yandere, malpractice/abuse of power, toxic relationships, manipulation, mentions of reader having family problems & mental illness, talks of violence & murder

➤ author's note: there was a time when my girlfriend and i had the same therapist

therapist! hex haywire whom you click with immediately like a best friend. you were nervous about going to therapy for the first time ever, but his office was so cozy with a comforting ambiance— soothing music playing in the background to drown out any possibly distracting outside noises, a cup of warm sweetened hibiscus tea (which happened to be your favorite brand and flavor), and a fluffy knitted blanket just in case you got cold since he didn’t have control over the building’s air conditioning. his calming deep voice and friendly smile made you feel welcome, calming any anxious feelings you had beforehand within mere minutes of meeting him. there wasn’t any way to explain it, but you felt like you could trust him with your life.

therapist! hex haywire who has so much in common with you! he didn’t want to jump into the serious things in the first session so he asked about your interests to ease any tensions, and surprisingly, he was knowledgeable about everything you brought up. he knew the characters of your favorite series, the theories about your favorite movies, the hidden symbolism of your favorite books, and even the details of media that you weren’t a fan of as if you shared the same recommendations on your streaming services and the same paperback novels on your bookshelves. it was the first time that you could remember where you freely spoke about the things you liked without the worry of being annoying or boring because he genuinely seemed invested in the conversation with you and even seemed disappointed when the timer went off, promising to continue next time.

therapist! hex haywire who feels oddly familiar to you. you can’t quite place your finger on it, you feel like you’ve met him before— maybe in high school or at a party since it would be difficult to forget a face like his, but when you brought it up, he insisted that you could find someone who looks like him at any college campus or library if you paid attention. him knowing so much about your interests was just a coincidence— you know how algorithms work these days with feeding content that fits your tastes perfectly, it isn’t too far-fetched for it to match up! besides, aren’t you happy to have a therapist whom you could bond with so quickly without needing to hop around to find the perfect one?

therapist! hex haywire who always knows exactly what to say when you are feeling down, jotting down notes on his clipboard while comforting you with that silver tongue of his. you’re so frustrated since it feels like it’s been forever since you started, but no noticeable progress has been made. you still have no idea why your memory is so patchy, desperate to know about your past so that you can soothe your curiosity and move on with your life no matter how scary or disturbing it may have been. he’ll reach out to hold your hand under his large one, rubbing circles into the skin and reminding you that everyone heals in different ways and different paces but he promises that he’ll be there with you every step.

therapist! hex haywire who makes your heart flutter even though it’s incredibly improper for a patient to think this way towards a caretaker. he’s handsome, around your age, extremely kind, and knows you better than you know yourself so isn’t it natural as humans to feel attraction in such a situation? it would have been a smart choice to just look for someone else since it’s a clear violation of unspoken rules, but you were already crushing hard and you also didn’t want to restart all of the progress you already made with him over the past few months. surely, it’s just a little puppy crush that will die down on its own, right?

yandere therapist! hex haywire who knows you better than anyone else, even better than your own family whom you ran away from before seeking solace in your relationship with him. you don’t remember, but he certainly does— spending every waking moment thinking about you, every second spent with you, and every word that leaves your lips from the present to the first moment he laid eyes on you.

yandere therapist! hex haywire who’s surprised that you don’t remember him at all after the incident, but is more than pleased to start his new story in your book while leaving the previous pages to remain lost due to your memory loss. although he doesn’t want them to be just lost, he wants them scorched and far past restoration— gone is the psycho ex-boyfriend with flags redder than the blood he spilled for you, and now is the kind therapist who will accompany you in your time of need before eventually blurring the lines of professionalism.

yandere therapist! hex haywire who already knows about your growing attraction to him from your body language: how you’re subconsciously drawn to him, how you mirror his body language, how you inch closer to him when seated— it makes him smile to himself knowing that his charms are working on you just as well as it did when you first got together back then.

yandere therapist! hex haywire who takes advantage of how gullible you are to alienate yourself from the disgusting vermin that you naively call friends so that you’ll depend on him even more, preying on your insecurities and habits of overthinking to make you doubt the ones around you. it’s surprising how much a passing comment from a weekly session could negatively impact your viewpoint about your friends, but it’s only to be expected with someone who has been studying human psychology as extensively as he has.

yandere therapist! hex haywire who faked being shocked when you entered his office one day after fighting with your best friend, all teary-eyed and sniffing while hiding your face from him out of embarrassment. of course, he knew that this would happen, already having a box of tissues out and already predicting how the conversation would go. it took nothing to get you to dance into the palm of his hand, but it was one of the infinite reasons why he loved you so much.

yandere therapist! hex haywire who thinks that maybe getting caught by you while sticking a kitchen knife through the heart of your (then) current lover was perhaps a blessing in disguise. there will never be any words in any language to describe the panic he went through when you fainted and hit your head, but everything worked out perfectly fine. patience is a virtue and he would wait thousands of years if that was what it took to hold you in his arms again, but luckily for him, it was much closer than he thought.

#📜. her works #nijisanji #nijisanji x reader #xsoleil #xsoleil x reader #hex haywire #hex haywire x reader #tw: yandere #tw: blood & violence

[sequinsmile-x]

The Games We Play - Chapter 2

She’d survived the very worst a person could, lived through things that still kept her up at night, the screams of other innocent people ringing in her head as sleep evaded her.

She’d survived so much, but she didn’t think she’d survive leading him to his death. 

A Hunger Games AU

-x-

Hi friends,

Thanks so much for the reaction to chapter 1 <3

AU's in general are always nerve wracking, but this one feels even more so because I am aware it's a little bit of an out-there idea. I really appreciate the support on this unhinged little fic, and I really hope you like this chapter.

Please let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 4.6k

A full list of warnings can be found on the series master list

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She seeks him out on the train. 

He’d left the dining carriage not long after they left the district, and at first, she leaves him to it, giving him the space she remembers needing herself. It was strange to leave home, the only place you’d ever been, and not know if you’d be coming alive or in a body bag. Not everyone even got that, the brutality that the tributes sometimes showed each other beyond imagination, as if the Capitol had truly won in convincing them all that they were each other's enemies. Their gaze and anger turned inwards, instead of all of them looking out to see who was using them like chess pieces. 

She goes looking for him for a couple of hours, Kate’s crying eventually getting to her, too many memories of other tributes who hadn’t come home haunting her. The ghosts of children whose faces she’d never forget in every reflective surface she walked past. 

She finds him at the back of the train looking out of the large window, scenery they’d otherwise never get to see speeding past them, hints of life and freedom in the birds that flew between the trees. She clears her throat as she steps into the carriage and he looks up at her, his smile tight as their eyes meet. 

“Want me to leave you alone?” She asks, not stepping any closer to him and he shakes his head. 

“No,” he replies, “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

She nods and walks towards him, revealing that she has two glasses of scotch behind her back, smiling wryly as she tries to hand him one, “Here, I brought you this.”

He frowns, the smell from the glass familiar, the scent of alcohol something he thinks he might always associate with his father, “We’re not ol-”

“We’re old enough to die for a TV show,” she says, pressing the drink into his hand before she sits next to him, “I think we’re old enough to have a drink.”

He pauses for a moment and considers arguing with her. He thinks about putting the drink down, ignoring that she’d brought it to him, but he doesn’t. There was something about it pulling him in, the chance to break the rules, to do something he’d never done before, tempting as he thinks about the fact his days are numbered. He nods and takes a sip, something simmering in his gut when she smiles widely at him. 

He’d never been able to say no to her anyway. 

She laughs at him when he grimaces at the taste, at the burn in the back of his throat, and for a moment they are children again, playing in her mother’s house with no regard for anything other than the fun they were having. The train jolts and pulls them out of it, bringing them back to the harsh reality they were in. 

“Can I ask you something?” She asks, and he nods in response, “What happened with you and Haley?” 

He smiles sadly, scratching the back of his head as he thinks of his ex-girlfriend, the woman he thought he’d one day marry, “We talked about the future. She wanted kids. I don’t,” he sighs and shakes his head, “I can’t imagine bringing a child into this world and then potentially sending them into this.” 

Emily nods even though he’s not looking at her, blowing out a steady breath, “I know what you mean. Especially now I’m a victor.” 

He looks up at her, his eyebrows knitting together with curiosity. He’s so close she could reach out and touch the line it creates between his eyebrows, press her thumb into the ravine that she’s sure would get so much deeper as he got older. 

If he ever got older. 

“Why?” 

She smiles sadly, “The kid of a victor would almost be guaranteed to go in the games,” she says her lips pressed together as she shrugs, “It makes good TV. It would show even the strongest of us aren’t protected.” 

There’s a pause, and it stretches out between them. Tied together with threads of their separate histories, tattered edges knotting together to create a morbid tapestry. 

“What about you and that guy from District One?” He asks, breaking the silence, his voice soft, as if he was afraid to ask. 

She smiles wryly, “Ian?” She says and he nods, making her chuckle, “Don’t believe everything you read, Aaron. He’s just a guy who won’t take no for an answer.” 

He isn’t sure what to say to that, how to feel about the wave of protectiveness that washes over him, so he clenches his teeth and decides to move the conversation on. 

“Where’s Kate?” He asks, looking at the amber liquid in his glass before he takes another sip, this one going down easier than the first. 

“Dave’s comforting her,” she replies, looking out the window, her gaze fixed on the trees, “She’s upset,” she says, even though it’s obvious. She looks at him and takes a moment to study him as he continues to look at his drink. He was handsome, he always had been, but the boyishness that had once been in his features had faded away. Sharp features had replaced once rounder ones as if they’d cut through from underneath, pushing away innocence and childhood with the harsh realities of life. He looks up at her and she clears her throat, pushing down the embarrassment that she feels at being caught staring at him, “What you did was really brave.” 

He laughs wryly and nods, blowing out a slow breath before he finishes his drink. It was objectively brave, he knew that, if he’d seen anyone else do it he’d think the same thing, but he didn’t feel brave. He couldn’t have let his brother do this, couldn’t let him march towards certain death when he could help. 

He wasn’t sure it counted as bravery when it was his only option. 

“He’s my brother,” he says simply, “I only did what was right,” he says as he puts down his empty glass. He can see her start to argue with him, the pinch between her brows something he’d seen countless times before, so he cuts her off before she can, “So, how does this work? Do you and Dave train us both? Do we have a mentor each?” 

She sighs at the change of subject but lets it slide, well aware that he needed to deal with this in the way he needed to, that her feelings weren’t important in any of this, “One each - I’ll be working with you, Dave will be with Kate.” 

He frowns, “I saw you with Tara last year,” he says, feeling momentarily regretful when she flinches for a second, a brief reaction she can’t control at the mention of the female tribute from the year before. She’d almost made it, survived until the final three, and then was killed by a career tribute from District One, “Don’t you usually work with the female tribute?” 

She nods, pressing her lips together to gather herself, “Yes but, because we’re friends Dave suggested I work with you,” she says, the lie slipping past her lips easily. 

She used to hate lying, used to think the truth was always the better option no matter what, but one thing she’d learnt since leaving the arena was that lying was the way to keep everyone she cared about safe. She’d asked Dave if she could work with Aaron and had ignored his concern. Selfishly, she wanted to spend as much time with Aaron as she could, so if she did lose him, if she had to watch him die helplessly and keep a straight face, she would be able to tell herself that she’d done her very best to help him. 

He chuckles wryly, “Friends? Em, we’ve barely spoken since I started to date…” he drifts off and shakes his head, cut off by the look of hurt that flashes across her face, guilt sparking in his gut, and the thought of his ex-girlfriend, her name turning to ash on his tongue at the thought of how she must be feeling about all of this. He sighs, “Look, that wasn’t fair. I’m-”

“No,” she says, tucking her loose hair behind her ear, “You’re right. I haven’t…” she sighs and a humourless laugh escapes her, “It’s not been an easy few years.” 

The guilt in his belly catches fire, spreading through his blood as he reaches out and places his hand on her arm. It’s only when he does it that he realises it’s been years since he’d touched her, and he feels like an addict, the desire to never let go forcing him to do just that, his hand springing back like he’d been burned. 

“I am sorry, Em,” he says, smiling tightly at her, “I can’t imagine how you’ve felt since you came back.” 

She looks down at her arm where he touched her, his warmth lingering where his palm had been. She knows she’ll inspect her skin later, that she’ll check to see if he’d left a mark behind, if he’d somehow branded her with a simple touch because she can almost feel it burn. She looks up at him and smiles, and she shrugs half-heartedly. 

“Well, in a few weeks when we’re back on this train, you’ll know.” 

It’s false optimism neither of them buy into, but he can’t help but smile back at her, “Yeah,” he replies, “I will.”

___

She’s running. 

Her lugs hurt, her feet her almost numb with pain, a dampness in her shoes she knows is blood and not water, but she can’t stop running.

Her life depends on it. 

“You can run, but you can’t hide pretty. The things I’ll do to you when I catch you.” 

She’s only forced further forward by Karl’s words, by the foul implication dripping from them. She’d seen what he’d done to some of the other girls, and had seen the joy he’d derived from it. Emily wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of killing her, she was going to outlive him or she was going out on her own terms.

She curses as she realises she’s run into a dead end, her feet just touching the cliff edge as she comes to a stop. She can hear him gaining on her, his thundering footsteps getting louder, and she closes her eyes, giving herself a second, one final moment of peace, but when she opens her eyes she sees a shimmer in the sky. It’s almost discernible from the blue of the fake sky in above her but she sees it. She chuckles as she remembers what Dave had told her about the forcefield, about the edge of the arena, and she pulls her knife out of her pocket. She looks over her shoulder and sees that Karl is right behind her, a smirk on his face as if he had won already. She looks straight ahead and she throws the knife, immediately ducking as it hits the forcefield and bounces back. She’s knocked to the ground by the force of the soundwaves that echo around her, her hand automatically covering her ears as she tries to protect them. 

Everything goes eerily silent, everything overwhelmingly quiet after so much nose, and her hands shake as she removes them from her ears. Her arms are unsteady as she pushes herself up off the ground. She walks over to where Karl is lying, the same smirk still painted on his face, a grim flash burn of the last moment of his life, and her knife planted firmly in the centre of his chest. 

She jumps when the canon goes off, half convinced until that moment she’d lost her hearing, and she looks up at the sky, Karl’s face briefly emblazoned on it, before the disembodied voice of the game maker fills the arena. 

“Ladies and Gentleman, the winner of this year's Hunger Games - Emily Prentiss.”

___

Aaron was exhausted. 

No matter how much training they did, how much preparation Emily had put him through the last few days, he couldn’t sleep. It alluded him, forever out of reach as he slept in a bedroom bigger than his childhood home. 

He’s walking around the apartment they’d been assigned when he hears her scream, the sound of it pulling him towards her room immediately. When he walks in she’s wrapped up in the bed sheets, twisting in the bed as if she’s trying to escape from something he can’t see. He runs over and sits on the edge of Emily’s bed, placing his hand on her sheet-covered knee and squeezing as he says her name.

“Em,” he says, quietly at first, not wanting to startle her, “Em, you need to wake up,” he says, shifting closer, his hand skating up her side as it lands on her shoulder. He turns her towards him and the look on her face, the devastation she couldn’t escape even in her sleep, makes him ache, “Sweetheart, please,” he says, the nickname slipping out of nowhere as he begs her to come back to him, “Wake up.” 

She sits up so fast that their foreheads would have collided if he hadn’t moved, a gasp loud enough to shake the walls escaping her as she looks at him, her eyes wide. She tries to shift away, as if she doesn’t recognise him, still half asleep as she tries to shake the rest of the nightmare off. 

“Emily, it’s me. It’s Aaron.” 

She breathes heavily, her chest rapidly moving up and down as she frowns at him, recognition finally seeping into her eyes, “Aaron?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling encouragingly as he rests his hand on her shoulder again, grateful when she doesn’t flinch, “It’s me. I was walking past and I heard you.” 

She frowns, “Heard me what?” 

He presses his lips together briefly as he weighs up his options, but he knows she needs the truth, “I heard you scream.” 

“Oh,” she says, clearing her throat, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he says, smiling softly at her. His gaze drifts to his hand on her shoulder and he lets it drop to the mattress, “Were you dreaming about the games?”

She nods, her hand pressed against her chest as her heart still hammers at her rib cage, the beat of it so hard she thinks her ribs might crack, that the places the Capitol doctors had put her back together would slowly unravel.

“Yeah,” she says, her nerves too shot from the nightmare to deny it, “It’s always the same moment.” 

He’d watched her games, and had felt relief when she’d won. It was the only one he remembers all the details of, the names of the other tributes forever burned into his memory.

They were people he’d prayed would die so the girl he loved would win. 

