CIGARETTES & DIOR 𝙸

CIGARETTES & DIOR 1

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with some editing here and beta reading by @raelwrites the loml, my biggest motivator, there, we have a first part to the series!

—enemies steve harrington X reader, follows along with 'weirdo on maple street'

[if anyone wants to be tagged let me know]

 For the general population of Hawkins high school, Steve Harrington was the ultimate wet dream. Relatively tall, relatively kind, relatively handsome. It seems, though, you had somehow missed that memo. To you, Harrington wasn’t a dream. He was, plain and simple, a nightmare.

 It wasn’t like you hated the guy exactly. It was just that everything Steve did seemed to grate your teeth and boil your blood. From his incessant need to constantly preen to his stupid laugh and even stupider hair, it was like he existed solely to torture you.

 Okay, so maaaybe you hated the guy. Just a tiny bit. But in your defence, Steve was also dating Nancy, so you felt it only appropriate to scowl and express distaste because alongside being one of the worst people you’ve had the displeasure of knowing, he also just had to date Nancy Wheeler, your best friend of 4 years.

 And as her long-time best friend, all it took was a glance at your watch to know she would be coming down the hall in the next 10 minutes with Barbara in tow. You three were a package deal. Where one was, the other two were bound to be near-by if not right there.

 Which is why, when you feel a presence stop behind you, you’re already calling out a greeting to the pair, “Hey guys-” you turn to face them after you close your locker, grinning when you realise you were, once again, correct in your assumption of when Nance and Barb would show up. “What’s up?”

 It was Nancy who speaks, drawing your attention with your name, “-, you’re free for the rest of today, right?”

 “Oh, I’m doing great actually, thanks for asking Nance. What about you, Barb?”

 “I’m quite alright today. Though, we do have something we wanted to ask you, if you happen to be free later today that is.”

 “Well, how nice to hear you are thriving, to answer your question I don’t think I have any plans set up for after school. Did you have something in mind?”

 “Okay, okay- guys! Glad to hear you’re doing good-” Nancy interrupts and you chime in with a quick ‘great, actually’ before she moves on. “If you are in fact free, do you want to come with us to a party tonight?”

“Now, was that so hard?” you throw an arm around Nancy’s shoulder, jostling her petite frame. “Also, it’s a Tuesday- literally who hosts a party on a fucking Tuesday?”

 “It’s at St-” Barb clears her throat. “Some guys house. Could be fun.”

 “C’mon, we can pick you up. I’ll even let you have the front seat,” Nancy says and that does sway your choice, because upon Barb getting her license, you three had collectively decided that the passenger seat passenger had sole access to the radio. Consequently, it has always been become a competition between you and Nance as to who would reach the right side first- shotgun privilege long since abandoned in favour of a mad dash to the car.

 “Yeah, yeah alright. Fine, what time do I have to be ready by?”

 “8-ish will work. Gives you enough time to convince your parents and find something to wear.”

 “Convince my parents? Pshh, I’d just tell ‘em I have to go to some guys house at 8-ish on a Tuesday evening- that’s totally enough for them to let me go.” You can’t help but be a little petty. “But it’s fine, Nancy and Barb will be there, how could you say no to them?”

 Nancy nudges you and you giggle, slipping out a ‘I’m kidding’ between giggles. “I already said I’d come, c’mon, when have I ever let you guys down?”

 You almost wanted to let them down.

 The more you paced around your room getting ready, the more you thought about how suspicious the girls were acting. Sure, you didn’t really care who it was or when or where, but even then, you could appreciate having some more information than ‘some guys house’, ‘8-ish’, and ‘could be fun’.

 You quickly spritzed your perfume when a car honked outside of your house and grabbed your jacket as you left your room. Shoes came next, and with a final ‘bye’ to your parents, you were leaving the house.

When you spied Nancy already in the passenger seat, you groaned and jogged over to the back. Despite your jacket, the night was as cold as most November nights were and you weren’t about to stand outside and wait for her to swap seats with you when she hadn’t while waiting for you to join them.

 “So, was front-seat privilege just a ploy to get me to come, then?” you ask, though it wasn’t the first time Nancy bribed you with radio access only to take it away soon after.

 “I never said it would be going to the party, you can sit in front when Barb drops you off home again,”

 You huff and relax into the middle seat. Leave it to Nancy to find some loophole.

 “So, can I finally know where we’re going?”

 “You’ll find out when we get there.” Comes the reply from Barb.

 “How long’s the drive?” you begin to pester.

 “If you want, you can count the minutes.”

 “Who’s gonna be there?”

 “You’ll find out when we get there.”

 You groan. “You’re no fun.”

 “Barbara, pull over.” Nancy suddenly exclaimed. You sit up, shuffling to stare out of the window, but are met with disappointment when one side faces the woods and the other pans out into an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Again, you are left with more questions than answers and slouch into your seat.

 “He just wants to get in your pants,” Barbara scoffs.

 Wait, what?

 “Uh- guys, who’s trying to get into who’s pants?” you lean forward, unbuckling the seatbelt when it tries to pull you back.

 “Steve-” Barbara begins, but you’re already grimacing and voicing your displeasure at just the mention of his name.

 “What? Wait- so we’re going to Steve’s then? And neither of you felt it fit to tell me that? What the fuck?”

 “He invited Nance to his house; his parents aren’t home…” Barbara lists and you gag.

 “Again, might I add- what the fuck?” and now the unfamiliarity makes sense. If Steve Harrington lived around here somewhere, you would’ve found every means possible to avoid being here.

 “Come on, you are not this stupid.” Barbara continues and you hum in agreement. It was probably her that insisted you not be told any of the details in the first place.

 “Tommy H and Carol are gonna be there.” Nancy defends and you can’t help laughing.

 “Tommy and Carol have been having sex since, like, seventh grade- that’s a shit excuse.” You pause. “Wait- Tommy and Carol are gonna be there? Man, what the fuck.”

 “It’ll probably just be, like, a big orgy.” At Barb’s comment, you recoil back into your seat with a grimace, mentally trying to track how long it would take to walk home.

 A glance to the girls in the front has your brows furrowing in confusion. “Uh- why are you stripping?” Nancy throws her jumper at you, and you quickly throw it back. “Put it back on it’s like sub-zero outside, weirdo.”

 “Is that a new bra?” Barbara questions with a face of disbelief. A quick glance tells you yes, despite the girl’s negative reply. You’ve perused through both of their closets enough to recognise that you did not recognise that bra.

 “Jesus, if you wanted to fuck you could’ve found a hook-up. Why’d you have to date Harrington? He’s probably a mediocre fuck, at best, anyway.”

 Your comment has Barb giggling, and she opens the car door before asking, “How would you even know?”

