#this is so maudlin lmao sorry

[thee-morrigan]

sincerity is scary

character(s): Holland Townsend, plus a lil Verda at the beginning (technically, Nate's not in this but my god is he living rent-free in Holland's mind) wc/rating: 3.2k / T (swearing) warnings: so many spoilers for Book 3 (all below the cut ofc!) read on ao3 in case anyone’s wondering, Holland still thinks the scariest thing she’s up against is her own stupid heart.

“Come on, Verda, you have to have something for me. I want to do things. I need to do things.”

“You know, some research suggests that feeling the need to be busy all the time is a trauma response,” the pathologist responded mildly, not looking up from the tray of instruments he was busy sterilizing. “That it’s a fear-based compulsion to distract your brain from meaningfully processing traumatic events.”

“You wanna send me those citations, then, and I can distract myself with some light reading?” Holland snapped back, but there was no heat in it.

Verda paused his work then and turned, giving a huff of laughter whose lightness was somewhat diminished by the careful assessment in his eyes as they swept her face. Although they’d started out, as many good friends do, brought together not by fate or fortune but chance proximity, they had quickly discovered bright shared threads of themselves in each other beneath the veneer of professional courtesy and had found themselves fast companions ever since.

He respected her as a colleague, of course; more than he’d expected, if he was honest. She had a stronger background in his line of work than he’d dared to hope in such a small station, which made her a useful colleague to have when he found himself stymied by something. And — perhaps most importantly — she didn’t pester him with questions she didn’t even know were asinine when a case experienced delays. He’d liked Detective Reele more or less, but she’d been marginally tolerable when things didn’t move at the speed she decided appropriate, regardless of whether he could make degraded tissue spontaneously re-materialize when she decided she wanted clearer fingerprints. No, Detective Townsend was a better colleague, that was certain. 

More than just respecting her work, though, he liked Holland in general; she brought a borderline acerbic levity to the station that balanced against Tina’s more exuberant nature and his own tendency to forget to venture upstairs at least once a day. She wasn’t calmer than Tina, exactly — he wasn’t sure calm was a word that had ever been used to describe Holland Townsend. But if Tina was something in the neighborhood of bubbly, all iridescent soap shine and rounded edges, Holland was something sharper, something fizzing, like a live wire.

When he looked at her now, though, he saw less of the bright crackle of energy and more of the kind of nervous energy that led people to market abhorrent devices like fidget spinners. She looked restless. She looked tired.

—

Holland was tired. Goddamn exhausted, actually, if she was honest with herself, which seemed to be almost never these days. She didn’t let herself linger on the way that thought chafed any more than she let herself slow down enough for that bone-deep weariness to press its full weight against her.

It was better to keep moving.

“You know, you’re probably overdue for a vacation,” Verda’s voice, more tinged with concern than it had been a moment ago, cut through her reverie. “I’m pretty sure your promotion to detective didn’t entitle you to less PTO.”

The spark of wry humor in his comment didn’t fully mask the shade of careful observation in his eyes, but…it was an attempt. An easy out for her to muster her usual grinning nonchalance — the irreverent charm Adam had once snarked at her about relying on too heavily.

If it ain’t broke, I guess, she thought, swallowing the urge to sigh as she indeed summoned a half-smile, made herself look her friend in the eye as she tilted her head at him.

“There you go with that concern again, V,” she teased, rising from her perch on the edge of a spare lab bench.

“It’s almost like we’re friends,” he said dryly, although some of the tension in his face eased.

“Which is why I’m gonna let you get back to it and quit bugging you.” Holland moved toward the open lab door and paused, resting one hand against the door jamb as she flashed Verda a more genuine smile. “Thanks, though. For letting me bug you.”

He waved her comment off, though he returned her smile. “Anytime. Besides, I’m hoping things will finally start calming back down with those recent cases sorted. Then we’ll both probably relish any interruptions to the usual humdrum.”

It was all she could do to dredge up a hum of laughter in agreement before stepping back into the corridor, only letting her shoulders slump once she was safely ensconced in her office.

She hadn’t told any of them yet that she was leaving the station. She’d have to soon; she knew that, knew she’d been putting it off far too long already. And, as her mother had pointed out, it wasn’t as if she was never going to be able to see them again. Her friends would still be her friends. They just wouldn’t work together anymore.