“What moment?” He asks without thinking, his eyes going wide as he realises what he’s said, “You don’t have to-”

“When I won,” she says, cutting over him, feeling a strange sense of relief in finally saying this to someone. She was under no illusion that her mother hadn’t heard her screams. Elizabeth made her coffee on the mornings after the worst nights, or sent for her favourite bread from the bakery. A silent apology that would have to do, because Emily knew if her mother asked about it, if she acknowledged what her daughter had gone through, the house of cards they’d built around themselves stuck together with half-truths and platitudes would come crumbling down, “It’s always the moment when I won.”

He nods, “The knife and the forcefield,” he says, “I didn’t know what you were doing at first.” 

She hums sadly, shaking her head she repeats the words she’d heard again and again anytime she saw footage of any of the games - hers included.

“The moment a tribute becomes a Victor,” she says, doing an impersonation of Penelope that gets a smile out of him that she matches, “Not that there are any Victors,” she says, her smile fading, “Just survivors.” 

Her words are heavy in the air, laying like a cloying blanket over them, an acknowledgement that even if he won that he’d never be free trapping them in place. He eventually clears his throat and starts to stand up.

“Well, I should go back-”

“Please stay,” she says, reaching out and grabbing his wrist before she can stop herself, her basic instinct to keep him close winning out over everything else, “I…please stay.” 

He doesn’t have to think about it, he simply nods and climbs into bed next to her, careful to make sure he’s on the other side of the mattress from her, their bodies not touching as they lay next to each other. For a moment it’s awkward but he turns his head to look at her, a half smile on his face as her eyes meet his.

“I think this bed is bigger than my bedroom at home.” 

She chuckles and rests her head back on her pillow, “I will give the Capitol one thing,” she says, blowing out a shaky breath, “They sure know how to make a mattress.” 

When they wake up in the morning they are tangled together on his side of the bed, wrapped up like vines that had grown side by side, destined to become indistinguishable from one another.

___

“He needs to smile more.” 

Emily doesn’t look at Dave, doesn’t tear her eyes from the screen as she slaps his chest with one hand, the other by her mouth as she bites her cuticles, “He’s doing fine.” 

“He’s lucky he has the whole volunteering for his brother thing on his side,” Dave says as he steps closer to the TV, Aaron’s one-on-one interview with Jason Gideon, the host of the games, happening live in front of them, “Let’s be honest, not a lot of star power on that screen right now.”

“Shut up Dave,” she says, finally turning from the screen and looking at him, “He’s doing his best. I didn’t do great either.” 

He nods thoughtfully, “True. I think that was the first time they’d ever had to censor a 15-year-old on the show before.” 

She chuckles and looks back at the screen, blowing out a slow breath as she looks at the other tributes sitting behind Aaron as he speaks to Gideon, her gaze fixed on one of them in particular, “I don’t like the look of him.” 

Dave frowns as he leans in and gets a closer look, “Oh, that intense guy from four? What was his name…”

“George Foyet,” she says, turning to look at him, “He reminds me of Karl. I think he’ll get a kick out of it all.” 

“He does have that look about him,” Dave replies, watching her carefully, concern washing over him. She was clearly close to Aaron, or had been at some point, and he was worried she was setting herself up to get hurt. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Aaron’s room had been untouched for days and that Emily wasn’t screaming in the middle of the night anymore. “Bella, are you-”

“Shh,” she says, tuning back into what was being said, aware that the conversation was wrapping up. 

“So, do you have a special lady waiting back home?” Gideon asks and Aaron looks down at his hands before he looks at the camera and he shakes his head. 

“No, I used to but…” he trails off and shakes his head, “We broke up.”

“That’s a shame,” Gideon replies, leaning forward in his chair towards Aaron, “There must be someone else though, someone else you’ve had your eye on.” 

Aaron sighs and Emily swears she can see his thought process, can see him physically weighing up the pros and cons of what he was about to say, “Well, there is someone. I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember” he says, his smile tight, “But it won’t ever work.” 

“Why not?”

Aaron looks down the camera, an intensity in his eyes that, for a moment, makes Emily feel like he’s talking directly to her, “Because I came here with her.” 

She feels her breath catch in her chest as she flicks her gaze to where Kate is sitting on the stage, any vague hope she’d felt the last few days, waking up in his arms even when they fell asleep on separate parts of the bed, gone in an instant. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dave says, shaking his head, “Maybe he does have it in him.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says, swallowing thickly, “Maybe he does.”

___

She avoids him after the interviews, purposely changing the habits she’d formed in the time they’d been in the Capitol, and it takes him a while to find her using the tactics she’d taught him on how to track someone against her.

He finds her on the roof of the building, her elbows resting on the edge as she looks out over the city. The fireworks going off in the distance make him feel sick, the celebratory feeling in the air more akin to that of a festival rather than marking the start of the death match between children that would begin in the morning. 

“Emily?”

She turns to look at him, her smile fake, the one she always wore in front of her mother or the cameras, as their eyes meet, “Aaron, what are you doing up here?” 

“Looking for you,” he replies, walking over to join her, “You disappeared.” 

“I don’t have the privilege of being able to disappear,” she says, her grip on the wall in front of her tightening as the smell of him washes over her. He smelt different here, clean and fresh in a way that wasn’t always possible at home, the Capitol’s array of soaps something that had surprised even her and her relative privilege when she first came here. He smelt different, but there was something that was still him sneaking out from underneath, “Don’t you want to spend the evening with Kate?” 

She regrets it as soon as she asks it, pettiness winning out for a second. It could be his last night in some sense of normality before he died and she was upset because her feelings had been hurt, her unrequited love for him that had followed her everywhere her whole life making itself known at the worst possible time. She looks up at him, expecting to see the sting of her words on his face, but she’s only met with confusion.

“Kate?” He asks, and then it clicks into place, the assumption she must have made when he was speaking to Gideon, trying to win some kind of favour with the audience. He’d thought about his literature class at school, how the teacher had always told them that a love story pulled people in, and he’d thought of Emily. Thought of how her seat had been empty during that class because she’d been here in the Capitol, ready to fight for her life. He’d loved her for so long that it had felt good to admit it, even if it wasn’t the whole truth, “Oh, no. Em-”

“I’m sorry,” she says, turning to walk away, “I think I’m just tired-” she’s stopped as he grabs her shoulders and turns her to look at him, his expression intense, a hint of fierceness to it that makes her breath catch in her throat, “What-”

He cuts her off, his words falling free before he can even think about stopping them. He could be brave now. 

He might not have many chances left, 

“I wasn’t talking about her,” he says, dropping his hands from her shoulders, both of them frozen in place, “I was talking about you.” 

It’s everything she’s ever wanted to hear at the worst possible time, and her chest shudders as she lets out a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, “Me?”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about Dave,” he says, offering her a half smile that fades as she doesn’t respond to the joke, “Em-”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“You stopped talking to me,” he says, no malice in his voice, only confusion that somehow made him seem younger. 

“I was protecting you,” she says quietly, “President Barnes, she…well let's just say, the people close to Victor’s don’t always have the longest life expectancy. The entire time I was in that arena I told myself if I lived I’d tell you. I’d admit what I’d always been too scared to…but I wanted you to live and be happy,” she laughs bitterly, “Even if it was with someone else.” 

He knows her well enough to read between the lines and he steps closer, the space between them so small now he can feel her breath skip across his face, “Are you saying…”

She nods, her eyes boring straight into his, an intensity in the darkness of them he’d never seen before, “I love you too.” 

Everything shifts, everything he thought he knew suddenly different, and the lingering fear he’d felt for days about what he was about to do disappears. For a moment he feels nothing but love for her. He leans in to kiss her, drawn in by the way she’s looking at him, but she stops him, her fingers pressed against his lips as she shakes her head desperately. It physically hurts to stop him but she can’t let herself have this, can’t have a taste of him when he might die tomorrow. 

“No,” she says, the word catching in her throat, “I can’t. You’re…I’ve dreamt of this for years and I don’t think one kiss, one evening would ever be enough,” she says, her thumb still resting against his lower lip, her entire body aching to lean forward to kiss him, “I can’t spend the rest of my life desperately trying to remember what it was like to kiss you.” 

He wishes he could pretend that he didn’t understand, but he does. Any amount of time with her would never be enough. Whether it was one night or a lifetime, and if he was her, if he was the one sending her off to what could end up being her death, he knew he couldn’t do it either. That the unknown was better, that it would allow her imagination to live on after him. He tightens his hold on her, pulling her into a fierce hug so he doesn’t go against her wishes, settling for kissing the top of her head instead, for smelling her hair and the shampoo that had always been too nice for where they came from.

“How about,” he says, a hand on either side of her face as he pulls back to look at her, his thumbs catching tears as they land on her cheeks, “ If I live, I’ll take you on a date when I get back?” 

She chokes out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and she shakes her head as she presses her forehead against his, “Aaron…” 

He cups the back of her head and encourages her backwards again, the same smile she’d fallen in love with when she was too young to understand what it meant painted across his face, “Come on,” he says encouragingly, “Give a man going off to his death something to live for.” 

She has to bite back the tears, not wanting his last memory of her to be one full of sorrow. She blows out a shaky breath before she nods. She smiles shakily at him and wipes a tear from his face as she does so, pushing it away trying to commit the feel of his skin against hers to her memory.   

“Okay,” she says, nodding, an edge of desperation to it, “It’s a date.” 

-x-

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[choicesficwriterscreations]

December Creator of the Month: Oh-So-Youre-a-Nerd

Each month, CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers or artists, and this month’s creator of the month is @oh-so-youre-a-nerd . We're very excited because Ascindio is our very first artist to be highlighted! We hope you will enjoy learning more about them and their work below! The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page.

Quick Links:

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How do you want to be known on Tumblr? 

Ascindio 

More below...

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I started playing in 2016, I can't remember if I read Endless Summer or Rules of Engagement first, but I ended up deleting the app after like 2 weeks cause I couldn't stop buying diamonds 😅🤦

I re-downloaded it about, ohh idk 2 years ago?

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

I joined the Fandom specifically on Tumblr and specifically for It Lives Within, which happened to come out right after I read the first two books 

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

I always try to seem cool and mysterious when I meet people irl, and then as soon as I open my mouth, I ruin it with some niche trivia or something, and they say,  “Oh, so you're a nerd.” 😂 Can't tell you how many times this exact phrase has been uttered to me. 

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

This is the first Choices related post I made 😂 I was just thinking about the concept of what if characters make terrible decisions cause they're controlled by a player who is out of diamonds lol I was going to do a whole series of them (next was going to be lotr “fly on eagles to mordor?” *30 diamonds* or “simply walk”) but got lazy lol

5- Do you write fanfiction, create fan art, or are you one of those really gifted people who do both? 

Only art. God, I  WISH  I wrote too. I've thought about trying cause I have so many ideas floating around in my head, but at the end of the day, I'd rather spend my free time drawing. 

6- How long have you been creating for Choices and for any other fandoms?

For Choices, since early 2022

For other fandoms, since well, forever, but I only started posting around 2017/18

7- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to create for?

Favorite Choices book is probably It Lives in the Woods. All of the characters were so interesting, I never got bored reading it, and it had an incredible twist that made sense but I still didn't see coming. 

Favorite to create for is probably Blades of Light and Shadow though because I am such a sucker for the fantasy aesthetic.

8- Share your first Choices fanfic or fan art that you posted with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were creating it today?.

This isn't the first Choices art I made, but it IS the first I actually shared

And honestly, I DO still like it because I still remember the way I felt absolutely POSSESSED while drawing it (I hadn't drawn anything for *months*). I would definitely change the background, though. Those trees look like shit, and they're not even the correct type for the kind of forest they're in. 

9- What is your favorite piece of fiction or art that you created? 

My favorite Choices art I've done is probably this piece. 

10- Do you have a fic/art that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to do well but found it could use a little more love?

I definitely didn't expect this one to do well at all as it was so hastily drawn

And I was sad this piece didn't get more love, it was such a dope scene and I was so excited about how the sword turned out

11- If you could only draw one style or type of art for the rest of your life, what would it be and why? 

I'm not sure if I'm interpreting the question right, but if I had to pick like a specific type of art, it would be digital, and I would want to do fan art. I have a hard time painting anything that I don't already have a deep connection with (so original art with no story behind it is usually a chore for me), and digital art is just so incredibly convenient and not messy and so so versatile. 

12 - Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

Because I use fiction as a way to safely process trauma/ grief/ other big emotions, each MC I make has a small part of me, whichever part I feel the need to explore at the time.

There's an amazing quote by Patrick Rothfuss that I feel explains it perfectly. 

It's from Wise Man's Fear

“These folk knew all about death. They killed their own livestock. They died from fevers, falls, or broken bones gone sour. Death was like an unpleasant neighbor. You didn’t talk about him for fear he might hear you and decide to pay a visit.

Except for stories, of course. Tales of poisoned kings and duels and old wars were fine. They dressed death in foreign clothes and sent him far from your door. A chimney fire or the croup cough were terrifying. But Gibea’s trial or the siege of Enfast, those were different. They were like prayers, like charms muttered late at night when you were walking alone in the dark. Stories were like ha’penny amulets you bought from a peddler, just in case.”

13 - What element of writing/art do you struggle with most?

I have a very difficult time making the poses seem natural and flowing. My all time favorite art is Baroque/Renaissance style and how fluid the poses are, how soft the skin looks, how delicately it's all done. Obviously, I will always have my own style, but those are things that I so want to incorporate but never seem to get quite right, and it drives me crazy 😂

14 - Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Not really. I mean, I have a ton of unfinished work, but as soon as the window of inspiration passes, I just can't get myself to care enough about it to finish it (insert Jake the Dog, “now it's gone, and I don't care about it anymore!” )

15 - If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to see your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you show them first? 

I would, and have.  I typically show them whatever most rendered recent picture from my Instagram because I don't post any nsfw there and usually try to post only my prettier work for this specific reason haha. (As opposed to here, I post everything here, ain't NO ONE from real life invited to see my tumblr 😂)

16 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing or art? Are there any artists that influence you?

Writers: Brandon Sanderson, for sure. He's the reason I got back into art back in 2017 ish. His stories are just so emotional they push me to create. Same with @saibug1022, there is always at least one scene from every story he shares that I desperately want to draw to try to capture the emotions. 

Artists: God, sooo many, here are just like my top 3 favorites and their instagrams.

Audra Auclair

Obsessed with her unique style, and specifically the way she draws eyelids and noses

f3lc4t

The way they draw those dripping, glowing wisps. I stare at their pieces for hours (no lie) trying to dissect them stroke by stroke to figure out how they do it.

Miho Hirano

Their art has a delicate whimsy-ness I would SELL MY SOUL to achieve 

17- Which one of your creations would you like to see a fiction written about? 

JC, this is the shit I DREAM of.

Definitely this one. 

So this is love.

This little comic means a lot to me. 

18- Do you write original fiction or create non-fandom art? 

Very rarely, but I do, every so often. This is my favorite original piece.

20-  What other hobbies do you have?

Gaming, singing, walking through the Cemetary with my wee daughter, reading, that's about it 🤷

21 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

🙇

22: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

I really wanted to say that I don't believe in “good” art and “bad” art (just ethical vs non-ethical). That being said, I know what it's like to hate your art, like soooo intimately. If you ever are feeling shit about your art, you can ABSOLUTELY message me (I don't care if we're mutuals or not, I don't care if we've never interacted before) and just say, “I am feeling shit about my art” and I will go through your art and tell you every specific thing I love about it and why it's wonderful. I am not joking; I am so so serious rn. 💗💗💗💗 

#choices fic writers creations #playchoices #choices stories you play #cfwc creator of the month #oh-so-youre-a-nerd #choices fanart #playchoices fanart #december creator of the month

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VII ║ Contrary

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

{ << Part 6: Confute | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 8: Concentric >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: You broke the cardinal rule, and Dieter knows it. There’s only one thing to do.

Warnings: ANGST, JEALOUSY, fighting, drinking, swearing, dirty talk, oral sex (m receiving), safe unprotected sex (be smart kids!), bath tub sex, size kink, light cum play, yearning, mentions of food, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k… I tried to write less, believe me 😒

Note: I lied... this is not the end. But I swear this is the penultimate chapter of Consent. Buckle up - it’s a bumpy one 🫢

Originally, there wasn't going to be any smut in this part, but then I read @ezrasbirdie's amazing Dentist!Ezra series, specifically Slick 🥵 and I couldn't stop thinking about a *certain position*, and... this happened. Thank you for letting me use the idea for Dieter, Birdie!

Week 13

As it turns out, deep within the well of infinite chaos that is Dieter Bravo, there is wisdom. 

‘Fake Date Gate’, as it has been dubbed by someone in the sound department and quickly adopted by everyone else, does blow over with little pomp and circumstance. A Dieter Bravo newsflash with no full frontal nudity, sex or drugs? Hardly sells any papers.