 You smirk, stepping out of the car to join them. “With that hair?” you slam the door shut. “He’s gotta be overcompensating for something.”

 “All I’m saying is, you need to consult your friends before making these sorts of big decisions.” You were gesticulating wildly, needing a way to both warm yourself and release the slurry of emotions churning inside of you. “And, honestly, as a proud Harrington Hater, I feel like my opinion should count for something more than all the others who faun of him, you know? At least I’m unbiased,” you say, even though you were probably just as biased, if not more.

 “-, chill,” Nancy calls back to you.

 “I’m chill!”

 Except, when the double doors in front of you open, you begin to bounce on the balls of your feet. Barbara puts her arm around your shoulders, and you smile.

 “Hello ladies,” Steve greets.

 Your smile drops.

 “Hello-” he grits your name out. There was a half-formed hope in you that it would shatter his teeth as he said it.

 “Your highness,” you mock with a bow. If you’re stuck here, might as well have a little fun. “So, King Steve, what’s on the agenda for tonight? Beheading peasants?” you push past Steve, knocking against the arm he had on his hip.

 “Wow how did you guess?” he answers, monotone voice and straight face. “That’s exactly why I thought to have you come.”

 You grin. “Aw, shucks. You think about me?” with a flourish, you remove your jacket and drape it over the banister. Better to leave it right by the door in case of quick emergency exit.

 Nancy pulls Steve along before he can respond, and you and Barb follow behind the pair. Every so often, you make a comment about the décor to Barb and even though the interior isn’t bad, you would sooner rip off a nail than compliment anything about Harrington.

 When the shrieking began from Carol, you immediately throw out your disdain for the pool, “If anyone so much as thinks about throwing me in, I’ll cut your hair off while you sleep.” Though you probably wouldn’t actually do that, it was enough of a threat that even Nancy threw you a side glance.

 “That’s not even remotely attractive,” you sneer, watching as Steve shotguns one of the beers form the cooler. You sit down in the chair beside Barbara. “How did that-” you nod your head in the direction of Nancy and Steve. “Even happen? They’re like, polar opposites.”

 “Yeah, she’s smart you douche!” Tommy shouts out which gains your attention because Tommy being right was a once in a blue moon occurrence. He followed that statement up by crushing a can against his head and chucking it to the ground. Yeah, once in a blue moon.

 When you look over at Steve and Nancy, you can’t help but groan, “Oh, come one Nance, you’re not seriously gonna shotgun that are you?”

 You were ignored in favour of Steve starting a chant as Nancy pulled open the tab. Tommy and Carol joined in, speeding up and then hollering when Nancy threw the can on the ground, empty.

 “Barb, you wanna try?” Nancy asked, already moving towards the cooler.

 “What? No.” You shook your head along with Barb. “No, I don’t want to. Thanks.”

 Nancy picked up a can and Steve tries to goad Barbara.

 “It’s fun! Just give it a-” Nancy is cut off, though, by yet another soft protest from Barb.

 “Nance, she just said no. cut it out.” You protest, sitting up and preparing to stand if necessary.

 “Just- just give it a shot.” With that, Barb throws a reassuring smile your way and stands to take the can and knife. You watch, tense, form your seated position just behind her as she moved the small blade to puncture the can. Even before the motion was made, you were beginning to stand and when Barb suddenly dropped the can and blade all together in a hiss of pain, you huddled up to her and inspected her hand.

 “Fuckin’ told you it was stupid.” You grumble, glancing from Barb’s hand to her face, trying to gauge how serious the cut is in the dark.

 “Where’s your bathroom?” Barb asked, voice shaky, though Steve quickly stood and provided directions. Past the kitchen and to the left, easy enough to remember.

 “He better have a first aid kit in there,” you mumble, opening the door for Barb before stepping in after her. “How’s the hand? Does it feel swollen at all? Heating up?”

 As you rummage through the cabinets, Barb questions, “Heating up? Is that meant to happen?” she takes a seat on the closed toiled lid, smiling faintly at the sight of you rushing around as much as you could in the enclosed space. “I’m okay, really. It looks worse than it is, I promise.”

 You hum, and then voice an ‘aha!’ when you manage to find both a disinfectant for cuts and some bandages.

 “I’ll only believe you if you let me take care of it-” you start, moving to crouch next to the girl and taking her injured hand in yours. “This’ll sting, probably.” You warn, hovering a disinfectant soaked cloth over the cut before beginning to clean the blood, stopping every so often as Barb flinches.

 After a few minutes of cleaning, you grab the bandages and wrap them around the cut. “Et voila! Cleaned and bandaged. Can’t promise it’s any good, but it’s wrapped.” you tie off the gauze. “C’mon, let’s go find Nance before she goes missing.”

 The both of you exit the bathroom giggling, though it dies the second you spot Nancy on the stairs, wrapped in a towel, with Steve just ahead of her.

 “Nance!” you call out.

 “Nancy,” Barbara joins, “Where are you going?”

 “Nowhere… just, upstairs. To change. I… fell in the pool. Why don’t you go ahead and go home, I’ll just… I’ll get a ride or something.”

 “What the fuck?” you whisper.

 “Nance…” She repeats your names back at you. “This isn’t you.”

 “I’m fine.” And that sounded final. “Just… go ahead and go home, okay?” She turns and hurries up the remaining stairs and you scoff.

 “Fucking hell.” You rest your hands on your hips. “I mean, we can go back to mine? We can make some food and binge the tapes left from last week.” You move to grab your jacket that should be hanging over the banister. It’s not there.

 “Pretty sure one of those fucks took my jacket- hold on.” You quickly move to the stairs, taking two at a time to get upstairs quicker. Barb calls from the entryway,

 “I’ll just be outside.”

 You shout back an agreement before moving down the hallway, knocking on the doors you pass by as loud as you could, knowing that it would be only the party guests in the household. “Hey, shitheads! Where’s my jack- oh.” It lays discarded on a table in the hallway, slightly rumpled but otherwise unharmed.

 You scoop it up, patting the pockets to make sure nothing was missing and hop down the stairs to meet with Barb.

 “Got my jacket.” You open the front door, but Barbara isn’t there. “Barb?” you call out, looking around before moving back inside. “Barb, where’d you go?” you check the poolside, but she isn’t there either. The chairs are undisturbed, and the trees are silent.

“Well, then…” you shrug your jacket on, casting a sweeping glance over the yard but you can’t spot the ginger anywhere. “More food for me then, assholes.”

Type "I am" in the tags and whatever follows is your gender today...