Or mostly get to know what she even did for work anymore.

She wasn’t even entirely sure how much she could still keep Tina in the loop, as much as she might wish to. She didn’t have any reason to be particularly suspicious of Agent Pierson, the woman the Agency had sent to spy on Tina from within the station. But as much as she trusted Tina —with her secrets but also to take care of herself— she worried that the balm of having a confidant who was just hers was no longer truly available to her, at least not in the way it had been. Part of that fear, she knew, came from knowing she couldn’t reveal that the so-called new officer was not exactly who she seemed. In all likelihood, the whole arrangement probably really was for Tina’s safety, and probably nothing to worry about, but…Holland still felt like she was lying to her. And not the kind of lying she was comfortable with.

A liar and a coward, she thought as she sat at her desk, chin propped in her hands. She felt that constricting weight begin to settle against her, her skin too tight along her bones, and jerked to her feet again before that melancholia could curl catlike into her lap and trap her there.

She supposed it was useful that everyone had become so inured to her abrupt comings and goings from the station; no one bothered to look up as she walked out into the bright heat of the midday sun, its sticky warmth blanketing her body after a morning spent in the over-conditioned chill of the station’s air.

—

She ended up back in her apartment more out of habit than any real desire to be there. For a while, she found herself drifting, unmoored and aimless, between rooms. She should try to rest, she knew that, knew that if she could sleep she would feel better. 

These days, though, she too often found herself reaching for sleep only to close her fist around endless, empty time. 

She tried to read, to lose herself in another universe for a while, but gave up after she realized that while she’d technically read a whole chapter, she had no idea what had happened in it. 

She thought about playing guitar but figured if she couldn’t focus on reading, she probably wouldn’t fare much better at making anything that sounded like music instead of discordant strumming.

Plus she was already bored of sitting still in the empty quiet of her apartment.

Pushing herself off her window seat, Holland strode to her dresser and tugged out shorts and a sports bra. Experience had taught her long ago that she couldn’t outrun her own brain, but at least she could tire her body enough that she was forced to sleep, at least a little.

—

Because she was already tired, it took longer than usual to find her pace, especially without any music to give her a cadence she could match. In deference to safety, she’d decided against headphones; probably a wise choice   — definitely a wise choice, she reminded herself, hardly a choice at all unless she decided to start actively courting disaster — but one that did nothing to lessen the weight of that heaviness that kept pulling at her, brutal and swift as a rip current. Still, after three miles, she felt some of the tension in her body ebb, some of that near-constant tightness in her chest yielding its grip enough for breathing to come easier, deep and steady draughts of air filling her lungs. 

For a long while, there was only the blessed gentle warmth of summer air, the quiet scraping thump of her sneakers against the sidewalk, and the pleasant ache of her muscles stretching and contracting. Slowly, mile after mile, she felt her body become less foreign, each pounding step bringing it closer to the skin and bones and thudding heart that she recognized as her own. Felt each clenching beat of that too-human muscle in her chest insisting it was where it belonged, safe within its cage of bone and flesh. Felt the reassurance that her heart hadn’t been torn from her chest and left, raw and bleeding, outside her body. 

No matter how it might feel lately. 

A liar and a coward. 

The sharp dig of a knife between her ribs, the claws of that familiar tightness latching into her chest again, and—

Breathe. 

She sucked in air with a sharp gasp, forced her lungs to expand, to draw air in and in and in until she could feel those claws retract.

Until she felt the thought she’d almost had, the one she still hadn’t let herself articulate even within her own mind, retract with them.

Another kind of lie. Another thing she was too much of a coward to confront.

Holland sucked in another breath, letting the sultry weight of that summer air fill her, fill all the cold, empty spaces that lurked within her. Let the warmth of it incinerate the other unarticulated thoughts and shadows of memory before they could turn their baleful, accusatory eyes back toward her. 

Turning her own gaze outward once more, she scanned her surroundings, squinting at a nearby street sign as she passed and trying to decide how much further until she really would need to loop back. Holland’s run had taken her well into the outskirts of town. It wasn’t her preferred route, which snaked through the woods near the Cornerstones and eventually toward the marina, but at least this route hadn’t taken her through Wayhaven proper. Or required her to skirt the station, as her usual path would have. Even if she was leaving — even if no one seemed to really notice or care whether she was, at any given moment, in her office these days — she still didn’t think running directly past the station in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon was necessarily appropriate. 