But on set, it’s a different story.

You bustle into the studio side by side with Dieter on Monday, two days after the story dropped and abruptly fizzled out. Your nose is in the script while you rattle off last-minute changes in the scene at him, your mind having completely moved on from the paparazzi fiasco.

An intense heat floods you as you’re blinded by an unexpected spotlight pointed at you both. Before you can bite out what the fuck, you’re stopped in your tracks by raucous cheers and applause, and you feel embarrassment blooming on your hot cheeks as your pre-coffee brain finally catches on.

Dieter graciously bows at the cheering crew and tries to deflect the attention, but when the noise does not abate, he grins and pulls you close by your waist. He murmurs under his breath, ‘Let’s put on a show, sweetheart.’

Mercifully, he only presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, which is enough to assuage your colleagues, but it still makes you flush to the tips of your ears.

And so it goes for the next couple of days. 

When people you hardly recognise wolf whistle at you two walking down the corridor, Dieter indulges them by intertwining his fingers with yours, and bringing your hand up to press a kiss on the back of it. He doesn’t let go even when you turn the corner and out of their sight. 

When you’re waiting for the coffee to brew in the break room with Dieter and someone hollers playfully, he comes up behind you to wrap his thick arms around your waist, chin on the top of your head, while the machine whirrs, long after the instigators leave the room.

He doesn’t need to tell you that he enjoys hamming it up for these little skits, knowing full well that everyone else thinks that he’s acting - but you.

It’s Wednesday, and it's time to face the reckoning - Ruth is working at the canteen while you’re on your lunch break. 

You steel yourself, pasting on your sweetest smile and walk confidently up to her. ‘Hi Ruth, how are you doing? The new hair colour looks great on you.’

In lieu of a response, Ruth doesn’t break eye contact while she scoops wet, broken layers of lasagne onto your plate, which land with an unappetising splat. The smile on your face wilts.

You’re staring at your lunch in despair when a voice pipes up behind you. ‘Ruth, my sweetling, how are you today?’

She gives Dieter a pout. ‘I’ve been better, not going to lie.’

You glare at him when he gets handed a huge, perfectly sliced piece of lasagne. Dieter goes on to console her. ‘Baby, you know you’re my favourite, right? This one?’ He jerks a dismissive thumb in your direction, before pushing you away and making a blugh face. ‘Just some PR stunt.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline, but before you get any words out, Dieter is steamrolling you towards the cutlery station.

‘What the fuck was that?’ you splutter.

He reaches over you to grab forks and knives. ‘Saving your life, duh. Do you want her to poison your food? Because she would've. You’re welcome, sweetheart.’

You slide your tray down and pluck an iced coffee from the fridge. You grumble to yourself, ‘PR stunt? With an intimacy coordinator? That doesn’t even make any sense.’

He follows hot on your heels after he nabs a green juice. ‘C’mon sweetheart, you’re not mad at me for being sweet on Ruth, are you?’

Tobias waves as you power walk past his table. ‘Bravo, you with us or the missus?’

He winks at the director. ‘Sorry man, gotta sit with my girl.’

You roll your eyes as he follows you to your table where your friends are seated. ‘Excuse me. I didn’t say you could sit with me. And don’t call me that.’

He ignores you, fistbumping Pete and high-fiving Ana, making himself comfortable next to you.

Pete sighs, wriggling his fork at you. ‘My favourite lovebirds. I call best man.’

‘You can’t just call best man,’ Ana chides, chewing on her salad, but decides she doesn’t want to miss out. ‘I call maid of honour.’

You cradle your head in one hand, while shoving at the limp excuse of a lasagne with your fork. ‘Oh god, when will all this be over?’

Dieter slurps on his juice, and taps on the table emphatically with his index finger. ‘Listen, sweetheart. The more you resist, the longer it drags on for. The more you lean in, the quicker people get bored.’

Pete holds his face between his palms, beaming from ear to ear as he declares, ‘Not me, I’ll never get bored of the two of you.’

You narrow your eyes at him. ‘Pete?’

‘Yeah, babe?’

‘Fuck off.’

He blows a kiss at you. ‘Never.’

Dieter points a finger at Pete and warns him, slightly garbled, through a mouthful of lasagne. ‘Hey, lay off my woman, punk.’ 

‘Don’t talk while you eat, Bravo,’ you admonish, wrinkling your nose at him.

His grin drips with lasciviousness and you quickly regret your words. Heat flares beneath your skin when his tongue darts out to lick at a smudge of tomato sauce on the corner of his plush lips. He practically purrs at you, ‘That’s not what you said last night, sweetheart.’

A half-chewed romaine leaf flies out of Ana’s mouth and lands in Pete’s pea soup, but fortunately for him, he’s too busy choking on his coffee to notice, thumping his chest with a clenched fist as the liquid goes down the wrong way. 

Over the commotion, Dieter shoots you a cheeky smile, and you have to chew the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from grinning back. 

It’s the toughest job you’ve ever been in the running for. You’ve had four rounds of interviews so far, each with a different panel, all scheduled before 7am or after 10pm, which are the only time slots the various directors of casting, photography or producers have been available. If you do get the job, you know you have long days to look forward to. 

Dieter helps you prep for your interviews and orders Deliveroo when you’re on your Zoom calls so you don’t starve. He gives you a good luck kiss before and holds you in your self-doubt after. 

It’s a nerve-wracking wait for the final decision. You don’t have a Plan B. If you don’t get it, you might be out for months before something else comes along, burning your savings in the meantime.

It’s Thursday and you’re about to head to the break room for a much-needed coffee when your phone screen flashes. It’s a Canadian number.

You press the green button with trembling fingers, and you can’t help the quiver in your voice. ‘Hello?’

At that very moment, Dieter’s eyes meet yours across the set, where Ana is dusting setting powder over his forehead. The hand over your mouth can’t hide the grin of disbelief that’s broken across your face.

One look at your smile and he comes running.

That particular part seems most baffling to the crew, none of whom has seen Dieter at any pace beyond a leisurely swagger.

He all but knocks you off your feet, and you cling to his shoulders, balancing precariously on your tippy toes and his hands on the small of your back.

‘I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,’ he whispers, knowing full well the microphones are feeding his words to everyone wired to the audio. 

The I’ll show you how much later, in his eyes - that’s just for you.

The next day, Dieter signs the Linklater contract. Rebecca insists on taking you and Dieter out to dinner with her husband at a rowdy Italian trattoria where the food keeps coming. It’s so loud that you have to shout to hear each other over the racket.

Hank is a Hollywood divorce attorney, and the three of them are obviously very close. You listen to them talk about their daughter, and how the last time they had Uncle D over was for Christmas and that he should come around for dinner before he flies to Italy.

Rebecca covers your hand with hers, glass of wine in the other. ‘You must come along, darling. The last time I let Dieter bring a girl over, Coco was still missing her front teeth.’

‘I would love to, but I think I might be in Canada by then,’ you reply noncommittally, and the conversation meanders in another direction.

Dieter’s hand on your knee wanders higher as the wine goes down. You’re buzzed enough on drink that you don’t protest when he snakes his arm around your waist halfway through the pasta course, his palm resting possessively on the swell of your hip and it stays there all night. You let him feed you tangles of spaghetti bolognese and eggplant parmigiana, giggling when he makes a mess and wipes you off clumsily with his napkin.

You spotted far more famous faces on the way in so you know you could get away with it.

Hank pours you both some more wine, and asks conversationally, ‘So how long have you guys been together for?’

Rebecca elbows him so hard he spills about half a glass onto the table. He splutters, ‘Honey, what was that for?’

The question hits unexpectedly hard, and you try to cover up your discomfort by bringing up your glass of wine to your lips for a long sip. The thought comes to you, uncalled for - in a week, it wouldn’t matter. 

Clearing your throat, you excuse yourself to go to the washroom. Gripping the cool porcelain of the sink, you study yourself in the mirror. The elation of these two days is slowly wearing off…

And you have no idea where you stand.

You know what you agreed to. In a week, your job is over. This is over.

Unless - no. In a month, you will be an Atlantic away from each other. There’s no way. No point thinking about that.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when an out-of-tune birthday serenade floats through the door. You give yourself one last check in the mirror, smooth out your skirt, and head for the exit.

When you sidle out of the bathroom, you’re promptly cornered by Dieter, who backs you up against the wall and kisses you fully on the mouth. His tongue is bitter with the red wine he’s been drinking all night, sliding wetly along your lower lip, hands impatiently squeezing your ass over your skirt. The buzz of the restaurant is right behind him.

You try to squirm out of his grip. ‘Dieter, anyone can walk in on us.’

‘Don’t give a fuck, sweetheart. I want everyone to know you’re mine.’

It hurts, because you can’t be. But he’s too far gone to notice. So you close your eyes and you let him steal your breath away with a kiss so deep that you have to physically steady yourself when he pulls away.

You put on a brave face. ‘Let’s go home.’

The next morning dawns wet and cold. You wake up far too early considering the amount of alcohol you still have sloshing around in your bloodstream.

So you draw a bath - extra bubbles, extra hot. You set your half-empty mug of tea on the floor next to the tub and step in, sighing deeply as you sink into the water, letting the bath draw out your hangover like poison from a wound.

You only realise you’ve drifted off when the burn of moustache dragging on your cheek wakes you up. The water is still quite warm, so you can’t have been out for long.

‘Why aren’t you in bed with me?’ Dieter whinges into the side of your neck, his tongue on your sensitive skin, large hands wrapping around the edge of the bath on either side of you. He’s always extra needy when he’s hungover.

You tilt your head back at him and shrug. ‘Felt like taking a bath.’

He leans over and kisses you upside down - Spiderman style, you think to yourself with a silent giggle - your fingers grasping onto the lapels of his ratty green robe. He growls into your ear, ‘But I feel like fucking.’

You roll your eyes. ‘I’m not the one who started snoring the second we hit the bed last night.’

With a wolvish grin, he grabs your hand and guides it over his erection under the robe. ‘I’m ready now, sweetheart, and that’s what counts.’

You stay put, holding his gaze while you pull on the tie of his robe. His uncovered cock rises over you as you reach up and close your palm around it, and he moans at the contact, brow creasing. Over the floral scent of your bath you smell him - salty and musky.

Shifting so you sit up higher in the tub, you run your tongue over the base of his cock and over his balls, making him shudder and his voice catch. ‘Sweetheart.’

‘What do you want, Dieter?’ you tease, rubbing your cheek against his velvety length.

He pins you with his dark eyes. ‘Please suck my cock. Please.’

An idea comes to you. You relax your shoulders and let your head hang back over the porcelain edge as far as possible, your elbows resting on the side of the tub to hold yourself in position. Your tits hover just above the water line, and you feel your nipples pebble in the cold morning air. You arch an eyebrow at Dieter as he gapes at the picture you make. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

‘Fuck,’ he swears and runs a thick finger along the bow of your upper lip, before pushing two inside, stroking himself with his free hand. ‘Gotta open up that mouth for me, baby.’

You suck on his digits, swirling your tongue around the tips, which makes him shiver. Pulling back, you give him the most debauched smile you can manage. ‘Put your cock in my mouth, Bravo.’

Eyes wild, he steps forward and traces the weeping head of his length over both your lips, before dipping carefully inside. You can’t help groaning at the pressure on your tongue, and he chuckles, but the tight pinch of his fingers on your jaw betrays his tension. ‘I’m barely in, baby. Wider.’

You oblige, unlocking your jaw, and he pushes in with sudden ease, sliding in so deep you nearly choke. Dieter exhales heavily through his nostrils. ‘Yes. Shit, that’s so good, sweetheart.’

Your throat feels taut in this angle, and he feels so big as he begins to slides in and out. You have to focus on breathing through your nose as he fucks your mouth.

You feel his fingers weave into your hair, gripping tightly as an anchor. ‘Such a pretty mouth,’ he praises you. ‘Such a good girl, letting me fuck you like this first thing in the morning.’

You shudder, as you feel a gush of want seep from your pussy, your back arching at his words.

‘You like me talking to you like this, hmm?’ he asks, his voice deep and rough. ‘When you can’t talk back, with my cock in your mouth?’

You hum around him, which makes his entire frame shake. He moans, ‘Wanna fuck your pussy, baby. Do you want me to? Can I?’ 

You nod as best as you could - not easy with his cock pinning you to the bath - and when he pulls out hastily, you gasp in a deep breath and sit up too quickly, which makes your head spin. You hardly recognise your own voice as you beg, ‘Yes, want you inside me - please Dieter.’

Robe falling heavily onto the heated floor, he climbs into the bath behind you, and you twist around so that you can kiss him, fingers tangling in his unruly hair. Dieter stretches out his legs and positions you above him, your knees on either side of him. He slides two fingers between your thighs under the soapy water and rubs your clit studiously, while he mouths at your breasts, heavy with arousal and covered in suds.

Grasping his length, you hurriedly position yourself over him and notch him at your entrance, hands on his shoulders.

‘Whoa, whoa, sweetheart,’ he asks you to slow down, the span of his palms on your hips steadying you. ‘I haven’t even opened you up with my fingers yet.’

‘I can take it,’ you assure him, and with a roll of your hips, you start your slow descent.

He’s only just breached you before he groans shakily, nails digging into the meat of your hips. ‘Fuck - sweetheart - you sure? Haven’t even touched you yet… you’re really tight -’

The stretch is almost painful, and your noses knock together as you sink lower onto him. ‘You’re so big, Dieter,’ you whine, relishing the snug fit.

‘I know baby, you’re making me so hard for you,’ he croons into your ear, before sucking on the lobe. He lets go of your left hip so he can draw lazy circles on your clit, slicking up your pussy. ‘But you’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’m almost there.’

With his encouragement and one more shift of your hips, you are fully seated, the sheer size of him sheathed so tightly inside you making your tremble. 

Dieter chuckles in almost delirium, leaning forward to place a messy kiss on your swollen lips. ‘There she is. You feel fucking amazing, sweetheart.’

‘Wait till I start riding you,’ you shoot back cockily, high on his praise.

‘You’re mouthy this morning,’ he grins at you, which falters when you start a slow slide upwards, the tips of your nipples dragging against his chest. ‘Oh, fuck -’

Water swishes around you as you move on him, your cunt sliding with more ease now, getting wetter as your clit drags against his pelvic bone each time you rock against him. He’s sprawled back against the tub, the tip of his tongue peeking through his slightly open mouth, breathing hard. ‘Wish I could watch my cock go in and out of you, sweetheart. Bet it's a pretty sight.’

You grin and hold onto the edge of the tub behind him, kicking up the pace. ‘I’m not fucking you hard enough if you’re still talking in complete sentences, Bravo.’

He laughs and snaps his hips up into you, hitting somewhere deep inside which makes your breath stutter. ‘Ditto, sweetheart.’

There isn’t much talking after that, definitely not when he flips you around so that you’re on your knees, hands on the edge of the tub, ass hovering above the bubbles. Dieter delivers a sharp slap to your plump cheek, which echoes wetly in the bathroom and you cry out needily. He traces his tip along your folds, watching himself dip shallowly inside you, keen ears picking up the wet squelch as he does. ‘Told you I want to watch this pussy while I fuck it.’

You cry aloud when he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep you feel it in your toes.

‘Dieter,’ you sob breathlessly. ‘That feels so fucking good.’

He sets a merciless rhythm, two fingers on your clit now, rubbing insistently while your knuckles turn white as you claw at the edge of the tub. ‘You’re getting so wet on my dick, sweetheart. Gonna make you come so hard.’

‘Yes, please,’ you beg. ‘Harder, please. Give it to me -’ you’re cut off when a particularly hard thrust knocks the breath out of you.

‘Careful what you wish for now, baby,’ comes Dieter’s smug remark.

You clench your pussy around him hard enough that his footing in the tub slips, splashing water everywhere. You throw him a toothy grin over your shoulder. ‘Speak for yourself.’

Your triumph quickly melts into desperation when Dieter growls and pounds into you even harder. Water sloshes and the wet slap of skin on skin fills your ears. He’s panting loudly, and you know he’s almost there. ‘I’m so close, Dieter. Come with me,’ you plead.

‘Ok baby,’ he groans and rubs your clit just a bit faster. ‘You ready for me?’

You nod frantically, winding tighter and tighter until the ground gives from under you and your voice breaks. ‘I’m coming, oh my god, I’m coming -’

At the first throttle of your cunt, Dieter lets go, his hips driving brokenly and sloppily into you, fighting to stay inside your pulsing walls - impossibly tight, how could you have gotten any tighter after he's fucked you so hard - until he spills deep inside you in long thrusts of hot and thick release.