⋆ eat your young pt. 1

Felix Catton x gn!reader x Oliver Quick - 18+ mdni

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

They dangle on the leash of their own longing; their need grows teeth

warnings: smutty, nsft/nsfw, Oliver and Felix being creepy, mild somnophilia, non-con participation in masturbation, Felix jerks off, reader gets relentlessly objectified, dark themes, sexual fantasies, mentions of oral sex, mentions of cum, mentions of crying during sex, Oliver and Felix both want to make you their plaything, reader gets ejaculated on lmao, reader is implied to be shorter than Felix, 18+ MDNI

note: whew, baby. I genuinely like this one, and I hope you guys do too :> There'll be a second part involving the much anticipated threesome tee-hee. I'm working on making a male!reader version of this too! Kisses <33 male!reader version here

wc: 3.5k

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Midnight draws closer, the world around the castle long swallowed by complete blackness. As though the only things to remain are its cold walls and the surrounding gardens, guarded by the looming beast at the labyrinth's heart.

Warm light spills through the crack in Felix’s bedroom door, casting an amber glow onto the hallway's floorboards outside. At its edge, with his head resting on the wooden door frame, stands Oliver.

Shrouded by the night's darkness, his eyes fixate on your figures lounging on the bed. A fiery glint within them, like a flame licking at the sight in front of him. Burning him from the inside out.

It nearly scorches the surrounding air, illuminating the corridors in a hellish red—or maybe that’s just Oliver’s mind playing tricks on him.

He rolls his shoulders back, muscles flexing and twitching beneath the thin fabric of his tank top.

You and Felix are both half bare, sprawled out across the bedsheets in underwear due to the merciless summer heat. The two of you are making sure to keep your banter hushed and giggle into the pillows to avoid waking the others.

But Oliver knows you want to be watched; that's why you left the door open after all. To lure him in, like a lone moth begging a bright, shimmering light to swallow it whole.

And it worked; you have his full, undivided attention now. You've sparked a ravenous, horrifying hunger deep within him. A need to belong, to join. To burrow his way in between the cracks and crevices of the castle walls.

He watches you clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Felix just leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. It’s a picturesque sight, really, the both of you lazily draped over Felix’s bed.

So effortlessly beautiful and utterly mesmerizing as dim, golden light bathes your bodies.

He should've known that, where Felix resides, he was bound to find more gorgeous people. But he could've never imagined that someone could match Felix's mind-bending ethereality.

Venetia's best friend, so sweet and astoundingly kind, but more than often found at Felix's side instead of hers.

Oliver almost feels bad for her, but he's not certain that it's a conscious decision on your part. Felix has a way of wrapping people around his finger with seductive ease. Perhaps Venetia has less of a say in your visit than everyone lets on.

"Oh, I stay here every summer." You showed him around the premises along with Felix, excited to meet his new friend.

"It's always been like that." He nodded, playfully nudging you. "Part of the family at this point."

Maybe that is what is so inescapably intriguing about you. You've managed to carve your name into the castle's foundation and remain an anomaly among the countless faces that come and go.

There's something about you that has somehow allowed you to stay. 

So, Oliver naturally came to the conclusion that you were one of the missing pieces within his puzzle. The one thing to grant him fulfilment and bridge the gap between him and Felix. So useful and so sweet.

After all, he sees the way Felix looks at you, even if you may not notice. Glances that linger far too long, dopey smiles, and a feverish intensity in Felix’s gaze he’s never seen before. Sorely out of place among those angelic features, almost alien.

"Just make yourself at home." You'd both smiled so sweetly when you said it that Oliver could barely sleep that first night. Your presence quickly clawing its way into his consciousness to join Felix on his throne.

Haunting his dreams hand-in-hand, even during waking hours, it's unbearable—hours upon hours of pitiful fantasizing about you and Felix. He wishes you'd both just give in and accept that intrinsic craving gnawing at your bones.

Just let go and devour each other, as it should be. How delicious it'd be to watch you two press against each other, glistening with sweat and whispering filth, as teeth sink into skin in relentless fervour.

What a spectacle it'd be. He feels dizzy just thinking about it.

Your sweet face stained with hot tears as Felix pounds into you, and Oliver tenderly wipes them away to lick them off his fingers. His thumb in your mouth, your lips wrapping around it as you whimper and whine, looking up at him through your lashes. God, it'd be the death of him. 

He wants—no, he needs—for it to become reality. Otherwise, he'll really go mad in this godforsaken place. Oliver's eyes flutter shut as he palms his painfully hard erection through his flimsy boxers. 

Well, they're actually Felix's, but what does it really mean for something to belong to someone? Surely, Felix wouldn't mind sharing something as miniscule as underwear if he already so graciously took Oliver in for the summer, right?

He won't realize they're gone anyway, so who's to say Oliver can't indulge himself? He's here to enjoy his summer break after all and share with you all.

You wear Felix's clothes all the time, so who can really blame him for following suit? He just wants to fit in, really.

He slinks away from the doorway, silently skittering back to his own bedroom to settle in for what is ultimately bound to be another long night for poor old, lovesick Oliver. 

You two are wrecking him, reducing him to a needy, clingy mess.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Felix leans against the edge of the open window, revelling in the cool night breeze caressing his skin. A sloppily rolled joint is loosely clasped between his index and middle fingers as he stares into the blackness outside.

He takes a slow, absentminded drag from it, holding the smoke in until it makes his throat itch. He blows it into the wind and lets it get carried away, disappearing into the night. 

Hopefully, the smell doesn't wake you up; he'd hate to disturb you when you look so serene, your chest rising with measured breaths as you cradle his pillow. It's cute—unbearably so.

Felix swallows thickly; shame burns in his chest as he tries to suffocate the thoughts with another deliberate drag. It's all futile, though; he's been trying to will these feelings away for years now, with no hope for success. You're just so sweet and so irritatingly platonic in the way you act towards him.

It drives him up the fucking wall.

Everybody wants him; people bend over backwards and throw themselves head first into self-destruction to get a mere slither of his attention, and you just got him wrapped around your finger since the first time he laid eyes on you as a kid.

You're entirely inescapable. 

Usually, being so used to getting every last one of his needs and desires fulfilled, someone playing hard to get just plain kills his interest. Why should he fight for someone's interest when there are countless hot people practically pouncing on him?

All he has to do is snap his fingers, and he gets some cute guy sucking his dick or multiple chicks littering his neck in love bites. Never once in his life did he have to beg for someone to covet him. 

Except for you. Unattainable in a world in which he gets everything he could ever possibly ask for. The sheer cruelty of it all is enough to strip him of any rationale.

Every person he fucks ultimately reminds him of you. Whether it's the way they look up at him, as if he's holy, or the manner in which they say his name, it all just leads back to you, and he can't fucking break free from the chokehold you got him in. 

He doesn't even remember their faces; they're all blurred by his sheer need to replace them with you. All of them sound like you in his head, crying out his name and begging him to slow down. 