So Holland found herself instead approaching the winding series of long hills that would eventually lead her toward the hospital. Her knees ached just thinking about those hills. None were particularly steep, but they stretched further than was typically noticeable in a car. On foot, though…no, it was probably past time for her to begin finding her way back home. 

It had been a while since she’d been on a long run. A long while, actually, and she knew her legs would likely ache come morning, even with the shorter maintenance runs she tried to squeeze in whenever she could. Which had been no chance at all these past weeks, between work and what felt like an endless cycle of injury and suffocatingly long recovery. Indeed, she felt the muscles in her thighs protest as she crested one hill before veering right, toward the streets leading back into town. Oh, she would certainly feel the cost of this impromptu long run in the morning.

Although it might be a nice change, she supposed, if her body ached from something other than having the shit kicked out of her by Trappers. Or crumbling buildings. Or winged giants who caused said buildings to end up in pieces on top of her. And those were only some of the most recent aches.

She rolled her shoulders, shaking her arms to diffuse the pressing tension of that memory, her breath a sharp scrape against her throat. 

Fine. She was fine. Despite the strain of these past months, she continued to be perfectly fine. Had gotten through everything that’d been thrown at her. Not entirely smoothly, certainly not effortlessly, but…she had gotten through it. Would continue to do so, perhaps with greater ease than before if her new role indeed provided increased training. She could handle it. She would handle it.

It was the same argument she’d given Nate after the auction, almost two weeks ago now. As to whether she believed it any more now than she had then…another thought she wasn’t ready to have yet. 

I am in love with you, Holland.

Another familiar ache in her chest, one more bruise on her already battered heart. She shut down that train of thought, almost stumbling as she worked to redirect that particular train of thought. To shut out the image that flashed across her mind’s eye, of how Nate’s face had looked in that conversation. The way he’d looked at her, the agony that had streaked across his beautiful face, and how neatly and thoroughly it had eviscerated her. 

That pain. That pain that she had caused.

I don’t know how this is going to work.

She’d had to remind herself how to breathe. Had to remind herself to breathe through the lashing pain of how much she’d hated herself for putting that look on his face. And for knowing that it would likely be far from the last time. 

Because she didn’t know either.

She didn’t know how to avoid it, this hurting him. Didn’t know how to be an easier person to love. 

And as for what she did know, what she’d suspected and quietly fretted over for weeks now…

That hideous weight tugged beneath her ribs and Holland sped up, pushing past the bleating tremor in her thighs, the burning ache in her chest. Pushed that thought out, out, out—

“Fuck!” The word was little more than a hiss as the world tipped and roiled and Holland went flying, elbows skidding and knees barking as she hit the pavement.

Between the subsequent string of violent curses and what remained of her pride, she supposed she was relieved to still be closer to the outskirts than the town center. If running past the station in the middle of a Tuesday was arguably inappropriate, the selection of words that flew out of her mouth as she eased to a seat on the ground was indisputably so. 

She winced as she examined the shredded skin on her forearms, her knees. She hadn’t even fallen well: the most she’d done before splaying gracelessly on the street had been to land more on her arms than her hands. Not her first choice, or at least it shouldn’t have been, but at least she hadn’t broken her wrists. Or anything else, as far as she could tell, looking her latest batch of wounds over as she rose to her feet.

Holland hissed again as she gingerly flexed her left leg, which had borne the brunt of the impact and now sported angry red scrapes along her knee and halfway up her thigh. Just scrapes, but ones that stretched painfully when she bent her leg. 

Swallowing another mouthful of curses, she pulled free the water bottle attached to her running belt, unstoppering it with her teeth before she squeezed a stream of water along first one leg, then the other, and then the smaller scrapes on her arms and elbows. They stung like all hell, but at least they looked slightly better with most of the dirt and grime rinsed away. Naturally, she’d forgotten to bother checking if she’d needed to restock the handful of bandages she usually kept in one of the belt’s pockets; naturally, she only unearthed one after fumbling through every goddamned pocket, the lone bandage too small to be of much use unless she fancied ripping adhesive off part of an open wound later.