‘Baby,’ he gasps into your ear as his knees buckle, but manages to catch the side of the tub with one hand before he collapses on you. The sudden movement pushes the now lukewarm water aggressively against the side and spills over the edge. ‘Fuck, you almost killed me.’

You grin. ‘Still complaining about me not staying in bed with you?’

He grabs your chin and twists your face around to kiss you, then retorts, thumb dipping into your swollen lower lip. ‘Still so mouthy? Guess I didn't fuck it hard enough.'

You shiver when he pulls out of you in one slow motion, and he watches in rapture as his spend leaks from your puffy lips, fingers swiping gently over the mess he made. He groans, ‘I’ll never get tired of seeing your pussy dripping with my cum.’

You shudder from both his words and the water that’s quickly getting cold. ‘Keep saying things like that and we’ll be here forever,’ you quip.

You nearly wince. Forever is a poor choice of words.

Dieter seems oblivious to your over-analysis, turning you around to pull you tight against his chest. ‘Sounds good to me, sweetheart.’

The afterglow doesn’t last as long as you hoped it would. The quiet dread that has wormed into your consciousness since Friday night dinner is clinging to you and you can’t shake it. You managed to palm off your quietness for the rest of Saturday as tiredness from the antics in the bath, which prompted a self-satisfied smirk from Dieter and no more questions.

Your saving grace comes in the unexpected shape of big manila folders delivered to the both of you early on Sunday morning, packed full of scripts, schedules and other paperwork for your next respective projects. You desperately need the distraction and you dive in gratefully as the rain continues to come down outside.

You watch him from the opposite end of the couch. You’re wrapped up in his favourite green robe, the same one he was wearing in the bathroom yesterday. It’s ridiculously soft and it swallows you whole. Your fingers barely poke out from under the long sleeves, which flutter busily over miscellaneous papers that you’re going through methodically.

On his end, Dieter has his papers spread about haphazardly, which is nothing new. He’s leafing through the final script, which is much thicker than the abridged one that you read with him a few weeks ago. A pen dangles from his mouth, which he plucks out of his teeth to annotate the pages every now and then. 

You let another hour of diligent silence drift by before you work up the nerve to say, ‘You know, I was thinking - I’ll leave this coming Saturday morning, after the wrap party on Friday. My contract ends the same day.’

It takes him a beat to look up at you through his reading glasses, lips pursed. ‘Ok. Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Two and a half hours drive north.’

‘Ok,’ he shrugs, then goes back to his script.

You blink. Did he just give you a… shrug?

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. You try again. ‘So - when do you fly to Italy?’

He rustles through a stack of papers till he finds what he’s looking for. Tilting his head to the left instead of turning the page right way round, he reads from his schedule, ‘Second week of May. The week after I finish reshoots.’

‘I fly to Canada the same week.’

‘Ok.’

That’s one too many ok’s for you to handle right now. You get up and mumble something about making tea, pulling his robe tight around you, as if it will stem the hurt blooming in your chest.

What the fuck is going on? He’s always been the one pushing for more. He’s always made you feel wanted. He’s the one who followed you to this fucking apartment, he said fuck lying low. He took you on a double date with Rebecca and Hank. 

And now when you tell him you’re leaving in six days’ time - he says ok?

With the kettle boiling and your back to him, you don’t try to stop the tear that slides down your cheek.

Week 14

The last week of filming is always intense, Resurgence is no different. All week, it’s been a matter of physically making it back to the apartment and collapsing into bed. You’ve both been ships in the night - either you have a late call with HBO or Dieter has one with the Linklater team. One of you is always asleep by the time the other gets back. Besides time shared on set, you only see each other over a rushed breakfast in the morning before heading into the studio.

On Thursday night, Dieter makes it back to the empty apartment just before 8:30pm. He realises with a start that it’s the last evening you two have together before principal photography ends the next day.

Shit. He’s really let the week slip by. Grabbing his phone, he crash lands sideways on the couch and opens up Deliveroo.

When you walk through the door half an hour later, your eyes widen at the boxes taking up the entire coffee table, while Dieter fusses with unboxing and rearranging them. 

Your bag slides off your shoulder as you stare, stunned. ‘Dieter, this is way too much food! See what happens when I let you order?’

‘C’mere, sweetheart,’ he grins, making space for you on the floor, patting the cushions next to him.

Folding your knees, you sit cross-legged, giving him an assessing lookover. ‘Have you finally lost it?’

He chuckles. ‘No, baby. This is Deliveroo: our greatest hits.’

Sweeping your eyes over the dishes, you recognise some of your favourite takeout that you’ve ordered over the past couple of months - crunchy tuna roll from the tiny Japanese joint around the corner, artichoke and burrata pizza from the Italian place that always throws in a free tiramisu, baja fish tacos from the food truck nearby and -

You frown at him quizzically. ‘Poutine? We never ordered poutine.’

He plucks a gravy soaked fry and feeds it to you. ‘That’s to acclimate you to Canadian food.’

Your chest swells with warmth and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You lean in to give him a soft kiss. ‘Thank you. Lucky I skipped lunch today.’

You’ve worked through about a third of the food when your eyes alight on what looks like a tagine. You tap on the container. ‘We never ordered this.’

Dieter grabs the box and shovels a spoonful of the stew into his mouth. ‘We didn’t. I did - that same night I ate you out for the first time.’

His answer is so unexpected that the pulled pork quesadilla nearly goes down your trachea.

He winks at you. ‘Gotta say it tasted better last time.’

You admit defeat around halfway through the food, and Dieter follows suit, flopping heavily on his back onto the couch, his tshirt riding up to show a sliver of his soft belly underneath.

You climb onto him, your smaller body fitting perfectly on his broad chest, the top of your head tucked under his chin. You yawn lazily. ‘I’m stuffed.’

He combs his fingers through your head and you feel the vibrations in his chest when he replies, ‘I like it better when you’re stuffed with something else -’

‘Must you be so crude?’

‘You love it.’

You shift. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it - but the very word makes you uncomfortable. You don’t want to associate him or anything about him with that word. Not when the end is tomorrow.

You fold your hands over the centre of his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath. You prop your chin up on the back of them, and you smile into his warm eyes. He tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

‘You liked it?’ he asks, just a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

You hesitate, but you decide he deserves the truth. ‘I loved it.’

He nods off not soon after, snoring quietly. But you lie awake, eyes wide, your heart in knots as the quiet hours creep in.

‘And it’s a wrap!’

Cheers erupt, echoing like thunder in the studio as the lighting guy turns on dramatic disco lights. Dieter reaches over and pulls Brooke in for a hug, and over her shoulder, he meets your eyes from across the room.

It’s done - fourteen weeks of principal photography. Reshoots start next week, but the schedule is much more relaxed, and he’s ready to wind down before doing it all over again in Italy.

Dieter wants to make his way to you, but he keeps getting waylaid by various members of the cast and crew. By the time he’s released from Tobias’ bear hug, you’re gone from his line of sight.

He didn’t see you over lunch today as Rebecca popped in for an impromptu meeting, which he wasn’t too pleased about. He wonders if you’ll hitch a ride with him to the wrap party downtown, but reckons you’re more likely to share an Uber with Ana and the makeup girls. He decides he’ll meet you at the club as he gets ushered back to his trailer to change out of his costume. 

The club pulses with generic dance music and most of its occupants are already knee deep in drink by the time Dieter arrives. He makes his rounds, giving high fives and shaking hands as he circles the room, looking for you.

Spotting Pete, he wades through the crowds and they exchange a hug. Dieter asks if he’s seen you.

Pete looks confused. ‘I’m pretty sure she said you were giving her a lift.’

Ana stumbles into sight, throwing her arms around Dieter. He asks her about you as well. She shakes her head. ‘Oh no, she definitely said she was coming with you.’

Something doesn’t sit right. He calls you, but the line rings out all three times. 

Then he calls his driver and pushes his way out of the club.

The door knob jangles with sudden violence, which makes you jump back and hug to your chest the item you were just folding up to pack away. The door swings open, hitting the wall behind it forcefully.

Dieter’s eyes travel slowly. Firstly over you, wound up tight as a corkscrew, then at the large packed suitcase standing by the door, and finally at the slightly smaller one lying splayed open on the floor.

His tone is accusatory as he slams the door shut behind him. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You said you’re leaving tomorrow.’

All the self-doubt and resentment that has been simmering just under your skin this past week finally breaks the surface. And you deal with it the only way you know - angrily.

You glare at him. ‘What difference does one night make? It’s not like you care.’ You spit the last word out like it's acid on your tongue.

Dieter looks at you incredulously. ‘What the fuck are you on about? How do I not care? I ordered you all the fucking Deliveroo that you like just last night, in case you don’t remember!’

You feel your shackles come up, and you yell back. ‘But when I told you I was leaving, you said ok - what kind of an answer is ok? You didn’t even ask me where I live!’

‘Why do I need to ask if I’m going with you?!’

It’s your turn to look at him incredulously. ‘What?’

‘I’m coming with you,’ he explains impatiently, like it's the most obvious thing in the world and he cannot believe it isn’t to you. ‘I’ll commute to the studio. I don’t have reshoots every day. I can stay with you.’

‘Bold of you to assume you could just come with me without asking,’ you retort sarcastically.

Dieter’s eyes narrow. ‘I came here with you, didn’t I? Why wouldn’t I go with you?’

Your conviction in the decision to leave, precarious as it already was, slips dangerously at his argument. But you shake your head. ‘Ten minutes down the road is very different from two and a half hours away, Dieter. And we agreed to stop after filming.’

Dieter throws his hands up in disbelief. ‘Not this bullshit again, sweetheart. You said you didn’t want to stop! That's what you said when I asked after Week 10 drinks, when I found out about Canada!’

‘Tell me - do you want to stop, sweetheart?’

‘No, no, don’t stop, please, I’m so close - I don’t want to stop -’

‘That’s it, that’s a good fucking girl - not gonna stop - ’

You feel heat swell in your stomach and climb up your spine at the memory. You can’t handle that - not now. Finding your voice, you argue weakly, ‘I said - I meant I didn’t want to stop during production.’

He scoffs with a shake of his head. ‘Bullshit, sweetheart.’

You try a different tact. ‘So what if we had another month? We still have to stop when we fly to opposite sides of the world.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me!’ you point a finger straight at your heart, which is fucking aching. ‘I don’t want to be with someone who’s 6,000 miles away! I can’t.’

But he won’t drop it, he keeps pushing, taking two steps towards you. ‘Why the fuck not? Tell me why not!’

Because you’ll get bored. 

Because you’ll find someone else. 

Because it will hurt too much. 

Except that you don’t say any of it out loud - you can’t. The empty space between you lies heavy and cold.

Dieter’s gaze doesn’t waver, holding yours this whole time. But you can’t bear to look at him.

‘So this is it?’ he breaks the silence, and you let out the a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding out.

You shrug, shifting your grip on the bundle you are still hanging onto. ‘I guess so.’

The movement directs his attention to the familiar pinstriped green cloth in your arms. You watch as his eyes light up, and one eyebrow arches in curiosity. ‘Is that - is that my robe?’

Your fingers clench around the soft fabric. Oh, fuck me sideways.

Suddenly, Dieter doesn’t look so angry anymore. In fact, a small smile lifts his entire countenance. Crossing his arms leisurely, he says chattily, as if you weren’t in the middle of a breakup. ‘Just to be clear - you’re stealing my robe?’

‘No,’ you say quickly.

‘You folded it up real nice, sweetheart. Looks like it would fit into that little nook right there above your shoes,’ he nods at your open suitcase.

You blink and try not to wince as the words leave your mouth. ‘I was just tidying up.’

He grins with teeth. ‘I clearly remember you putting it away in the wardrobe a few days ago. You insisted on washing it after I dipped it in soup.’ 

You curse the day you were born. Why are you such a shit liar?

Dieter shuffles in a bit closer, but not too close. He doesn't want to spook you. He tuts, a playful smile lingering on his lips, hands behind his back. ‘You broke the cardinal rule, didn’t you? You fucked up, sweetheart. You have feelings for me, and you’re punishing me for it.’

Oh, fuck.

‘Don’t talk about me like you know me, Bravo,’ you snap.

‘But I do, sweetheart.’

‘You don’t,’ you spit back. ‘You’ve known me for all of three months - big fucking deal.’

‘Now you’re trying to distract me, you little spitfire. You’re so obvious. It’s cute, really.’

‘Shut up.’

Dieter cocks his head at you. ‘You know, that’s a lot of words coming from you, sweetheart. But none of them are - no, I don’t have feelings for you, Dieter.’

For once, you don’t have any words. You don’t protest. You don’t argue. You don't lie.

He steps confidently into your space, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger, knowing he’s got you. He's taller and broader than ever as he towers over you and slides his lips over your mouth in a no-nonsense kiss, swiping his tongue slowly against yours. He doesn't touch you anywhere else, but there's a slow burn in your blood, wanting him, always wanting him - then he exhales slowly and steps back from you.

‘I’m not going to try to change your mind, sweetheart,’ he tells you quietly. ‘You’re too fucking stubborn and you’ll just resent me even if I do. But I can wait. When you get out of that head of yours, you know where to find me.’

Not trusting your voice, you thrust his robe towards him silently.

He shakes his head and chucks you under the chin. ‘Take it. If you miss me too much, make your new boyfriend wear it and pretend it’s me.’

With one last wry smile, he turns on his heel and walks out of your life.

Dieter winces as Ana narrowly misses taking out his eye with a powder brush when she preps him for the first reshoot the following Monday.

‘She just left without saying goodbye, can you believe it?’ she rants, brushing his hair a bit too aggressively. ‘She called me to apologise last night, but I made sure to give her a piece of my mind.’

He snorts quietly. At least she got an apology out of you. 

Ana pauses and gives him a look in the mirror. ‘She said goodbye to you, at least, right?’

He shrugs noncommittally. ‘Kind of.’

‘So - will you guys work it out?’

‘We put a pin in it.’

Ana must have sensed that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and she lapses into uncharacteristic silence while she heats up the hair curler.

Giving the makeup artist a nudge in the elbow, Dieter asks, ‘Do you have anything lined up after this?’

She turns her back on him while she rummages in her bag. ‘Got a couple of things in the pipeline, but nothing confirmed.’

‘Do you want to come to Italy? Be my makeup artist for the Linklater project?’

She spins around so fast that she knocks over a whole string of spray bottles, eyes wide. ‘Dieter Bravo, I’ll remind you that I’m holding a burning hot hair curler. if you’re joking, you better cut it out right now.’

He chuckles. ‘You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that!'

Ana pounces on him with a hug, and Dieter leans as far away from the curling iron as he can as she shrieks, ‘Yes, yes, a million times yes!’

When she lets him go finally, Dieter holds up a finger and says, ‘But I need you and Pete's help with something - well, someone.’

She shoots him a knowing look. ‘If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, you definitely need our help. I'm in.’

Dieter shakes her hand and grins, ‘We have a deal.’

Ana smiles kindly. 'Just so you know, I would've helped you even without the job offer.'

He nods. 'I know. Thank you.'

She squeezes him on the shoulder and grins at him in the mirror. 'Let's get you your girl back, Dieter Bravo.'

Four weeks later

You’re sorry to miss Ana’s bon voyage party, but your flight to Calgary was on the very same day. It’s the first time you’re living abroad for any length of time. You’ve packed two suitcases and that’s going to be your life for the next four months.

You let yourself be consumed by your new job. There’s so much more of everything in TV - more script, more actors, more hours. You work closely with Woody Harrelson, and you hit it off from the first day. He’s such a mellow guy and so easy to work with, you’re relieved to see no signs of any drama on set.

You keep in touch with Pete and Ana. Pete’s still on Resurgence, post-production now in full swing. Ana’s loving every second in Italy and posts every day without fail on Instagram, and you’re so excited for her to work on a Linklater project, if not a little jealous. She keeps bugging you to visit her, saying that she has a spare bed in her hotel room, and she can take you around.

In Calgary, you settle in slowly with your new crew. Quite a few of them are HBO veterans with their own established friend groups, so you feel a bit of an outsider. But you go to the group lunches and Friday night drinks, though you don’t stay too late, preferring to head back to the modest apartment the studio’s set you up in before midnight.

You would pour yourself a glass of wine, open up Instagram, and check Ana’s stories. It’s cold in Calgary, but in Italy, it’s starting to look a lot like summer. The seaside town filming is taking place in is colourful, houses painted pink and yellow and green, and the sea an amazing blue. You like Ana’s posts of sundresses and sunglasses, while you're cuddled up on the couch in Dieter’s robe.

There’s been radio silence from both your end and his since that day he walked out the door, before you could walk out on him. You catch glimpses of him in Ana’s stories - a wave at the camera, a thumbs up while chewing on pizza, talking to someone at the tail end of a panorama video - all out of costume, as per industry rules for in-progress projects. 