He takes another drag, groaning at the heat pooling in his abdomen.

It doesn't matter how many people he sleeps with or how many people bend to his every will, because none of them are you. And he's slowly growing insatiable, itching and aching to feel you and to taste you.

Adoration grows teeth and claws, boiling over and oozing down over his deprived heart to singe it with obsession. 

You shift in your sleep, sighing blissfully. He watches your shirt ride up—his shirt—to expose more and more of your soft skin.

Is the universe testing him? Could the dear devil himself be tempting him to complete his transformation into the horrible monster he so longs to be right now?

And you're wearing his boxers too, too exhausted to run back to your room to grab your own. So, of course, Felix offered his clothes. Because he's kind, and perhaps because it's truly a precious sight to behold.

He licks his lips, his darkened eyes fixated on the way they hug your hips and thighs. As if they're made for you, not for him.

There's a part of him that never wants to wash them, preserve your smell, and bury his face in them.

He's done it before, but he's still riddled by the guilt he felt after cumming on a pair of tight briefs you'd borrowed from him. It was the hardest he'd ever climaxed, though, and he simply can't get rid of the urge to do it again.

He chews on his lower lip, the joint in his hand now completely forgotten as his shorts grow unbearably tight. A warm, fuzzy feeling crawls down his neck and along the expanse of his shoulders. His judgement being clouded by the weed.

It's almost painful to be so close to you in such a vulnerable state.

What have you done to him?

It's all too much for him—the anguish from restraining himself in such a way is excruciating at this point. Something animalistic lingers beneath his skin, snarling and scratching at his bones to break free. So eager and so monstrous.

He quietly walks over to the bed, careful not to rouse you. Completely silent as he looms over you, tall, larger than life, and shrouded in darkness. If he wanted to, he could so easily overpower you and make you his right here and now. 

But that's not the point.

He wants you to choose him and to crave him like all the others. The only way he'll be satisfied is if you beg and tear yourself apart for him, just as he does for you every night. He wants you to crack your rib cage open to offer him your heart, still beating and oozing blood. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he reassumes his position next to you, his large frame easily filling the free space and almost curving around yours. For a few moments, he just lies there, savouring the feeling of casually sharing a bed with you, the proximity, and its near domestic idyll. Tracing your features with his eyes in complete adoration.

Would you wake up if he tried to wrap his arm around your waist? He so desperately wants to hold you close, breathe in your scent, and never let go. Maybe waking up cradled within Felix's arms would finally make you realize how seamlessly you two fit together. 

How perfect he is for you.

You shift in your sleep, dragging the hem of your shirt further upwards in what Felix assumes is an instinctual attempt to keep yourself from overheating.

Oh, you poor thing.

He hesitates for a second, reaching out his hand and letting it hover above the bunched-up fabric before gently freeing your entire torso. Merely to help you cool off, of course. He wouldn't want you to feel all sticky and gross in the morning from sweating all night.

Well, it depends on what kind of sweating. Ew, gross, Felix. Don't think about that, he winces.

Nonetheless, he lets his fingers ghost over your stomach, softly tracing the boxers' waistband. Fuck, he just can't keep his mind clean with you looking like this.

He sucks in a quiet breath through his teeth before shakily pressing his warm palm to your crotch and rubbing up against it ever so slightly.

Your breathing falters for just a moment, a weak mewl falling from your lips at the welcome pressure. Felix nearly groans when you unconsciously buck your hips into his hand to chase after the pleasant feeling.

Felix Catton is a weak man, quick to indulge in his compulsions, especially when it comes to you. You're like that one crack in the dam, threatening to split it open and flood the lands of composure in him with pure, shameless debauchery.

He spits onto his other hand, swiftly slipping it underneath his own waistband and wrapping it around his agonizingly hard dick. Fuck, the things he'd do to you if you just let him.

The heat radiating off you crawls up his arm, making his hair stand up and sending waves of white-hot need washing over him. This is so wrong, so utterly wrong in every way, but fuck, it feels so good.

He simply can't find it within him to stop, far too spellbound by the way your brows furrow when he lets his fingers run along over your core.

He laps up every sleepy whimper and gasp he pulls from you, biting his tongue to keep his own moans from spilling out.

Though he can't help but let his mouth hang open when he pictures your plush lips wrapped around his girth, your eyes big and so full of adoration as you look up at him. Tears stream down your face as he fucks your face, hitting the back of your throat and forcing you to swallow every last drop of his cum. 

You'd be so, so good for him. 

Felix lets his head fall back against his headboard, drawing blood from biting down on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to stay silent as he releases all over his fist.

A coppery taste spreads throughout his mouth, but he's too dazed to care. Mindlessly observing the wet spot on his underwear, it grows larger as he catches his breath.

God, he made such a mess. 

He pulls his hand out from beneath, spreading his fingers to watch the cloudy, viscous fluid stretch between them. 

He watches it glisten in the dim light before leaning over and carefully smearing it on your waist, drawing a heart shape as though he's simply doodling in a notebook. His thumb gently digs into your flesh, trying to massage it in.

Ultimately, though, you'll seemingly be waking up feeling a bit sticky after all. Hopefully, you won't question it too much, or he might have to come up with some sort of lie.

Good thing Felix lies with a vexing, graceful ease.

Felix wriggles the soiled boxers off, carelessly tossing them into one of the room's corners, and lifts himself off the bed to grab a fresh pair. He looks over his shoulder, making sure you're still fast asleep as he slips them on.

You haven't even moved an inch.

He smiles, amused and comforted by your ability to sleep through all that. He should be feeling deeply ashamed, ablaze with the flame of gut-wrenching remorse, but he doesn't. 

Instead, his appetite has just grown ever more ferocious. As if someone has released him from the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. Itching to get more, feel more. He's growing greedy. He's merely had a lick of what could be, savouring its heavenly taste on the back of his tongue.

For tonight, though, he'll let you rest. He wouldn't want to rob you of your beauty sleep. Not yet, at least.

Those nights will come, and he'll make sure of them.

Felix makes sure to keep the window open, crawling back into bed with you to settle in with his chest pressed to your side and his arm languidly slung over you. Your quiet snores softly lull him to sleep with a satisfied grin plastered on his face.

He'll have you caged in between his arms soon enough; just you wait, darling.

Such a beautiful, tranquil summer night, he muses.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Oliver feels as though the sun has grown even harsher, grilling him alive as he tries to get comfortable on the crickety deck chair. They're not very luxurious—a very noticeable exception among the obscenely extravagant furniture inside the Catton estate.

But, nonetheless, they're still quite cosy; the problem is how tense and jumpy Oliver himself is at the moment.