She exhaled, sharp and impatient, and raked a hand over the sweat-dampened strands of hair that had broken free of her stubby ponytail and now lay plastered to her forehead. 

No new scars indeed. She snorted as she recalled Nate’s words in that forest clearing, back before they’d even known what manner of myth hunted her. She doubted it had occurred to him that she’d likely continue to rack up scars earned through her own sheer stupidity. God, but that felt like a lifetime ago.

She drained the remains of her water bottle before slotting it back in its elastic holster at her hip. She toed the ground, wincing at her protesting kneecap, and considered. Depending on the route she took, she wasn’t that far from her apartment. The circuitous route she’d intended to follow was obviously out, but she could take a more direct one and be back relatively quickly. Walking, it would take…she did the math, frowning. Walking back, assuming she kept her regular pace, would likely take her the better part of two hours. She stretched her legs again, shifting experimentally from one foot to the other. She was hurt, yes, but it was definitely only superficial, and not so bad she couldn’t probably run home as well as she could walk. Running would be faster, even with what would certainly be a much slower pace. Would likely cut the return time in half, actually, though she knew it would hurt. Of course, it would hurt to walk home, too. 

Holland’s shoulders sagged. Since she’d stopped moving, her body had started to register physical exhaustion, had begun to grow heavy with it, and she wanted to be home. Wanted a shower and her bed and a different kind of silence than the kind that felt like a scream.

She did have another option, some small part of her mind pointed out before she shut that thought out, too. Technically, the warehouse, where she had a bed and a shower and certainly less silence, was a bit closer to her current location than her own apartment. However begrudgingly, Holland had to admit the thought tempted her. Tempted her more when she thought of the magic-imbued salve, leftover from what had been her most recent batch of injuries, stashed in a bathroom cabinet. To say nothing of the vampire whose mere presence soothed her more than any medicine.

Her frown deepened. She was tired of showing up at the warehouse battered and bloody. Really goddamned tired of it. 

She straightened, rolling her shoulders and breathing deep. Her apartment wasn’t that far, and it was only a skinned knee. Well, two skinned knees, actually, and her elbows, but…

Holland released that deep breath and set off,  a tentative jog while she found her new pace, toward the town center and her apartment beyond.

She didn’t much feel like reminding anyone how easily she broke apart.

#this is so maudlin lmao sorry #she's not having a great time #katie writes things #twc book 3 spoilers #twc spoilers #twc fics #oc: holland townsend #ship: your entire heart

[equalseleventhirds]

been watching gomens 2 electric boogaloo and I'm not done yet so it may change,

but while it's fine as a tv show and ofc yay more queer couples and it follows rather naturally from how s1 was done

I do find that, even more than s1 (and s1 did do it quite a bit), it strips away all the stuff I really loved about the book.

the inventive worldbuilding, like demons traveling by telephone and the horsepeople. the clever way multiple seemingly unconnected stories wove together and affected each other, often unknown to the participants. the very genuine focus on everyday life and happenstance and people just being people, and that being enough to shake the fabric of the universe—for good or evil or something else. the shape of belief, and the way it can warp strangely. even just like. adam and the them. aziraphale being secretly bitchy as hell. etc.

like it's.... fine. it's fun. I'm not saying don't enjoy it, hell, I even enjoy it fine if I turn off my brain for a bit. it's allowed to be a continuation obvs and would ofc lose some of the book stuff, but like... idk, the core of what the book was About, to me, is missing. has been missing, a bit, but more noticeably. u kno. and I miss it.

#sorry to anyone who rly loves it I just can't forget the book I love so much #it feels like fanfic but like..... kinda flat fanfic #and u all already know how much I like my fanfic to be like.... exploratory to worldbuilding n stuff lmao #it's fun it rly is I'm just. maudlinly missing the thing I loved so much. #it's also so so late and I've had SUCH a long week. two weeks. more. #so I am perhaps more maudlin and salty than usual

[nakasomethingkun]

Hi, I don't know if you're doing prompts or not, but if you are, could you consider maybe: Andrew and Neil being on separate teams, Andrew getting very sick and Neil flies over to take care of him, but Andrew thinks he's dreaming. When he wakes up the next morning he sees Neil in his house and says something like "I thought you were a fever dream" and Neil says cheekily "I'm not a hallucination" and Andrew smiles and says "you're a pipe dream" like that but really soft? thanks xxx

Living alone has been a steep learning curve. 