When you’re tipsy enough, you don’t pretend to not feel the tug on your heartstrings every time you see his face.

He hasn’t updated his Instagram for months - not since Sundance. You still don’t follow him, but you check his page more regularly than you care to admit.

The weeks fly by. You forget how most projects are like this - routine, safe and steady. Two months in, it’s Friday evening again (the weeks are flying by) and you sit down for a glass of wine in your armchair. You pull up Instagram on your phone as usual, except, the very first post catches your eye and your heart lurches.

It’s a new post from Dieter. It’s a photo of him and a woman - she's gorgeous. You recognise her as the actress cast opposite him in the film. She’s a relative newcomer in her thirties, with a background in theatre. In the photo, she’s pressing her lips to his whiskered cheek in a kiss, and he’s smiling so widely that the corners of his eyes crinkle.

It fucking punches you in the gut.

He said he would wait.

Well, you suppose he’s waited two months.

You drink so much that night you pass out on the couch.

She starts to seep into Ana’s stories too, they obviously hang out socially outside of filming as a tight-knit group. She's eating pasta on a rickety table on the beach with him; or feeding him a spoonful of gelato; or pushing him into a pool, and falling in when he grabs her by the waist and pulls her in with him last-minute.

You Google her. Constance Green, 34, 5’7”, 125 pounds, 34D, nominated for an Olivier award five years ago. Single.

You know it's not healthy, but you begin to check her Instagram as well. Most of her posts are beautifully framed shots of the seaside town they’re filming in, but Dieter is in most of her daily stories, which she tags him in, and he also uploads them to his account.

The day before, it was a photo of them saluting the camera side by side with matching glasses of Aperol Spritz. 

Yesterday, it was a selfie video of them sitting on a wall next to the lapping sea at sunset, which washes them in orange and gold light.

Today, she’s feeding him pizza - only her hand is visible in the shot as he finishes off the crust, pulling her fingers into his mouth to lick off the tomato sauce. 

You literally throw the phone away as if it burns you. 

You know you have no right whatsoever. You fucking know that, but it doesn’t stop you from sinking into a funk. You stop hanging out with the crew, and even Woody brings it up one day. ‘Hey, you okay? You don’t seem your chipper self.’

‘When have I ever been chipper?’ you quip with a forced smile.

He smiles kindly. ‘You’re not wrong. Homesick?’

You shrug. ‘Something like that.’

Two weeks after that fateful post on Dieter's Instagram that set you on your somewhat downward spiral, Pete visits you for the weekend. When you open the door to your apartment, he takes one look at you and grimaces. ‘Ugh, babe. Have you been sleeping at all?’

‘Fuck you!’ you gripe, but you pull him in for a long hug. You can really use a friend right now.

You spend the weekend gossiping, eating pizza and drinking beer while playing Sex and the City re-runs in the background. On Saturday night, you two spontaneously decide to Facetime Ana, who picks up promptly and after 30 seconds of excited squealing, she pans the camera to show you the piazza she’s hanging out in with a cold drink. 

His mouth stuffed full of now cold pepperoni pizza, Pete is the first to bring her up. ‘Who’s that hottie Bravo’s been hanging out with? They seem to be joined at the hip.’

‘Constance? Oh, she’s super. So down-to-earth, and incredibly talented. Richard swears she’s the next big thing. I think Dieter’s smitten with her, to be honest. They make the cutest couple.’

You chew on the inside of your cheek, going deathly quiet.

‘Well, I say good for him,’ pronounces Pete. ‘There’s nothing like a good leading actor-actress romance. Like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.’

Ana comes up with, 'Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens.'

'Alicia Vikander and Michael Fassbender,' adds Pete.

You clear your throat and get up abruptly. ‘Bathroom break,’ you mutter, stepping over empty beer bottles to make your way deeper into the apartment.

You splash water on your face and meet your eyes in the mirror. Pull yourself together. You chased him away. You didn’t want anything to do with him. You could have the decency to be happy for him. Or at least to not give a fuck. 

Shutting the bathroom door behind you, you pad back to the living room. You hear Pete babbling on the phone. You can’t pick up the words, but his tone is bossy and rushed, which makes you frown and listen harder.

He’s on your phone and obviously not talking to Ana anymore. He gestures wildly with his free hand. ‘ - absolute mess, she’s crying her eyes out, man. I mean, if you can see the state that she’s in -’

Spotting your suspicious glare, Pete starts at a run around the tiny living room, easily keeping the phone out of your reach as he stands a foot taller than you. He continues speaking into the phone. 'What are you gonna do about, huh? Are you just gonna go about your life like it never happened? Cos that sounds like a stupid idea to me -'

You finally jump onto the couch and wrestle the phone from his grip. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Pete -’ you trail off as look down at the name on the screen.

DIERDRE

Fuck. FUCK.

You hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over the red button, then you impulsive hold the phone to your ear. ‘Hey.’

There’s silence, then his voice comes on. ‘Hey.’

Your palms break out in a cold sweat. And all you can do is hope that your voice doesn’t shake. ‘I’m so sorry, Pete is being an idiot. He's just visiting me for the weekend in Calgary.’

‘It’s fine,’ he replies shortly.

You scratch your elbow idly. ‘I’m not in a state, you know. Not crying, or anything. I’m totally fine.’

‘Good for you.’

Then you both go quiet, until you hear a woman’s voice on his end. ‘Are you ready, baby?’

‘Sorry, I gotta go,’ he mumbles, but before the line goes dead, you hear him say, ‘Coming, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart. 

That’s your nickname. 

You glare at Pete, your eyes watering. ‘What the fuck was that?’

He puts his hands up in defence. ‘Worth a shot. You two are clearly being complete idiots and need some sense knocked into you. Sorry it didn't work.’

At the sight of tears spilling over and sliding down your cheek, he opens his arms and you let him wrap you in a comforting hug. ‘Come here, you blooming idiot. It will get better, I promise.’

And it does get better. You find your crowd, a group of backstage crew around your age, and you’re getting recognition on the job from the directors and producers. You hear veiled hints that you might get a contract renewal for the second season with a pay rise. There’s a bounce to your step when you show up to work in the mornings. You even forget to check Instagram most days now. 

That is until you get a notification that Ana sent you a private message on the app the first week of July, so you click on the icon and wait for the app to load.

And there it is.

It’s a photo of their backs, on a cobblestone street, the dying light of day casting them in a warm glow. He’s wearing a light yellow shirt, sleeves cut off at his biceps, and linen shorts. His right arm is wrapped tight around her waist, and she has hers around him, left hand tucked in his back pocket.

You stop breathing. Then you see red.

This is your thing. After your date at the French bistro. You walked down the street just like that.

How. Dare. He.

Blindly, you scroll through Whatsapp until you see Ana’s name, and you click the call button. You don’t even know what time it is over there. She’s probably working. But you don’t give a damn at this very moment.

She picks up after four rings, sounding surprised. ‘Hello? You okay, hon? Or is this a butt dial?’

‘Not a butt dial,’ you reply firmly. ‘Listen, did you mean it when you said I could come visit?’

You have to hold your phone away from your ear when Ana shouts in excitement. ‘Girl - yes of course, I've been waiting for months! There’s a bank holiday coming up in Italy next week. Book your plane tickets, you can stay with me over the long weekend. I’ll introduce you to the whole crew and you can meet Richard.’

Yes sure, that’s why you’re going. To meet Richard Linklater. 

‘See you next weekend.’

On the other side of the world, Ana does a happy dance and calls Pete as soon as she hangs up on you.

‘Hello?’

‘It worked! It worked - she’s coming to Italy next weekend!’

‘Fuck yeah! Finally! Have you told Bravo yet?’

Ana scans the set and spots the unsuspecting subject of their phone conversation talking to one of the assistant directors, and replies slyly, ‘I think he’d appreciate a surprise.’

‘Ana -’

‘Hey, don’t use that tone on me, Pete. He asked for our help, and he said we can handle the details. Her showing up unannounced is just one such tiny detail.’

Pete huffs, unconvinced. ‘If you say so.’

She grins into the phone. ‘I can’t believe it took two and a half months to crack that stubborn woman. But who cares - mission accomplished!’

Pete laughs. ‘You gotta take a picture of his face when she shows up. I can’t believe I’m gonna miss it.’

Dieter waves at Ana to ask for a touch up, and she gives him a thumbs up, signalling that she’ll be right over. ‘Oh, don’t you worry - I most definitely will.’

{ << Part 6: Confute | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 8: Concentric >> }

More notes: I know, I know, it's a cliffhanger... BUT at least it's not a mean one, right?! I have no idea how I thought I could fit everything into one chapter, even this part ran a LOT longer than my target of 6k 😂

I really hope you enjoyed this part, this was probably one of my favourites that I've written for this series. And next time, we will see how everything wraps up 🥺 THANK YOU all of you who have stuck with this story, your comments and reblogs are so so appreciated and have really motivated me to write the best story that I can for these two ❤️

#dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x fem!reader #the bubble fanfic #dieter bravo x f!reader

[spideyanakin]

10 Things I Hate about you - Chapter 1

Eddie Munson x Harrington!reader

Synopsis - A new rule strikes the Harrington household: if Steve wishes to date ever again, his sister needs to find a boyfriend first. As Steve becomes desperate and thinks of everything in his power to set her up, only one guy comes to mind that will take up a challenge such as that: Eddie Munson.

warnings - Season 1 Steve 👎 , and frog dissecting

word count - 8.2k

proof read by the amazing @inknopewetrust

series masterlist 🌻

the playlist

Author's note - this takes place before the events of season 1, and instead of it happening in November 1983, I changed it to be around April 1984 :)

"Steve, what is this?" Your father slammed a piece of paper on the empty space next to Steve's breakfast. You leaned over to snoop at what was printed on the page. As if second nature to the black ink, you flinched when the line of D's and C's on his report card became clear. Your father’s hand splayed on the paper, your eyes followed the hand only to see his angry face.

"Dad, I swear I can explain! This new teacher has been giving us hell!"

"In every class?"

"No, but–" You watched him fumble with his words as you continued sipping on your orange juice. A loose strand of Steve's hair had fallen onto his forehead as he made frantic movements with his hands in a poor attempt to save himself.

"You're telling me that all of your teachers are being extra mean lately?” His face challenged Steve with narrow eyes. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat, he pulled out another paper— your report card. 

“Explain this then.” 

A neat line of A's mixed in with two stray B's had been stuffed in Steve's face. 

He looked in between the paper and you, and then gazed back up to your father. The overbearing, middle-aged man cleared his throat before reading a teacher’s note on Steve’s card.

"Mrs. Jinkles says: Steve is a peculiar student. Although his grades were acceptable last semester, I can see his attention slipping away. Chats too often in class, homework is handed in late…” He peeked up from the sheet back at Steve whose face was sullen. “Shall I continue?"

"No." Steve closed his eyes with a huff, opening them again to meet yours. "She's been distracting me with her loud music and protests and things!"

"That's a lie! Dad, you know that's a lie! He's always with his girlfriends! Bella is what? Your third girlfriend this month!?" You defended yourself in a valiant effort. Steve couldn’t just throw you under some bus to be run over because his personal life was impacting his academic one. 

"I just broke up with her,” he replied with the hope it still saved his ass from ruin.

"Then why are you putting the blame on me for your bad grades!?"

"Because you are distracting me!" Steve maintained.

"We both know that's not true!" You protested as you looked at your father whose mouth was opened to speak, but was quickly cut off by Steve's own defense. Your father fixed his glasses at the bridge of his nose and sighed as he watched the two of you bicker, waiting patiently for his turn.

"What are you jealous of me or something? Because you can't get a boyfriend?" 

"Have you seen the unwashed miscreants that go to our school?" You snorted. "Plus, high school relationships are… weird. I don't know how you can date someone and know it's never going to last."

"You're just jealous because you're mean to everyone and can't keep any friends." 

"Steve!" Your mother interrupted him from the other side of the table. She had been watching the morning unravel like a thread from a wool sweater. Each defense, each lie, building the spool left to wither on the floor. 

At her interjection, you watched your father's eyes light up with an idea, his eyes quickly fixing themselves back on Steve’s as the report card stayed glued between his fingertips. 

"Ok!” He nearly shouted from the noise. “Stop it, you two, now! New rule: Steve isn't allowed to date until you do." He pointed to you and a loud laugh escaped your lips. 

‘This was his punishment?’ You thought to yourself. How pathetic. 

"BUT SHE'S NEVER GOING TO FIND A BOYFRIEND BEFORE THE END OF HIGH SCHOOL!" Steve wailed as his hand met the table and shook the glasses–its contents swooshing like the sea. 

"Oh,” your father chuckled, “I really like this." He nodded in self-approval. "We can sleep in peace knowing you'll both pass Junior year and then graduate with no distractions." His angry face had turned into a content one. He dropped the two report cards on the sideboard behind the dining table before sitting and pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

"But that's not fair!" Steve started whining which made you grin and stick your tongue out to him as you grabbed the maple syrup bottle and poured some on your pancakes.

"When your sister dates, I'll trust you to date again."

"But-"

"No buts! It will teach you a lesson," he said pointedly. 

"I hate it here" Steve groaned, throwing his head back, and sighing in desperation. "Mom,” he tried one last path, “you can't let this happen!"

"I'm sure you'll survive without girls for a year and a half." She didn't look up from the apple she was cutting. "I'm sure it will do you some good."

The clock struck 8:30 slower than Steve would have liked, and he found his head hurting earlier in the day than he wished. As he waited for you, he turned up the volume, his car radio already playing Africa by Toto. He closed his eyes, trying to get the distant chatter and morals about how that was a 'good lesson' for him to learn and girls were 'not the only thing he should care about' away from his thoughts. About a minute later, you stuffed yourself and your bag in Steve's passenger seat with a sigh as the peaceful music started to dance across your mind. 

"Could you at least change?" Of course Steve had to start speaking again. As if his whining over breakfast hadn't been enough.

"Why? You don't support women's rights?" You looked down at your shirt. You were wearing a tight white shirt that showed off your shapes with red hand prints painted over your boobs, and one hand print on the side of your ribs. It was controversial, it was risky. However, it was completely and utterly you. "You don't think women should speak up?"

"I do, but It's weird enough I'm driving you to school. I don't need you to be dressed like… this," He looked at you up and down. "At least close your sweater until we get there?"

"Deal with it."

"God!” He griped. “I can't wait for your car to get repaired." 

"Can you shut up, please?" You closed your eyes. "I'm trying to enjoy this music. I don't own this tape."

"Yeah, that's because you spend all your money on that devil worshiping crap that makes my ears bleed." 

"Don't you insult my music taste," you hit him with the sleeve of your sweater, which caused Steve to instantly hit you back with the back of his hand. 

"Hey!" You slapped his shoulder. 

"You hey!" He slapped your shoulder back. 

You slapped his arm as a reply and he did the same, an endless slap fight like the multiple ones you had as kids starting. You continued bickering, in an attempt to win you tried to kick him but your leg was stuck in between the side of the car and your bag. So instead, you slithered a hand into his perfect hair and shook it all up.

"NO! Y/N NOT THE HAIR! Please!" He yelled. Hands flying to stop the way your arms and shoulders came down. When he was satisfied that he was safe, he reached up for the rear mirror. "You really had to?" 

"Yeah, you deserved it. Now start the car or we're going to be late for school." 

"Oh, and I wonder who's fault that is?"

~

"Please tell mom and dad you've got a boyfriend or something."

"No." You slammed your locker in front of his face and shouldered your bag.

"Please?" He begged again, following as you started walking towards class. 

"Why do you want another girlfriend so badly?" You wondered aloud as you removed the tape of Kill ‘Em All from your walkman; pocketting it to replace it with Master of Reality.

"Because this time I really really like her! I want to make a move but you didn’t help me at all, and now they’re just being assholes about the grades!”

"They're not being mean," you shook your head, laughing to yourself. "Have you seen your grades? I get where they come from."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You don't know how hard it is to be paired with her and not being able to actually ask her out, or just hold her hand and kiss her. First period was hell. I absolutely need you to get a boyfriend."

"Mm-mm, nope." You shook your head no. "I told you, dating in high school is stupid." You pressed the on button and Steve could faintly hear the start of Children of the Grave playing. He watched as you placed your headphones over your ears, clearly wanting out of the conversation.

He made a frantic move to step in front of you. Blocking your path forward, you stopped because his puppy-dog eyes hounded you. "Please?" His hands came together as if he was praying. You barely heard the word, but you could clearly read his lips.

"No!" You said it a bit too loud over your music. Steve's face changed to a look of defeat, and then, he gave you the finger.

"I hate you." You barely heard the words but could clearly make them out again.