You're lounging in one of the ponds, skin wet and glistening in the late afternoon sun, as you casually chitchat with Venetia and Farleigh. All three of you stretched out on your apparently designated pool floats.

Farleigh nearly caved Oliver's head in when he tried grabbing his. Lesson learned. So, like the sweetheart you are, you generously offered him yours that day. 

"Don't be afraid to grab it whenever you'd like too. I don't mind at all." You smiled at him, and Oliver swears a halo encircled your head then. "Doesn't really belong to me anyway."

Oh, but it does. Because they all adore you, and he's sure if you merely asked, they'd buy hundreds of those pool floats without batting an eye.

Elspeth cooed over you just this morning, going on and on about how wonderful you look today. And you do, of course, but it's just so curious to see the Cattons so enamoured with some common person. She's totally infatuated with you.

Could it be that, with time, they simply forgot that you're not really one of them? Felix did say you're part of the family at this point, whatever that means to people like him.

Oliver lets his gaze wander the length of your legs. Your feet dipped into the cool water, your head leaning back and your sunglasses sitting on top of your nose, threatening to slip off any second now.

Farleigh, the whole reason he's been feeling so fidgety today, shoots you a mischievous smirk before splashing you with a handful of pond water. You yelp, nearly tipping your float over from the icy shock.

He chuckles at your reaction, which sounds how sandpaper scratching against Oliver's brain would probably feel like. Grating and violence-inducing. 

As soon as you regain your composure, you move to return the favour, but with two handfuls. Farleigh gasps in mock offence, jumping off his float to wade over to you as you laugh and shout at him to fuck off. 

Oliver purses his lips, scowling at the playful scene unfolding in front of him. He looks at Felix, dozing in the chair next to him, with the book he's been pretending to read all summer resting on his belly.

He chews at the inside of his cheek, a malicious idea suddenly popping into his pretty head. 

He nudges Felix, who lifts his head to drowsily raise his brows at him. "'S matter?" He mumbles.

Oliver, as nonchalantly as he can muster, nods his head in your direction before setting his little plan in motion. Big, innocent eyes as he peers at Felix.

"Seems like Farleigh got himself a little crush, eh?"

"What?" Felix's brows knit in confusion before he peeks over the rim of his Ray-Bans to see Farleigh shove you off the pool float and into the pond. 

A huge, goofy smile is on your attacker's face as he watches you resurface. Your face lights up with an unbridled but light-hearted thirst for revenge. Farleigh is quick to play along, pretending to fear his impending doom as he allows you to chase him out of the water and across the chalet gardens.

Both of you are giggling and squealing like children; it's sickening.

Oliver notices Felix's leg begin to bounce up and down impatiently, his jaw tensing when you tackle Farleigh to the ground. You laugh when he pokes your side to escape your clutches.

It's a horribly childish display, really. And entirely unnecessary. 

Felix nearly seethes, his chest rising and falling in tandem with an agitated sigh. Oh, is that jealousy Oliver's smelling?

Putrid and foul as it pollutes the air around the two of them, like toxic fumes rising from their pores. Their skin almost turns green from their relentless loathing, with half a mind to gruffly put a stop to your games.

"You really think so, mate?"

"Sure looks like it, doesn't it?" Oliver mutters, a theatrically naive lilt to his voice.

Felix just hums in response, bitterness and disgust written all over his otherwise flawless features. Plush lips contorted into a vague frown as he silently lights a cigarette.

Oliver turns away, pretending to yawn, in an attempt to conceal the pleased smile on his face. 

He just managed to successfully plant the seed of resentment and faux competition deep within Felix's mind. And he knows Felix can't stand not getting what he wants, much less when it comes to losing to Farleigh out of all people.

There's something about facing defeat when it's at the hands of someone you've deemed trustworthy your entire life.

If he could, Oliver would absolutely pat himself on the shoulder right now. Excellent work, mate. One step closer to achieving his goal.

And you're ever clueless to the web Oliver's silently and meticulously stringing up around you and Felix, wrapping his string around your neck and leaving you both none the wiser.

This might be easier than Oliver expected.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Part 2 coming soon :> !!

Please consider reblogging this if you enjoyed it! Likes are very much appreciated but sadly don't do much for writers and artists on Tumblr. By reblogging, you're telling us you'd like to see more and help our work reach more people that might be interested! Thank you so much :> ♡

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

11.01.2024

don't use "ftm" it's outdated and offensive. it implies that the trans person was their agab, which we never were. i was always a boy, never a girl who became a boy.

i'm 35 years old. i've been IDing as trans or something similar to trans for nearly 20 years. i was probably calling myself FTM while you were playing tag during recess, anon.

i WAS a girl. i IDed as a girl early in my life. i recognized myself as a girl, called myself a girl, lived as a girl, and was a girl. who then IDed as a man. hence, F t M.

spend more time worrying about yourself instead of strangers on the internet, anon.

sorry not sorry if this comes off as needlessly hostile, but i've been getting a lot of shit from a lot of teenage trans kids about the language i use to describe my own goddamn experience, and i'm growing real fuckin weary of it.

i have elder trans friends who call themselves transsexuals and transvestites and trannies. are you going to seriously go to a 60-year-old trans person who survived the reagan years and tell her she's not allowed to use certain language to describe herself because it might offend the delicate sensibilities of some teenager on the internet?

do yourself a favor and log off, find some real-life trans people who are over the age of 20 or 25, and spend time talking to them instead of getting all holier-than-thou at random strangers on tumblr.

Succession Preference: Handmade Presents From S/O

Requested: Preference: How the Siblings react to their S.O giving them a handmade gift? (maybe a bouquet of flowers they thoughtfully picked out at a florist themselves, baked goods, a coffee/tea mug they decorated or a homemade meal?) i hope this sounds good!! ♡ - anon

A/N: This is so cute my love!!!! Thank you for requesting!!! I really hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Connor appreciates your home cooked meals to no end. He thanks you forever. It doesn't matter if it took hours or thirty minutes, Connor won't let you live it down. He brags to his siblings all the time about how thoughtful and caring and considerate you are. You try to shrug it off like it's nothing, but he won't have that. Seriously. The only time he ever got anything home cooked was when he was a little kid, maybe once a year if his mother made him eggs or a grilled cheese. You go above and beyond when you cook. You never mind, you love sharing it with him. He compliments everything, making you laugh. Food is how you show your love. Sometimes, when you have the time, you make extra and send it with him to give to his brothers and sister. They love it, too. It's like they've never eaten before. They're all full of compliments and it makes them like you even more, which doesn't hurt either.

Kendall loves when you bake anything, but especially when you bake something he loves. You've been doing this since you were dating, but now that you're married it's become a rare occurrence. With work and life you don't always have the time. When you do, you like to send him to the office with everyone's favorites. Logan's blueberry muffins, Gerri's lemon squares, Karl's cinnamon rolls. You make extras of Kendall's favorites so he can have them at home and at work, surprising him when he gets home and the Tupperware is empty. It makes him feel so loved, so appreciated. He's a menace in the kitchen, always wanting to taste the raw batter and lick the icing. When you do it, it means you really thought about him, what he likes, what makes him happy. Not many people have done that in his life. But you? You make time for him and his happiness and that is priceless. It reminds him that he is capable of being loved.

Shiv isn't sure what to say. It's perfect. A bouquet of all her favorite flowers and colors in a vase she didn't even know either of you owned. Next to it is a little card with her name wishing her a good day. It sits on her office desk, just waiting for her. No one had ever done anything like this for her. Not her family, not Tom. She wasn't even sure he knew any one of her favorite flowers, and yet you had them all. You didn't sign the card, but you didn't have to. Tears well up in her eyes, but she's quick to blink them away. It's beautiful. She doesn't want to touch it or move it out of fear that petals might fall off. Once word spreads that you got specialized flowers sent to the office, the jokes start flowing in. She doesn't care what anyone has to say about this, especially her father and brothers. She feels so loved and seen, the most she's ever felt in her life. When she gets home she talks lightly of it, thanking you, but you can see the smile she's trying to hide. This small act means the world to her.

Roman is shocked. He doesn't know what to say. You start to feel insecure, like this wasn't something he'd like let along love. Under the ribbon and wrapping paper is a handmade mug with the date you officially became a couple. It was a little misshapen, but other than that it was perfect. You'd picked out the perfect color palette, too. All his favorite colors. No one had ever done anything like this for him before. No one has ever thought about him so thoughtfully. Roman holds out his hands, careful, scared he's going to break it. He looks it over a few times and holds it close before realizing who he's supposed to be. This fucking thing, it's, it's- thank you. That's the last thing he says about it. You catch him using it almost every day, holding it with both hands, hand washing it. He truly loves it. So much. It's his most prized possession. He never says anything about it again, though you catch him going through every cupboard looking for it, mumbling to himself. It's right in front of you, Rome. He breathes a huge sigh of relief. If he lost it or broke it he's not sure what he'd do.

when roman said he's gonna do the funeral speech i just went "oh no..."

Dependence Pt. 3 (Roy!Sibling x Roy Family)

Character/s: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Roman, Logan

Word Count: 2,054

Warning: addiction, drugs, alcohol, death mention

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: Idk how angsty this is on a scale of 1-10, but I can tell you it's actually very sweet and very heartbreaking. Baby Roy is going through it!!! I love them!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 1 / Dependency Pt. 2

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt One.

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include Pt. Two

The first number you called was Logan’s. The next was Kendalls. The last was Connor’s. Slurred, sleepy, assuring him you were going to be okay. You would be okay because the shaking had stopped, you were warming up again, you were feeling better. You couldn’t keep your eyes open though, the lids too heavy. Curled into a ball in the booth, cradling a stranger's phone, slipping into unconsciousness. He said something, something that sounded sad, panicked. You were going to be okay, you felt so light. Your pulse is barely there. He yelled again, but it was incoherent. You were tired, the exhaustion setting deep into your bones. If you just put your head down, if you shut your eyes for a moment, then you could get some sleep. You’d be alright. The last coherent words from your mouth was an apology: I’m so sorry, I’m fucked up. I’m sorry. . . You were so light, so far away. It felt nice. No more anger. No more rage. No more self-hatred. Finally, you were free. Free from it all, free from him, from life. 

He peered over your crib, taking you all in. you were a few months old, just staring up at him. Your eyes are so wide, so new to the world. You slept in the nursery they’d all been in, though things were different. Boxes of things had been placed in the corners, on the floor of the closet, as if you were only a temporary guest. You reached up, cooing at the mobile. Zoo animals spinning round and round. Your mother and Logan off somewhere, doing something, unbothered by the little life they created. You were a quiet baby, as if you already knew what was coming, as if you could sense the irritation in your fathers voice every time you cried, hissing at your mother to quiet you down. Neither of them were fit for this kind of job, as young as he was, Roman could sense it. When your smile fell, he picked you up, out of the crib, and sat back in the rocking chair. A few whimpers was all you let out, as if you were already bottling it up inside. He remembers how small you were, how sorry he was. Not just for your father, your mother, the both of them terribly one minded, only ever thinking of themselves, but for this life as well. It wasn’t easy, that much he’d learned in his short life. It would never be easy. The money, the luxury, it helped, but it could only do so much cushioning. A fresh bruise throbbed over his eye. That day, in your cramped bedroom where it seemed like they put just about anything in, he made a promise to you. He’d never let you get hurt. He’d never let them hurt you the way they hurt him. You smiled up at him, all gums, like you knew what he was saying, like you were thanking him. It would not be an easy job. Pacing the floors of the emergency room, the realization struck him like a slap to the face: he failed. He failed you. He hadn’t protected you from anything, especially your father. He didn’t do what he’d promised you. 

You stood to the side of Shiv’s bed, blankie thrown over your shoulder. You were too frightened to wake her, not wanting to scare her, so you were as still as possible. Your breathing ragged from the nightmare, your cheeks still wet. Lately, you've been having one every night. Your room, without the toys, without the decorations, without anything, felt more like a prison than your bedroom. You were being punished again. Quietly, you tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs, to where their bedrooms were. The boys doors were shut, but Shiv’s had been left slightly open. You took that as a sign, taking the handle in your chubby little hand. Her room had looked the same since you could remember. She slept soundly on her side. Barely above a whisper, you called her name. Shivy? Over and over again until she stirred. She used to jump when you came in, when you woke her, but this had become routine the last few weeks. If it wasn’t her, it was Ken or Rome. One of them always woke up to you in their bed, unable to bear yours any longer. A nightmare, you’d confess. They’d nod, understanding all too well, making room for you beside them. She doesn’t say anything, wordlessly moving to the other side, opening the blankets. You climbed up next to her, making sure Blankie got there too. She let her arm fall on to you, holding you close. She’d always remembered the way you smelled. Sweet, sweaty, warm. Her face buried in your hair, tightening her grip. You were so small, so scared. She couldn’t fall back to sleep until she heard your shallow breathing even. You never had any nightmares with her. That’s what she thought of you when she saw you in that bed, how she was living a nightmare, that if she’d been there for you, if she’d let you climb into her bed, none of this would have happened.