"Love you too!" You pouted and made a heart with your hands, grinning as you watched him roll his eyes and drop his hands in defeat. "Bye," you almost screamed before disappearing into another hallway but held it back in a small victory.

You tossed your bag over your chair and melted in your seat the second you walked into the classroom. You felt a hand reaching up next to you and before you could even register the intruder, your headphones fell from your head and onto your shoulders. 

You turned your head to meet Barb’s figure in the seat beside yours. She had a concerned look in her eyes–which she always had but that early in the morning? Something had come up before the bell had even rung. "What's the fuss? I've been seeing you bicker with Steve all morning,” she asked you honestly.

Barb was a good person, a good soul. Sharing with her the quarrel between Steve and yourself wasn’t going to spread a million rumors of some stupid family fued or that you were ‘morally or ethically against high school romance.’

You took a second to breathe, the faint intro of Sweet Leaf coming from the headphones now resting on your shoulders. Had your music really been that loud before? The music came to an abrupt end when you flipped the switch, placing the walkman into a firm grip, and setting it into your bag.

"Steve's mad because our dad made a ‘new rule.’ He's not allowed to date until I do," you wiggled your eyebrows and watched as Barb gave you a silent laugh. The crinkles around her eyes proved that amusement had reached her. 

"Oh my god,” Barb drawled, “no way," she whispered as she watched Mrs. Jinkles put her glasses back on to stand up to close the classroom door. 

"Yeah, Steve is bribing me to get a boyfriend." You chuckled and she snorted at the thought. 

"I don't think I've ever seen him single ever since he walked into Hawkins High."

"Me neither. Apparently he really likes this one girl and wants to date her. That's why he's trying to convince me to get someone." You tucked a strand of hair away from your face as you fished for your book and slammed it a bit too harshly on the table. "Tough luck."

~

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll do the dishes for two months."

"No."

"Three?"

"Still no."

"Ok, seven!"

"Steve,” you sighed heavily, “what is going to make that little head of yours understand that I don't want a boyfriend."

"You don't actually need one, just to tell mom and dad you have one!"

"I won't do that,” the idea of it just sounded… wrong.

"Why?"

"Because I don't like lying."

"That's bullshit,” he laughed in disbelief.

"I'm not going to help you. So stop asking me." You moved your hands around as you tried to mimic your frustration. "Who’s the girl you want to ask out anyway?"

"Nancy Wheeler."

"What?" You chuckled in your own incredulity. "Is this some kind of joke? You want to date my friends now?” If you could underscore the importance of my, you would have a million times over.

"Friends?"

"Alright, well more like a… good acquaintance; a school friend! But you get my point." You crossed your arms.

"I actually think I really like her! She's super nice. We have physics together."

"Right," you rolled your eyes at him. "Look, I won't help you on this one. Maybe, just maybe, you can think about getting better grades and dad will change his mind. And Nancy Wheeler is far from your type just so you know." You noticed but Steve's face softened at your words. If she saw Steve’s grades, she’d go running for the hills.

"That's what I like about her, though. She's different from the other girls I've dated before."

"Yeah, yeah, spare me the speech Romeo. It won't work on me." You scoffed and oddly enough, lifted your head to spot what was written in bold letters on the chalkboard.

Romeo and Juliet 

"See, we even get to study forbidden love. How cute," you patted his shoulder, and he grumbled something you couldn't make out before complaining for the thousandth time today.

"I knew advanced English was a mistake." He melted in his seat as if the subject had defeated him already.

"Morning, class," Mr. Arnold cleared his throat, “now that we are fully finished with World War two poetry, I thought it was the perfect time to start on our beloved Shakespeare." He clapped his hands and asked a girl named Lisa Hemingway if she could hand out the multiple copies of Romeo and Juliet that created a tower on his desk. 

The senior girl stood up and grabbed as many copies as she could. When Mr. Arnold saw she couldn't carry them all, he assigned a red-headed Junior named Connor who sat in the front row to hand out the rest.

"I already hate this," Steve mumbled as the second the copy of the pile hit his desk. He took it, groaning as he flipped through the pages. They smelled of must and mildew; ten years of dormancy only to be opened when love was at its most shallow point.

"It's not that bad,” you told him as the next copy hit yours, “I've read it before. The story is pretty gripping."

"You've read this for fun?" He questioned as if it repulsed him.

"Yeah," and you shook it off like a piece of lint on your shoulder.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Consider yourselves lucky, we won't do any reading today!" Mr. Arnold stated when Lisa and Connor went back to their seats and only two books remained in the pile he had stacked earlier that morning. Two missing students. 

"Connor, I believe you're good friends with Mark?" He questioned the redhead who nodded. "Could you hand him his copy when you see him?" Mr. Arnold handed him the book, leaving only one stray to rest lonely on his desk. "Right, back to work," He sighed. 

"Today, we are mainly going to focus on learning about the man behind the book," he smiled and sat atop his desk. "Can anyone tell me what they know about Shakespeare?"

You raised your hand.

"Please lower your hand," Steve begged. "You're embarrassing me enough as it is and I don't need you rubbing it in my face that you skipped a grade." 

"I skipped a grade in elementary school, Steve" You whispered back.

"Miss Harrington?"

"I've noticed that he's always written strong female characters,” you began, against Steve’s wishes. “In Romeo and Juliet, Juliet is strong-witted and smart. She might look and be helplessly in love, but she's still intelligent and understands a lot of things women are told not to. It feels like Shakespeare understood the struggle of women, especially in works like…” You pondered, “Twelfth Night. Viola must be the strongest female character in history." 

Mr. Arnold nodded along as you continued on. "Viola is shipwrecked, and left an orphan so she disguises herself as a man to get by. It's a brilliant feminist writing for its time."

"I do agree that Shakspeare tends to write strong female characters, but you do forget that mature women tend to miss in most of his work. And when he does, he makes them mad or somehow evil."

"Yeah, you're totally right,” You agreed.“But still, he doesn't rule them out or make them faded background characters like other writers from that century–" 

The door swung open in the middle of your words. All the heads turned away from Mr. Arnold, you, or their books, and revealed the owner of the lonely book: Eddie Munson.

The hair on his head was wild, a patch on his jean jacket was two stitches from falling out. One of his shoes was completely covered in dirt and a crumpled paper sat in his ringed hand.

"What have I missed?" He grinned with perfectly white teeth; barring it for Mr. Arnold as the older man sighed at the intrusion but had learned to expect nothing less from Eddie Munson. 

"Strong female characters in Shakespeare," you spoke up before Mr. Arnold could get a word out. He had, after all, interrupted your train of thought. 

"Great!” He said at first as though it were intriguing enough for him to stay. But as he continued, his words became shells of sarcasm. “Sounds amazing, keep up the good work," he nodded before opening the classroom door and walking straight back out of it–not a minute had passed since he entered it.

"Mr. Munson!" Mr. Arnold attempted to call out, but quickly realized it was useless and crossed his arms in aggravation. "Is he even trying?" He sighed to himself, shaking his head in despair before grabbing the stray copy of Romeo and Juliet and opening it to the last page where a small description of who Shakespeare was, was written. 

"Shakespeare!"

You never got to pick up where you left off. 

~

"I need Y/n to get a boyfriend," Steve declared as he dropped his tray on the table and looked at you expectantly from across the room.

You were standing on the other side of the cafeteria behind a table. Nancy, Barbara, and another girl he didn’t know stood beside you. Your sweater was long gone and the shirt you had made was exposed. Nancy and the stranger Steve didn't recognize wore the same one while Barb was holding pamphlets next to you. A white banner in front of the table spelling 'WOMEN'S RIGHTS, WE HAVE A VOICE!’ BAKE SALE stood proudly in black and red lettering.

"Good day to you too," Carol looked around his tray before snatching his granola bar. "Ew, who even eats the nutty fudge flavor?" She scrunched her nose before throwing it back on his tray. She shouldn’t have ever tried to take it from him today.

"They were out of butter almond, sorry," he replied dryly before taking a seat and starting to pick at his food. "Anyway, my dad started this new stupid rule where I can't date another girl until Y/n finds a boyfriend," Steve looked back at you again and back at his food.

"Oh my god." 

"I know!"

"You're fucked." 

"You mean unfucked, for the rest of high school." Tommy snickered with a sly grin.

"Haha,” Steve’s face flattened, “very funny." He poked at a french fry before dropping his fork completely. "It doesn’t have to be this way! I can try to help her get a boyfriend! It’s not that hard to find a date!" 

"Good luck with that. I heard the last guy who tried to ask her out got a broken nose… bled all over the gym floor."

"God, I don't even know how we're related," Steve sighed helplessly. "My point is–” he clarified, “if I want to ask Nancy out, I need her to find someone, and quickly. My chance with Nance will go right out the window otherwise."

"You in a rush or something?"

"Do you know how hard it is to be paired up with her and not get to ask her out!? It's pure torture!" 

"Calm down Casanova," Tommy ripped the top of his milk carton. "The only way you're going to get a guy to go out with her is if you pay him," he took a sip of his drink before speaking again, "and even then, you'd have to pay him good money."

"I could do that," Steve mumbled as if the idea wasn’t screaming ‘that is a horrible idea, don’t do it!’ 

"Wait, that's actually a brilliant idea!” He settled on instead. “We just have to figure out who we're going to pay." 

"Hmm," Tommy looked around the cafeteria and for once, every male student was a fresh pick. It could be a squirly freshman or a hulking senior and either would want the money and laughs for kicks. "Sam?"

"The A.V club nerd? Do you want him to get even more bullied? She made him cry once, remember?" 

Tommy scrunched up his nose at the memory. But, the guy would admit he had an itching to see it happen again. 

"Cameron?" Carol suggested as she perked her head up at the game.

"A Jock?" Steve laughed in amusement. "She would kick him in the balls before he even could get a word out." 

"Byers!"

"No, no,” Steve objected, “he's too… soft. She'll eat him alive."

"Yeah, but don't they listen to the same music or something?"

"No, he listens to The Clash."

"And? Isn't that what she likes?"

"No, she's more into that hard rock stuff" Steve threw his fry back into his plate. "We're never going to find anyone." 

"SHIT!" The big double doors of the cafeteria flew wide open, Eddie's voice boomed inside. He was holding what looked like one of those beakers from science class filled to the brim with a neon blue liquid. He skidded to a stop as the doors flew open, looking in the direction best suited for his escape as the bubbles began to form at the beaker's top. Steve had no idea what it was, but by the look on the face of the teacher who was running after him… it didn't look safe. 

“MR. MUNSON!” An angry, elderly voice called after him as the doors teetered on open and closed, open and closed. 

“This is my beaker, Davis!” He shouted at the teacher coming closer with every second. Eddie moved quickly, trying not to spill the liquid as his exit was drawing closer with every step. “You can’t take it away when it’s not finished!” 

“MR. MUNSON THAT IS A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT!” 

“COME AND TAKE IT FROM ME THEN!” Eddie shouted back as the cafeteria watched in hilarity and ridiculousness. Eddie Munson could always cause a scene, bring a little bit of joy, and go back to being an outcast the same day. 

"Oh God,” Carol rolled her eyes, “what is he up to now?" She brought her stare back to Steve and her boyfriend. "Did you hear, they're saying he won't graduate this year?"

"Rumor has it it's because he went to jail for a month. Remember when everyone was wondering where he was?"

"I thought it was because he went off and tried to join a cult or something?" 

"Didn't people say it's because he was posing for a porn magazine?" 

"I heard he ate a live duck once"

"Everything but beak and feet."

Steve narrowed his eyes as he watched Eddie grab a cookie from your table as he passed by, muttering a thank you as he put it in his mouth and continued his run. You shouted something at him about being an asshole. Steve's gaze fixed back on Eddie as he left through the doors, the opposite side of the one he came from, beakers still in hand and the cookie already half chewed. 

Mr. Davis who was following him had his glasses crooked over his nose and the little hair he had left was flying around as he tried to catch up with the mad teen. He kept his eyes on the door as it closed behind them.

"Jesus! That guy is deranged!”

~

Biology wasn't Steve's favorite subject, especially when he had just eaten a full meal and they had to dissect frogs. Mina Trevor had already thrown up and was sent to the nurse, and a Junior named James fainted the second the frog was put on his table. That left the quiet Lisa, whom he had been paired with, to work alone on the repulsive task.

Even with gloves, everything was slimy and disgusting. Tommy wasn't being helpful as he did everything on purpose to mess it up, and would wiggle his dirty fingers in front of Steve's face just to get a go at him. For a second he envied you. He knew this was the type of thing you'd do with a smile on your lips, and he knew you would enjoy every second of it when it was your turn next period. 

"You're being disgusting," Carol noticed, scrunching her face as she watched her boyfriend clown around with a piece of the frog. The smell made her want to gag. Her gaze traveled to behind his shoulder, spotting Eddie Munson paired up with one of his friends at the back of the class.

He pulled a knife out from his pocket and stabbed it in the middle of the frog, his friend chuckling as he did.

"Hey,” she called out to the two boys as the thought popped into her head, “maybe we should set Munson up with your sister." Carol smirked as she watched him poke around the dead animal for a brief second before stopping. 

Both Steve and Tommy turned around to follow her gaze. All of their eyes were on Eddie as he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, using the gas tap in the middle of the table to light it up. His friend scrunched up his nose and grabbed the cigarette from his lips, putting it out on the frog.

An unintentional branding of a dead frog.

"Yeah…" Steve's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "How did we not think of this at lunch!?"

"Because he's a mad man!? Steve, you're not serious?" Tommy turned back around to face his girlfriend and best friend.

"He's the only guy on the list she won't scare off! Have you seen him? He's the perfect candidate."

"Plus!” He added. “He definitely listens to the same music as her, and reads the same nerd shit.”

"I wouldn't do it,” Tommy tried to argue, “she's still your sister, Steve. Eddie's just… trouble." The expression on his face quickly changed with his thoughts. "Although, I would love to see the freak try to seduce your sister," he smirked.

"How funny would that be?" Carol slapped her hand on the table. "And he's totally broke. He will gladly take your money." 

Steve's eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned back around to take another look at Eddie Munson pulling another cigarette out of the carton.

"I think we found our guy."

~

The next morning, Steve opened his sock drawer to find as much of his leftover cash as he could to invest in his little plan. With the box of stray coins and the savings he kept hidden behind a pair of blue striped socks, he found about a hundred dollars. It was a bonus that Tommy and Carol had promised to chime in when they chose Eddie as the candidate–or victim… he wasn’t sure if you’d eviscerate the metalhead or not.

Steve grabbed his wallet and pulled a twenty from it. In addition to the ten bucks he already had in his pockets, that would be enough to convince Eddie, pay him, and still have spare money for lunch. 

"Why are you smiling?" You wondered as you watched your brother make his way down the stairs; a pair of white high top Nikes in his hand and his blue sports bag hanging on his left shoulder.

"Nothing,” he grinned like a madman, “I just realized my time as a ‘Handsome Bachelor’ might actually be nice." He kept smiling before sitting down on the last step and lacing up his shoes. 

"That's the spirit" Your dad mumbled from behind his morning paper.

"You're acting suspicious. Mom, don't you think he's being suspicious?" You turned your head to her to get the reassurance that his demeanor was off and you weren’t losing it. 

"Let your brother be," she fixed a strand of hair. "Honey, can you pass me the coffee pot, please?"

"Of course," your father passed the pot towards her while you eyed Steve, an apprehensive eyebrow raised. 

When Steve gave you an innocent shrug back, you placed two fingers in a peace sign to your eyes and then switched to pointing to him before taking your seat at the breakfast table. The words of ‘I’m watching you’ silently said. 

The only benefit to this breakfast was that it was more peaceful than the previous one.

"Thank you for being dressed appropriately today," Steve mumbled as you buckled your seat belt a half hour later. Breakfast settling in your stomachs, school was the only thing that could distract you from the curiosity-biting enigma that was Steve Harrington, your dutiful, stupid brother. 

"Right… because sports class is more important than women's rights."

"Yeah, it totally is, and it’s gym, not sports class," He mumbled as he started the car. "Also you've read the book right? Romeo and Julie" Steve narrowed his eyes as he watched the road. 

"Juliet."

"Right, yeah, what happens in the chapters we were supposed to read?"

"You haven't read it? Steve, have you seen your grades?" You gawked at him with baffled eyes. 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he brushed it off, “just tell me what happened?"

"Firstly, they’re not chapters, they’re acts and scenes,” you lamented, “and if you would have even taken the time to open the book, you would have seen that we only had two scenes to read which equals to barely ten pages."

"Good for you,” he replied blandly. “So, what happened?"

"Street fight between the Montagues and Capulets,” he would just badger you with questions the entire way anyway, so you faulted and told him what happened.

"The what- what?" He stopped the car at a stop sign. 

"Oh fuck off."

"What do you mean ‘fuck off!?’ I'm asking for your help!"