He’d asked you to dance at your mothers wedding. It was one of the first times in a long time you weren’t drinking yourself to bed. She’d been married four, five times. It wouldn’t last long, they never did. You were just thankful she decided not to have anymore kids. Though, what did that say about you? He found you sitting at one of the many tables, watching everyone else dance. He held out his hand. It took you a moment to realize just what he was asking, shrugging before you stood, taking his hand. She’d invited your brothers and sister despite not knowing them very well, needing bodies to fill up chairs. She invited everyone she knew every time, though the guest list grew smaller and smaller with every debut. There were only so many last names a woman could collect before people stopped caring. She’d whined about it to you before she walked down the aisle, calling them ungrateful and selfish for ruining her day. She seemed happy now, swaying in the arms of another Logan-type, her veil lifted by the wind. Picturesque. He leads you to the dance floor, his hand on your back, the other in yours. Kendall seemed content, a rare occurrence for him. He looked nice, dressed in a lightly colored suit for the summer wedding, smiling down at you. You placed your head against his chest, taking him in, grateful for his presence in that moment. You hadn’t realized how unhappy you’d been, how taxing doing this all over again was. Your mother wasn’t the root cause for your problems, but she didn’t help. It felt like every day was her wedding day. Every day it was about her, her wants, her needs, and it was all a disaster. In the end she got what she wanted, in the end she was the only one left smiling. You caught him watching you think, unsure of what his mind was doing. He remembered it like it was yesterday. You seemed so grown up, so worn down. Not like the baby he remembered. He hugged you a little tighter, not wanting this moment to pass. Now it was too late. You looked so defeated, so young, it scared him. What could he have done to stop this? Surely there was something, something he could have done to prevent this. He never should have let you go. 

That night is burned into his memory forever. You were crying, sobbing into the phone. You were so scared, so alone. When he got the call, he moved without thinking. He got in the car and started driving, trying to keep you on the phone. You dropped a pin in the middle of nowhere. You were so tired. Not just exhausted, but you ached in the marrow of your bones. You were so done with this life, with everything. You’d hoped, in your moment of desperation, of sincerity, that your father would care. That he would come to your rescue, save you from yourself. Instead Connor pulled up to the sidewalk you’d been sitting on, opening the passenger side door for you. You wiped your tears with the palms of your hands, unable to say anything, to defend yourself, your actions. He didn’t yell like you were expecting, he didn’t ask a million questions or patronize you. Internally he was lost. Should he drive you to the hospital? Back to Dads? In the end, he brought you home, to his place. You wanted to thank him, to apologize for being such a mess, but all you could do was press your head against the cold window and cry. You weren’t sure what time it was, what day it was, the last time you slept. Days, probably. He grabbed your hand, the other on the wheel, rubbing his thumb against the back of it. That made you cry harder. Connor hated to see you like that. You were his baby after all. He squeezed your hand off and on, three times. I love you. You were small in his car, fragile, covered in bruises. The bags under your eyes were so dark, so painful looking. He’d never forget it, the way you flinched at the sight of him, like you were waiting for an explosion. He wasn’t angry or disappointed, he was petrified for you. If he could go back, would he have done anything differently? He’s not sure. Would changing anything have an impact now? You were sleeping, IV’s in your arms, wires stuck to your chest, the hospital gown hanging off you. You were skin and bone. The rings around your eyes so black, so bruised. He didn’t think you could look worse after that night, and yet, again, you’ve proved him wrong. He didn’t think it could get worse. He squeezed your hand three times, over and over again, so it would be the first thing you felt when you woke up. I love you. I love you. I love you.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. That didn’t happen to you, not even when you were sure you were gone for good. Instead, it was your life that flashed before their eyes. All the best moments, the worst, the things they had and hadn’t done as older siblings, all their failings. Someone called an ambulance. They used Narcan and charcoal. You were covered in sickness, shaking, gasping for air. In and out of it, not wanting any of them to see you like this. It was you and the nurses, everyone else left to wait in the emergency room, trickling in as soon as they got there. You hadn’t slept in days, exhausted, sobbing. The nurses held you as you cried out, sucked from the blackness back to real life. Everything hurts. Everything stung. Everything you’d done came flooding back. Regret sat heavy on your chest. You were almost gone, so close. It was so light, so airy. You screamed, wanting to go back, wanting to be back there, in that booth, in the club, far away from here. The frustration at yourself suffocated you. It was inescapable. There was no running from it anymore. They gave you something to calm you down, letting you sleep. Finally, It wasn’t the same kind of floating feeling, but it was close enough. Your brothers and sister sat beside you, scared to touch you. You were so little, so broken. Of course you wouldn’t do well, they thought. Of course you shouldn’t have been left on your own like that. Of course this happened. Connor held your hand, the only one brave enough to touch you. They weren’t sure what they were going to do or say when you woke up, but they could feel it on the tip of their tongues: the sadness, the anger, the apologies, the hurt. They knew, whatever they did, they had to be there for you, like they’d been before. When you cried. When you had nightmares. When you were getting better and when you fell again. They’d be there for everything.

♥♥♥

T4T.

pairing: trans!eddie munson x transmasc! reader

type: fluff <3

cw: nothing (:

other: some eddie t4t hcs while I work on requests

# met during pre-T

# supportive wayne bro, helped him come up with a name

# sweetest bby

# you take your T shots together <3

# wayne taught him how to shave. he prefers a smooth face and finds the facial hair too itchy

# loves when you look after his scars and make sure that they heal right

# before surgery you had to remind him a lot to bind properly, a lot of the time he would forget because of his campaigns or whatever else was going on in his life

# you had to tell his ass to stay in bed after surgery

# he was extremely mopey because he had to stop taking T postop, so you'd remind him how handsome he is. you just lay in bed with him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear to get him through it

# adores the fact you took care of him during his recovery, so he did the same. never leaves your side after surgery

# if he's feeling dysphoric you drop whatever it is you're doing to comfort him. even if it's important. you'll call him at any hour and tell him you're coming over, and smother him in love

# if you feel dysphoric he tries his best to distract you, mostly by playing his guitar or pampering you

# not many people know that you two are trans. mostly close friends and family for obvious reasons. eddie does like showing off his scars though, so maybe the occasional people know

# he was picked on a lot (before taking T and getting top surgery), so he got called a faggot or a sissy. a lot of people mistook it for him not going through puberty

# style his hair for him <333

# he gets excited whenever bottom growth happens so expect a lot of excited screaming

# sock packers (:

# he gets so happy when you call him handsome (:

masterlist.

Petals (Roy!Sibling x Connor Roy)

Character/s: Connor, Shiv, Roman, Logan, Willa, Marcia

Word Count: 1,315

Requested: hello! is it okay if i request more roy baby sibling and connor? i’d like to see them asking connor to dance at shiv’s wedding (or maybe even at his wedding?)! thank you :) - anon

Requested: your younger roy sibling hcs have been rotting my brain recently and now im imagining 8 year old them making a drawing for connor's birthday that is them holding hands with big hearts and "wish you were my daddy" written in big kid letters (probably with spelling mistakes) and connor just like. sobbing when he reads it. i feel like hed be such a big father role to a significantly younger sibling (i personally imagine them and roman having a around 10 year gap, so thats probably like ~35 years of different between them and connor). and we all know what a shitty dad logan is/was, so i can see younger sibling calling connor after some big fight with logan and crying while begging him to pick them up and let them live with him and it breaks his heart cause logan would never let it happen and he tried but couldnt protect ken and shiv and rome and he just wishes he could at least protect his baby sib but he just cant and it kills him. anyway happy thursday thought haha roy family brainrot - @fromirkwood

Inspired By: Petals on the Moon by Wasia Project

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: I know the second one wasn't exactly a request, but I couldn't get it out of my head!!! Big Bro Connor is my absolute favorite!! I hope this doesn't rot in your brain too long my love lol. I just couldn't get it out of my head, especially when it was combined with the other request!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Time is a thief, at least that’s what he thinks when he looks at you, spinning with your sister on the dance floor. Your smile is so bright, so wide, your cheeks flushed. You drank too much, no doubt it was Roman refilling your glass without your notice. The song picks up speed, picks up in joy, and you break out into laughter, you and Shivy. It’s as if you’re in your own world and only she’s in it. You spin and jump and sing along, your niece and nephew beside you and the bride. He hasn’t seen you this electric, this alive, so much like your old self, in weeks. Connor considered himself lucky to be able to watch, to bear witness. Just moments ago you were a baby, doodling with your thick crayons, mistakenly calling him Dad instead of Logan. Only recently had he learned that's who he was in your phone, Dad, that Logan was simply Logan. Years pass, but so little changes. He still had all your fathers day cards stashed away, hidden before your real father caught what you were doing. Stick figures, one tall, one small, hand in hand surrounded by flowers and butterflies and other bugs. Happy Fathers Day Connor. Your uppercase letters always slanted, crooked, his name spelled with one N instead of two. It wasn’t long until his figure started sprouting gray hair, graying far earlier than anyone else in the family, and yours grew taller every year. Connor feared you might have forgotten about him, that you were getting too old to need your eldest brother like your siblings had, but you proved him wrong after that night. 

You hadn’t even wanted to go to the wedding. It was so bad. Whatever was said and done remained a mystery. You wouldn’t tell him, tell anyone, just that it was bad. He’d gone with Willa to pick something out for you, knowing you left the house with nothing. You refused to try it on, to come out of the spare bedroom. It wasn’t until the day before when they were getting ready to leave, accepting that there was no way you were going, did you come out with your outfit packed. You weren’t going to miss Shiv's big day because of him, you declared, and it was settled. He couldn’t contain his excitement, grinning from ear to ear. Letting her down, letting him down, just because of your old man, it seemed like a cruel punishment. You sat beside him in the plane, his hand on your knee, trying to disregard the dread in your chest. They’d all heard about your big blow out, they all wanted to know, going to Connor first instead of you. You were the closest, you told him everything. When he had nothing to say, when all he could offer was a warning, it said something, something more than he was expecting: whatever happened got to you. It genuinely hurt you. They imagined the worst, unsure of what to do. He was at a loss, too. Your father could say and do as he pleased, you’d always been the best at ignoring him, especially when he was in one of his moods, but this time? This time was different. It stung more than all of the other fights you’d had with him, and there were some memorable ones. Never had you yelled back like that, never had you stormed out in a fury, never had you sobbed to your brother like that on the phone. This wasn’t the kind of thing that would go away on its own. It wouldn’t heal with time. 

He could almost forget the crack in your voice as he watched you now. That sad, crying child looked so different from the young adult on the dance floor. Eventually you came over to him, asking him to dance. As if on cue, a slower song came on. This was far different than the last time you danced together. You stood on his shoes, swaying, giggling that high pitched giggle, the one that made his heart melt. You were so little then, so tiny, he was scared to let go. Now you swayed on your own, your arms around him as if you’re scared he’ll flee, your face buried into his chest. Thank you for letting me stay with you. It came out mumbled, muffled, but he understood. Anytime, kiddo. You’re a pleasure to have. Your eyes were big when you looked up at him, as if trying to decipher if he was telling the truth or not. His smile, so reassuring, told you he meant it. I’m sorry about Pops. you shook your head, not wanting to hear his name, not wanting your brother to carry the guilt for him. If he was going to apologize you were going to hear it from him. Not anyone else. Connor spent the entire night putting distance between the two of you, becoming your human shield. Logan, it seemed, had completely forgotten about the whole ordeal, kissing Shiv, saying hello to your brothers, like nothing was amiss. They each shared a glance, all looking to Connor for help, for guidance, just like they had when they were little. He knew what he had to do. How bad was it, kiddo? He asks. Bad. It’s all you can say without upsetting yourself all over again. 

He called you his greatest failure. Spineless. A mistake. You don’t remember how it started, only that you were bleeding out on the floor before him and he refused to put the knife down. A plague to the Roy name, a curse, a bad seed. You never should have been born. A loser. Incompetent. He’s not sure where you came from, but you are certainly not his. You should be smarter, work harder, but instead you are nothing, you are nobody. No one has ever or will ever love you. It hits you so hard, so forcefully, it knocks the wind out of you. He means it, he means every word, but especially that. That’s what kills you, that’s what makes the tears slip down your cheeks. That’s not true, you try to spit back, but he’s not listening and you’re crying, and you’re proving him right. He keeps talking. You can’t hear it, though. You’re gone. You’ve retreated into yourself, so far back he cannot possibly get you. You stand there, unmoving, as he gets in your face. No one has or will ever love you. No one has or will ever love you. It plays on loop, again and again until you cannot breathe. Finally you back away, you run from him, slamming each door behind you. Marcia calls out to you, hearing what went down, but nothing can stop you. Through the busy sidewalks, sobbing uncontrollably, you call him. You can’t repeat what he said, you still can’t. You know that would make him furious, all of them, and it is not their burden to carry. A quiet fear has settled in the back of your mind: what if he’s right? 

If he knew, if Connor knew, he would have killed his father. No one said that to his baby, no one ever dared talk to you that way. But he doesn’t, and he never will. You have vowed to yourself that neither him nor your other siblings will know, for fear that they might agree with him. That they’ll show you he’s right. Instead they watch you carefully, ready to intervene should that be necessary. You hold on to him tight long after the song ends, not wanting to let go, to be alone with Logan's words. Connor doesn’t mind at all. He’s his happiest when his siblings need him, when you need him. He’ll always be there to rescue you. Always. It’s his job, you’re his greatest love. You all are.