"And I'm telling you: read. the. book. I'm not your tutor."

"But you've already read it! So, I don't need to! We can just unite our Harrington brains."

"I'm not helping you,” you shook your head.

"You're being really mean lately, you know that?" He argued because he didn’t get his way. 

"I thought I was always mean,” you tipped your head to the side, “that's why I can't get any friends, remember?"

"Yeah, but you're being even more mean. You won't help me!" The ride to school gladly came to an end as he finished his sentence. You opened the door, your bag already over your shoulder.

"I'll see you later," you slammed the door of his car shut and started to walk away.

"Hey! What did I do!?" He shouted out of his car's open window, but you flipped him the finger instead. Steve looked at you as you disappeared into the crowd with a confused look on his face. 

"Crazy," he muttered as he thought back to the way your face fell and your words became dry before you slammed the door in his face. He grabbed his bag, confusion riddled over his features as he made his way to the football field.

He eyed the crowd of students that sat on the bleachers. The entire junior class sat in the middle and a few seniors who had a free period were scattered at the opposite ends, chatting away and finishing up the last touches of their homework.

You sat in a middle row, eyes glued as you listened to the teacher. Steve knew you had seen him, he also knew that you knew he was watching you. You had that determined look in your eyes every time the two of you got into arguments. That look where you had to win. That you wouldn't let him talk to you again until he made a move.

But of course, Steve knew he had done nothing wrong.

His eyes landed on Carol and Tommy who were sitting at the end of the front row. Carol was sipping on a cup of coffee she had gotten from the machine in the school hallway next to the teacher's lounge. The disgusting watered-down taste made a shiver run through Steve just thinking about it.

"Alright class," the teacher blew his whistle, indicating to Steve and the other stray students who were still standing to take their seats on the bleachers.

"I want you to split into your groups,” everyone knew where they were assigned. “We're starting soccer with group two. So group one and three, do whatever you want as long as you're back by 10:30." He blew his whistle again and the whole mass of students started moving around the bleachers.

"So, how much did you manage to collect for ‘mission boyfriend?’"

"A few bills," Steve nodded. "I think it should be enough."

"We collected a 20 for you if that's any help," Carol fished through her bag before handing it to Steve. "Here."

"Thank you very much," he looked at it proudly before adding it to the 30 he already had. 

"When are you going to talk to him?" 

"Not today. She's in a very bad mood. She went all crazy on me this morning," Steve looked at you from his spot in the bleachers. He watched as you redid your shoe laces and grabbed the soccer ball Tina threw your way.

"I thought you were in a rush to ask Nancy out?"

"I am,” he nodded, “but I also don't want the plan to fail"

"Well, she looks fine now," Tommy looked at you. You had just kicked the football in James’ face–your poor classmate was rubbing his head and the teacher had called to you both. Your voice faintly climbed their way, hearing you say something about it being an ‘accident.’ They watched as James walked away from the field because the teacher sent him to the nurse's office.

Steve contemplated his options. You did look a bit calmer, but he recalled the way you flipped on him. "Yeah,” he breathed out. "I'll do it today."

"You could do it now."

"Now?"

"Mhm,” Carol hummed, crossing her leg over the other and leaning on the level behind her. “He's in Ms. O'Donnell's class, right? She's called in sick today which means they have nothing to do all morning." Carol looked up to a group of seniors beside them on the bleachers. Their math notebooks scattered across the step they were using and they were arguing over an answer. "Hey!" She called, their heads turned to face her. "Is Eddie Munson in your class?"

"Yeah," one of them chuckled at the mention of his name.

"Perfect," she turned back to Steve. "He must be on school grounds then!"

"Fantastic!" Steve stood up, wiping the back of his jeans with his hands before grabbing his gray sweater and slipping it on. 

"Try the drama room first. I'm sure he's setting up his next sacrifice," Tommy laughed.

"Don't let him scare you," Carol giggled.

"Very funny."

It would be a lie to say that Steve's heart didn't race at the idea of finding Eddie sacrificing a rabbit in the middle of the drama classroom. His hand toying with the end of his sleeve as he walked across the empty hallways. 

He passed by the coffee machine in front of the teacher's lounge, hearing chatter from behind the wooden door. The sudden reminder that he was in school and not in the horror film he was creating in his mind brought him back to reality. He shook his head, reminding himself it was just silly high school jokes. Eddie wasn't a cult leader; he probably hadn't even gone to jail for 2 months or had never even done a quarter of what people gave him credit for. 

So, he took a deep breath and arrived in front of the drama room. Peaking through the window, bright, colorful banners were hung on the walls. Papers and posters of plays taped everywhere and he could see a glimpse of the big CATS poster that terrified him: yellow eyes with silhouettes dancing staring into the room. Steve's hand found the courage to rest itself on the handle, he took another breath. 'This was school. Teachers are around. They would notice if something weird was happening in there.' With that thought, he swung the door open.

To his surprise he didn't find the room lit only by candles with Eddie dancing around in a circle and chanting words in a language he didn’t know. There wasn't a rabbit in the middle of the wooden floor, or circles drawn using the poor animal's blood. No dusty books of spells resting beside the non-existent circle or placed in Eddie's hands.

The reality was that a table had been pulled from the back corner where all the props were stuffed in the theatre’s off season. Eddie presided at the head of the table on a large black throne; ornate and gaudy. He recognised it being used in the latest school production of Camelot. Steve had no idea what the play had been about, but he remembered seeing it on stage.

Sitting to his left was a boy he recognized from biology. On the table was a large board that looked exactly like a board game–but Steve couldn't tell what it was. ‘Definitely not Monopoly,’ he thought to himself. 

Figurines in different sizes and various shaped dice were scattered in the middle. Steve never had seen a game with that many dice and definitely hadn't seen that many different shapes–only the average four sided one. The ones like you and Steve would lose as children which resulted in you now only using the same pair for every game. 

The two boys were looking at papers that were scattered between them with pencils in their hands. At the center of the table, a big glass jar that looked right out of a fantasy film was filled with the blue liquid Eddie had stolen from the chemistry classroom a day prior; a big dragon figurine of matching color sitting on the lid.

Steve might have stayed frozen a bit too long because he could start feeling their stares.

"Can we help you?" The boy next to Eddie wondered as Steve’s frozen figure interrupted their work. 

"I um-" Steve blinked the shock out of his eyes. "I wanted to talk to Munson, actually"

Both boys blinked in a similar fashion and a short laugh escaped Eddie's lips.

"How do you even know my name, Harrington?"

"Everyone knows your name," he replied like it was obvious. Like Eddie couldn't do everything he did, or have all of these rumors dancing around him like flies and that people wouldn't know who he was. "I want to ask you something." 

"Shoot," Steve had gained Eddie's curiosity. 

"I want you to ask my sister out." 

"Excuse me?" Eddie blinked in disbelief. Of all the things Steve Harrington could have said, that was not something Eddie had ever thought to think. 

"I will pay you."

"Jesus, Harrington, what kind of fucked up household do you live in?" He turned to his friend whose eyes were wide open upon hearing the request.

"No, please just listen to me," Steve took a step closer. "Our parents made up this new stupid rule where I can't date until she does. And trust me, no one would be brave enough to date her, unless they're getting paid or-" He paused mid-sentence.

"Or they're me?" Eddie took the words out of his mouth, punctuating his sentence with a smile.

"Yes! Exactly! So, what do you say?"

"Is she pretty?"

"What?" Steve surely had seen Eddie steal a cookie from your table not a day before. 

"Your sister,” Eddie reiterated, “you can't just expect me to have low standards."

"Yeah, she's pretty?” Steve felt awkward saying that. “I don't know, man! That's my sister."

"Wait, what's her first name?" Eddie's friend asked.

"Y/n." 

"Oooh yeah, yeah she's really pretty" he nodded and turned his attention back to Eddie. "Y/n? You know, sits next to him in English, protested for women's rights at lunch yesterday? Broke Jeff's nose? You said she was hot once?"

"That's her?" Eddie's face lit up, a large smirk rising on his lips. "How much?" he crossed his arm over his chest. "And I hope it's good money Harrington because it better be worth a broken nose."

"Ten bucks a date." Eddie looked at him blankly.

"Doesn't cover the stitches if she punches my nose and has those pretty rings of hers on."

"Fine. Fifteen. Take it or leave it, trailer park."

"Well, let's think about this,” Eddie leaned back on his throne, “we go to the movies, that's what? Ten bucks? We get popcorn that's um, fifteen. She's going to want coke too right? I assume. So, that's twenty." He looked to his friend for confirmation, "and then well, I would have to drive her, and filling up the tank costs money. So… we're looking at a good fifty bucks a date." 

"That much?" Steve winced. He could already see himself only having the Kudos bar that was probably already half smashed by the weight of his books for lunch, or that Carol had most probably already stolen.

"Yeah," Eddie had a fake sorry look on his face. "You must understand… I'm putting my life on the line for you here."

"Would you do it for less?" Steve turned to Eddie's friend who's eyes widened even more.

"Nah, man. I wouldn't even do it for a hundred." That made Steve's shoulder slump a little more than they already were. He took a second to look at Eddie who was giving him a ‘fifty or nothing' look.

Steve quickly weighed his odds at finding another guy. No one would bite the bait he was dangling, but Eddie Munson had. 

"Alright," Steve got his wallet from his back pocket and started fumbling with the bills, handing everything he had over to Eddie.

"Damn Harrington, you must be really desperate," he chuckled as he counted the money. "When do you want me to ask her out?"

"Today." 

"Desperate and in a rush? Fabulous combination." 

"She finishes soccer at 10:30. You think you could meet her at the bleachers?" Eddie thought for a second, pretending like he was going through all the important things he had to do this morning before answering.

"Yeah, I think I can make it."

~

10:20 - Steve was head deep into the first page of Romeo and Juliet. His butt started hurting from sitting so long on the hard wood of the bleachers, and his stomach was already growling from knowing it won't have much for lunch. And as if his day couldn't get worse, Carol had found the Kudos bar in the bottom of his bag and claimed it as her own; wrapper already in the trash and bar in her stomach. 

"Do you know what Maidenheads mean?" Steve pointed to a word on the page, leaning in towards Tommy. "I'm sure I've seen that word somewhere," he mumbled. "Maybe on one of Y/n's tapes"

Tommy squinted his eyes as he read through the sentence, "are you sure this is even English?"

"Hey, Steve," Carol interrupted, Steve's gaze lifted from the book to meet hers. "Look," she nodded her head up towards the top corner of the bleachers with a smirk on her lips. Steve turned around to look at what was so interesting, and he wasn't disappointed. 

Eddie was smoking in the back corner. His back leaning against the corner wall and his legs laid out on the step. His jacket was balled up next to his black lunch box on the step just below. He was looking at the field, probably trying to spot you.

"You should be happy. He's taking this seriously." 

"Yeah," Steve looked at his watch before closing his book and putting it in his bag. 

"Still can't believe he took fifty bucks from you just for the first date," Tommy snickered as he tossed his cigarette between the openings of the steps. "You're going to be so broke by the end of the month."

"Shut up," Steve whined. The money talk reminded him of the page he kept in his school assigned daily planner. He grabbed it with his pencil case and opened it to the page in question. "How much did I spend on that movie yesterday?" 

"Three dollars"

April 11 - Lunch $7, family video $3.

April 12 - Eddie $50.

He closed his book and neatly placed the little blue elastic around it and stuffed it back in his bag. 

The teacher's whistle made Steve's heart race and his palms started to sweat. Anxiety munching at his stomach as he wondered if Eddie would make him spending fifty dollars worth it, or if the poor guy would have to spend the evening in the emergency room. At least he would have the money to cover it. 

He looked at his watch and then back at the field. You were walking towards your bag; hair moving up and down as you climbed up the steps of the bleachers. From behind your shoulder, he could see Eddie putting out a cigarette and grabbing his jacket.

You were already making your way down and your feet were back on the grass when Eddie caught up to you.

"Hey, sweetheart, how you doin’?"

"Sweating like a pig actually and you?" You turned your head to meet Eddie's surprised eyes. Wiping the sweat off your forehead with your forearm as you gave him a tight-lipped smile. 

"Now that's a way to get a guy's attention," he cheered back.

"My mission in life," you sighed, taking a sip from your water bottle. "You're that guy from The Hideout aren't you?" You narrowed your eyes as you scanned his face. "The one who stole a cookie from us at lunch yesterday.” You knew he was a senior. You hadn't seen him much around school, but you knew you recognized the crazy hair and big brown eyes from somewhere.

"Ah, now I'm very sorry about that. Here wait," he raised his finger, "I'm sure I can compensate for the loss" You watched with a raised eyebrow as he fished for something in his back pocket, his hand coming back up with the cash Steve had handed him. "Ah-ha! Here–take, um, how about twenty?"

You eyed the twenty in his hand and then back up to his eyes. You raised an eyebrow, but he seemed dead serious and determined to give it to you. 

"I don't want your money," you shook your head and pushed his hand away.

"Alright then,” he shrugged and pocketed the money. "If I heard you correctly, you go to The Hideout?" He seemed surprised because he never noticed you there before. And if he could admit it, he surely would have recalled seeing you there. 

"I very much do, yes."

That was the first time you surprised Eddie. 

"You're from that band–um Corroded Coffin? Lead, right? Electric guitar?"

Second time you surprised Eddie.

"What do you want?" You continued before he could neither confirm nor deny, taking the burgundy sweater from your bag as you waited for him to continue.

"Do you want to go out? On a date?"

"I’m busy."

"Great then! Pick you up at five on Thursday?" 

"Oh right, yeah. Totally," you shouldered your bag again and started walking towards the school building.

"Well, you never know. The night might take you places you've never been before," he had that smug smirk you wanted to punch off every boy's face. 

"Yeah, right, like the seven-eleven by Mirkwood?" 

"Mirkwood?" the question barely left his lips that you started speaking again.

"Do you even know my name, screw boy?"

"I know a lot more than you think."

"Doubtful. Very, very, doubtful," you gave him a tight smile before speeding up your walk and leaving him again.

Eddie's gaze flew up to Steve and Tommy who were watching the scene, half hidden and perched up on the bleachers.

"You're so screwed man!" Tommy giggled as he watched the look of defeat on Steve's face and Eddie's apologetic eyes. "So, so screwed." 

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[givemea-dam-break]

Hello! Could you do a Lockwood x reader where it’s like an enemies to lovers please? Thanks :) ❤️

a/n: abso fucking lutely i'm obsessed with this idea omg thank you, this is a long one, so be warned. i hope you enjoy! it doesn't have much of the 'lovers' part, so i'd be more than happy to write a part two if anyone wants :)

warnings: language, mentions of abuse (for a case, not the reader) gn reader

full series collection: here

Doughnuts. All you wanted was some goddamn doughnuts from your favourite bakery, but even that had to be ruined by some stuck-up, arrogant boy who had a penchant for wearing obnoxiously long jackets that were surely impractical.

Breathing a sigh through your nose, you gratefully take the box of glazed doughnuts from Arif.

He's striding towards you with those concerningly long legs, and it's only when you get closer to the door that you realise he's on a mission. If he'd wanted to make some snide remark, he would've done so in passing, but, no, he's making a beeline straight for you.

"Lockwood," you say tightly, gripping the box hard.

"(name)," he says, plastering on that infamous 'Lockwood Grin' that you cannot stand. "I was wondering if I could speak to you."

"Isn't that what you're doing now?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd think the sarcastic comment hadn't bothered him, but a muscle ticks ever so slightly in his jaw. Almost unnoticeable.

"I mean, out of the way of customers," he says, gesturing behind him to the line of people at the till. "Mind if we sit?"

You really don't want to, partly because he's a pompous ass that screwed you over a year ago, but also because you would much rather be sat in your flat, stuffing your face with glazed doughnuts while reading that new book your flatmate lent you. But something in his expression, his posture, tells you that it should wait and, against your better judgement, you trudge over to one of the small tables.

"What do you want?" you ask, crossing your arms. "There are things I'd much rather be doing than speaking to you."

Lockwood sits across from you, and that face of his - oh, how you want to punch it. It's as if his resting face is just one of pure confidence and arrogance, and you hate it.

"What? Sitting home doing nothing until you get a call for a job?" His brow raises in question. "Yeah, well, I've got a job for you. Lockwood and Co need help on a case."

You scoff. "And why would I help you? Last time I did that, you stole the job right from under me. DEPRAC rules, you said. Bullshit."

"Look," Lockwood says, "I didn't mean for that to happen. New rules had come into place that I didn't know about. But we need you, (name), even if it pains me to say."

"Well, it doesn't pain me to say no." You slip your bag on, which had been sitting on the ground by your feet, and stand, grasping your doughnut box. Then, sarcastically, "Have a great day, Lockwood."

"Wait, please."

For a moment, you hesitate. The way he said please tugged at something in you, something deep down and buried. One of his hands has reached across the table as if to grab yours, and you frown.

"Listen, I know we don't get along anymore, but this case... We need a Listener, a good one."

"Thought your Listener was the best in the country, or did you scare her off, too?"

He looks a little pained at that, but only for half a second. Then, he gestures for you to sit again. Reluctantly, you do so, but only because that little part of you, the part that you buried the last time you trusted him, is screaming at you.

"Lucy is out of action for a bit," Lockwood explains. "She's visiting family up north, but this isn't a case we can pass up. We need a Listener for it, and you're the next best thing. This time, I'll make sure you get your cut of the pay. This one is under Lockwood and Co, not DEPRAC."

You shouldn't accept the offer, you really shouldn't. Last time, he had taken the whole share for his company because "Whoever secures the source gets the pay", and you'd been left living on scraps for a fortnight until your next case came through. He'd promised you countless things before the case, after the case, and he'd fallen through on all of them.

But this... It's been a while since you've been on any case but some measly Type Ones, and you have to admit that you're itching to have a challenge, to really put your Talent to good use.

"Tell me about the case, and I'll think about it."

He perks up a little at that. "From the description the woman, Mrs Wyatt, gave us, something her granddaughter told her, we assume it's a Type Two, but a strong one. George can't find much, if anything, about the home to help us understand the purpose of the ghost or what a possible source may be, hence why we need a Listener."

"Right." You take one of the doughnuts from your box and take a bite out of it. "How much of the cut will I get? I understand you have a company, and that'll inevitably cost more, but I have bills to cover, too, and freelancers don't get nearly enough work."

"Forty percent," Lockwood offers.

You pause, taken aback. In all honesty, you would've accepted twenty-five percent - it was reasonable, and jobs with Type Twos often earned a lot more, so it's not like you would be going skint, but forty? It's more than you could've hoped for in a situation like this.

That doesn't mean you'll turn it down.

"Alright," you say. "Deal. Give me an address and a time, and I'll be there."

--

The house that looms over you is tall and foreboding despite its sandstone exterior, framed by beautiful flowering plants and some kids' tricycles and bikes in the driveway. It's a two-storey house, not overly large, but something about it has dread coiling in your stomach.

After the meeting with Lockwood, you decided to do a little bit of research yourself, and it turned out that he was right. Obviously, your research skills were nowhere even close to the standard of George's, but there was nothing except for some building plans for the house dating back to the early twentieth century.

So, here you stand, confused and annoyed, checking the watch on your wrist impatiently.

Late. Lockwood and George were late.

You expected as much, but it doesn't mean that you're not irritated. The sun is making its descent in the sky, and, although it's summer, the creeping darkness that is miles away from overtaking the sky still gives you a chill.

A Type Two in a house with no known malevolent history or any kind of strange deaths. Strange, but not entirely unheard of.

"(name)! So sorry we're late."

You turn, scowling. "You realise we now only have, what, twenty minutes to scout out the house and set up defences?"

Lockwood and George stumble to a stop in front of you, panting from running and carrying their heavy gear.

"Again," Lockwood says, "we're sorry. Let's get in there, shall we? Make a start?"

He makes for the front door and, begrudgingly, you follow shortly behind, George trailing after.

The interior of the house is cosy, with warm-toned flowery wallpaper and photographs hanging in frames from the walls. Children laughing in coloured photos, or black and white polaroids from even further before. A few plants are scattered, on the table lining the wall, in the corner of the hall beside the stairs. A patterned rug lines the hardwood floor.

You take it upon yourself to set up an iron chain circle in the hallway, setting a lantern in the centre for dim light while George and Lockwood explore the kitchen and living room, setting up circles there, too. All of the rooms are the same - warm-toned walls, photos everywhere, soft-cushioned seats, and the soothing scent of lavender and, strangely, bergamot.

"Sixteen degrees in the hall and the kitchen," George calls.

"Fourteen in the lounge," Lockwood replies. "You hear anything yet, (name)?"

"About to try."

Taking a deep breath, your senses begin to fade away until all that's left is silence, thick and heavy. There's nothing, no traces of sound, until... Tapping, like a walking stick on wood. Ever so faint, but persistent, followed by slow shuffling feet.

"I've got something," you say. "Upstairs. Someone walking, using a walking stick."

Lockwood appears from the living room, donning that annoying grin of his. "Perfect. George, you stay down here and monitor the rooms, make sure nothing is down here. We'll go upstairs and see if we can find a source of some kind."

He strides up the stairs, and you follow, making sure to keep your senses open. The tapping is still going, but it's slowly getting louder. There's something more behind it, something you can't pick out.

"Lockwood, wait."

He stops short, turning back to look at you. "Everything alright?"

"Wait here a minute."

You pass him on the stairs, cautiously stepping onto the landing. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom, but one door hangs open slightly. You inch closer, but find yourself pausing a few feet away.

Shouting. It's muffled, but you can hear it well enough. A man and a woman, arguing furiously, and then, a sharp crack, like something being hit. There's a loud cry of pain, and you flinch, stumbling backwards. Then, a cry of anger, the sound of a woman's rage, another loud crack, and, finally, silence.

"(name), what's wrong?" Lockwood's fingers brush your arm, and, usually, you would've scowled and shrugged him off, but to have the comfort of something living nearby calms you a little.

"It's only ever been Mrs Wyatt's family living here, right?"

"That's what George says. Why?"

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I think she missed out on some important details."

"Such as?"

"I think she killed her husband."

Lockwood chokes on air but regains his composure quickly. "What?"

"In her defence, he was an abusive prick, I think. And, if my guess is worth anything, his walking stick is the source."

You're glad that Lockwood doesn't ask you how you know that. Instead, he draws his rapier and checks the temperature outside the bedroom door.

"Nine degrees and falling," he says. "Growing malaise... It's still early for a ghost to be this strong."

"Set up an iron circle outside the door," you suggest. "I'll watch your back, then we can open the door and look in. One of us hunts for the source, the other keeps watch."

"You know," Lockwood says while pulling iron chains out of his bag, "I'm hiring your services. I should be making the plans."

You shrug. "I'm a freelancer. I go by my own rules and strategies. Now, I'm going to go inside and search for the source. Watch my back."

He's about to protest, but you draw your rapier and step into the bedroom before he can.

If not for the chill that cuts straight through you upon stepping into the room, it would have been lovely to see. The walls are a pretty shade of green, and the bed is made - untouched. A massive mahogany wardrobe towers in the corner beside the large window.

"Be careful," Lockwood says from the circle. "There's a deathglow by the wardrobe. It's bright."

Slowly, cautiously, you make your way over to the wardrobe. The scene from earlier replays in your mind, but the tapping of a walking stick has gotten louder. Nothing happens as you inch closer, but dread and tiredness make your limbs heavy - Lockwood was right, it's too early for the malaise to be this strong. It's not even entirely dark outside.

"(name), watch out!"

A chill cuts right by you, and a bright light glows as the ghost, appearing from god knows where, launches itself in your direction. You leap out of the way, falling backwards onto the bed and swiping your rapier in a figure-of-eight motion. Lockwood runs from the iron circle, throwing a salt bomb at the ghost, which disappears momentarily.

He grasps your hand, pulling you off the bed. "At least we know who the ghost is now. Mr Wyatt."

You breathe heavily, eyes widening before you push Lockwood out of the way. The ghost of Mr Wyatt, a middle-aged man - maybe in his late fifties upon his death - dressed in a shirt, dress pants, and a patterned sweater vest, rages over and would've ghost-touched Lockwood if not for you moving him. You duck out of the way, slashing with your rapier again, but the ghost reforms quickly, pushing you backwards.

All of a sudden, your feet are separated from the ground, and you're thrown backwards. Your back slams through the glass of the window, shattering it, and, for a moment, you think you'll fall to the ground, breaking every bone in your body and dying a horrible death.

It would certainly be a way to go, falling from a window, but your fingers latch onto the window frame, pierced by the sharp glass still attached. Your grip is weak, and your arms are shaking badly. The ground is so far below...

"(name)!"

"Get the source!" you shriek, trying not to look down. "Wardrobe!"

"George!" Lockwood shouts.

You can't see much of what's happening, but you can hear it: Lockwood's feet dancing across the ground as he fights off the ghost. As you slowly pull yourself up, not to much avail, you catch a glimpse of him nearing the wardrobe, pursued by a very angry ghost.

"Hurry!" you cry. Blood seeps down your hands, your grip slipping on the window. "Lockwood!"

Another few seconds and you'll fall, but the room is suddenly silent, filled only by Lockwood's heaving breathing. His footsteps hurry over, and then he's leaning out of the window, grasping your arms in a strong grip. He pulls you through the window, and your faces are too close for a moment. You're acutely aware of the warmth of his hands through your jumper, of the sound of his heartbeat, so close, so loud. You swallow hard and stumble out of his grip onto the bed, breathing heavily and trembling.

"Was I right?" you ask, trying to hide your fear. "Was it the walking stick?"

Lockwood pants, sitting on the bed beside you. "You were right."

Heavy footsteps sound on the landing, and then George stands in the doorway. "Did you get the ghost?"

"Yes," Lockwood says, his voice angry. "Where were you?"

"I couldn't hear you," George said. "It was like there was some sound block or something. I've heard of ghosts doing that before."

You take a deep breath. "Either way, it's gone now."

"Thanks to you," Lockwood says. "If not for you, we wouldn't have known what the source was, or where it was."

It hurts a little to stand up. "Long as I get paid, I'm happy. Now, can we get out of this house?"

Lockwood's eyes linger on you a little too long. "Come back to Portland Row with us. We'll get you patched up."

You want to refuse the offer, but your fingers are torn up, bleeding, and there's glass stuck in some parts of your flesh, plus, Portland Row is closer than your flat.

"Fine."

--

It's safe to say that ghost hunting was the best career path for Lockwood - he'd be a shit doctor, to put it simply.

"You don't have to put that much cream on the cuts, you twat. It'll all just squeeze out of the plasters and go all over my hands."

Lockwood's grip on your hand is gentle as he begins applying plasters. "It's supposed to help fight off the chance of infection. Surely more is better."

You groan, but there's not much else you can do. Your other hand has already received the Doctor Lockwood treatment.

You've never really spent this much time this close to Lockwood, but part of you - one you want to tear out, rip up, and burn - doesn't mind it. That part doesn't mind the scent of tea and cheap shampoo, or the feeling of his hand enveloping yours in a grasp so soft that it's barely there.

Get it together, you tell yourself.

You have to remind yourself of why you two don't get on in the first place: the last case you worked on together, the snide remarks made since, but... is it worth keeping that up? Yes, you were hurt, and, yes, it still stings thinking about your trust in him a year ago being betrayed in a way that might seem small to most, but is it really worth keeping it up? All the anger?

Your flatmate has told you on multiple occasions to move on, to forgive, even if you don't forget, and now, watching Lockwood tenderly patch you up as if the last year of arguing and avoidance never existed, you almost want to listen to her.

Lockwood tilts his head up to look at you, and you freeze, having been caught in the act of staring at him. His cocky grin appears, and you groan, looking away.

"Thanks," you say, pulling your plastered hand out of his grip. "I better head home."

Lockwood hesitates. "Why don't you stay? It's late, and it's a half-hour walk to your flat from here. Lucy's room is free."

You scoff. "Today's case may have gone well, but that doesn't mean I want to stay under your roof for the night. You'll probably poison my tea."

"Alright." Part of his tone sounds disappointed, but the expression on his face shows none of the emotion. "I'll get the money sent to you as soon as."

"Good." Standing, you pluck a biscuit from the tin on the kitchen table. "And, uh... Thanks for saving my life."

He grins wide. "Any time."

Hesitating, you watch him for a second longer - the way he moves as he packs away the first aid kit, the way his eyes flick from the table to you.

Something about your relationship has changed. Even now, you no longer feel the burning hatred for him. No, it's simmered down a bit. Now, it's a mild dislike with a touch of... what is that? Admiration? Gratitude? Ew.

"See you around, Lockwood."

"See you, (name). And, again, thank you, for helping with the case."

"It was whatever."

#lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #george karim #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #givemea-dam-break #fanfiction #x reader #lockwood and co netflix

[dipplinduo]

So, I'm really looking to write a Dipplinshipping series myself and I really love the depth that you go into for S&D Dipplins (and its related spinoffs, I am very up to date).

Do you have any tips for keeping up with/writing longer works? I think my idea may take at least 10 chapters, but I've never been able to finish anything but oneshots before... I admire your consistency with the quality of your work (there has not been a single miss, not a one) and I hope to be able write like you one day.

No pressure to come up with anything if you don't know what to say. Regardless of anything, I hope this message reaches you well and that you have a fantastic day!

Omg I love writing talk asks and I'm so touched that you thought to ask me this question!

I'm gonna share stuff I found helpful to keep in mind:

- Take your time with storytelling. The advantage of having more chapters is that you can reallllyyyy enjoy your pacing. One way I do this is through gradual hints and breadcrumbs that build to the major plot points. It's a fun way to develop your story over time while keeping readers interested and theorizing. And when you're not focusing on the main plot, you can focus on other aspects of the story.

- Outlines and general note pages for your fic as a whole are your best friends. They will do the work of keeping track of different story elements for you.

- Listen to your readers. Their feedback is invaluable. If you get a lot of comments about something people seem to be enjoying, this may suggest that it's part of the voice of your fic. It can help you figure out what you'd want to emphasize more down the line - whether it be through side stories or through the main plot.

- Switch up some dynamics overtime. If you find yourself feeling stuck because you feel like you're trying to write similar kinds of moments, thoughts, or dialogues, this is a sign that it's time for you to move on and shake things up. I've done this with Kieran & Juliana in S&S D after I felt I have described Kieran seeing Juliana as a witch (who he has a hard time resisting lmao) so many times.

- Flush out the roles of supporting characters. They don't need their own character arcs, and they don't need to be focal points of the story. But they can influence some events, and it can help with the movement of your fic. (E.g. I often use Drayton to instigate moments one way or another, and this suits his character given that hes relatively chaotic neutral).

- Focus on the quality of telling your story first and foremost; you do not need the permission of certain chapter "markers" to progress. You don't need to wait for Chapter 10 or 15 or whatever to have a big moment happen. If everything is set up and ready to go, just do it. This is why a big moment of S&S D happens in Chapter 9 rather than Chapter 10; there was enough in place and I felt dragging it out would've diminished the moment. No one's really gonna care that much about how things line up to a chapter number. They're gonna be happy they got a big moment, and if anything, your ability to break this norm can keep readers on their toes.

- On the opposing ends of things, know when you have enough in a chapter to stop even if you know where you're going next. If you flushed out descriptions of someone's feelings or some scenery or whatever, and you feel you have enough? It's okay to stop writing and publish. Giving yourself more time to soak on ideas can improve the way you're going to pick up where you left off. I personally don't have a hard rule around this, but I tend to cut things off at the 15-20 page mark for a chapter of S&S D.

- If you feel like you're writing a filler chapter, think of ways it can build to your overarching story. You really don't need filler chapters if you think about it - even if you want to delay going somewhere specific. So if your work could be summed up when completed, what would you want someone to say? Think of ways you can slip in gradual storytelling from multiple angles - whether it be through plot or through some of the lighter moments (that may build to the heart of the fic like found family or dorm life or whatever). This can help breathe life into any chapter update.

- Remember that by taking your time, you're actually developing the voice of your writing and of the story. My original conception of S&S D and where it's at now are wildly different, and that's because there's no rushed time table. That goes for the storyline, the characters, the plot points - everything. LMAOOO, even the beach episode content is going to be very different because I gave myself permission to delay it until I figured out the exact roles I want Paldean Squad to play! It was a better decision that will lead to better characterization (even though I'm nonetheless very grateful for people's patience).

- Write on your timetable, not anyone else's. I occasionally put due dates on myself to get me going (e.g. by teasing a chapter update), but I never promise that I'll have chapters out on a weekly basis or whatnot for anything I write - S&S D related or not. This is deliberate. Life happens and the last thing you need is to write for the sake of writing and nothing else. I feel it's the easiest way to kill your passion if it becomes stressful for you.

- Lean into what inspires you. I find a LOT of motivation through comments, reactions, asks, fanart, etc., so I make it a point to respond to every comment on AO3 and engage continuously with the community on here and whatnot. I've also been loosely inspired by art pieces that have nothing to do with my work. This is just what works for me, though. Sometimes you might be inspired by other media, or maybe by things that you've seen or experienced in your own life. Whatever it is, draw from it.

Hmmm that's what comes to mind for now. Happy to give more later if they come up, & hope this helps! Best of luck with writing YOU GOT THISSSSS 🤗💛

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