Andrew has never had his own place, and he has never lived alone. Being shunted from one foster home to another, being thrown into a juvenile center, being delivered to his birth mother’s apartment door like he was a lost package, being taken under Nicky’s wing, being stuffed into a dorm room for five years – he has never had the experience of living in his own space, of having his own name on the lease. 

Living alone meant he had to learn a lot of things. 

He had to learn how to activate the electric services, how to set up recurring payments for his internet and phone bills, and how to best pay his rent without having to interact with his landlord any more than he needs to. He also had to learn how to unclog the toilet and to stock up on insecticide lest he wants to have a spider for a roommate. Next year, he probably has to learn how to do his taxes. 

Having Nicky be in charge of all the tedious business and living on campus on a scholarship stipend in college meant he had never needed to spare a thought about any of this. 

Andrew is jaded, world-weary; he has gone through a whole spectrum of dark, brutal experiences and is hardly fazed by anything. 

But graduating college, living in the outside world, leaving the structure that he had built for himself - it has questioned this sense of equanimity.  

Bearing all those vapid responsibilities is one thing, but bearing the silence is another. It perturbs him, how sleeping alone in his apartment at night can be stifling and restrictive, like a bag tied over his head. 

He has always imagined that living alone would be freeing, that it would mean safety and peace, because he would be sequestered away in a place where no one else could enter without his permission. But he finds that it isn’t quite so.  

He finds that he misses the inane chattering during meals, the obnoxious bickering in the car, the slurred speeches under the pulsing lights at Eden’s Twilight. He even misses the messy bathroom counters and the sock-strewn floors and the overstuffed cupboards and fridge. 

He is not accustomed to not having someone to annoy by throwing limp vegetables onto the floor, or to not having someone to relegate the dishwashing and toilet-scrubbing to. 

He is not accustomed to not having his family within his immediate vicinity. 

He has grown complacent over the years, deriving a sense of security from having them close and putting them under his constant watch. But then Kevin graduated and signed with a team in Texas, and not long after that, he, Aaron, and Nicky graduated and went their separate ways to pursue their respective dreams. 

And then he was forced to leave Neil behind.

Andrew doesn’t have a dream or a goal to pursue. He would have been fine spending the rest of his life chasing shots and smoking cigarettes and driving aimlessly. He doesn’t know how that all changed. He knows when it changed, though. That, at least, he knows.

Somehow, he has a job that pays him a handsome fee for simply swinging a racquet around. Somehow, his brother is still talking to him, even though he had predicted that any ties between them would have been severed like scissors to a thread after graduation. Somehow, he has not self-destructed and driven himself to the ground. 

So now he has to learn how to live alone, under the roof of his one-bedroom apartment, in a metropolitan city that accumulates 40 inches of snow in winter, miles and miles away from everyone he knows. 

Living alone has been lonely.

Andrew has never thought that he would experience loneliness, that he would come to know the meaning of the word so intimately. The separation from his family is difficult; a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head, but the separation from Neil is sharper; a gashing stab wound in his chest, and he is bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.   

This might be what loneliness feels like, he thinks blankly, staring up at the ceiling on the nights he can’t sleep. 

He is not accustomed to not having Neil’s weight on the mattress beside him, to not waking up with his hand over Neil’s hipbone and Neil’s nose nearly brushing against his. He is not accustomed to grasping nothing instead of the soft, worn fabric of Neil’s sweater when he reaches out in the middle of the night, his other arm curled underneath Neil’s pillow.

Text messages and phone calls can only do so much. They do not soothe the ache that has taken root within his heart, penetrating deep into his cells like an organism of its own. 

The worst part is knowing that this is going to be an immutable situation for a couple of years to come. They are apart now because Neil has to finish his last year of college, but it is very unlikely that he will play for Andrew’s team after he graduates. He will be scouted by multiple teams that will be scattered from around the country, and he will sign a contract with one of them, and then it will be a continuation of this: the distance, the loneliness, the long, long nights spent wishing that it would all stop.

When has he become so pitiful and weak? 

This is the question that plays on loop in his cottony head as he shivers through the symptoms of a fever.  

He hasn’t had one in a while. In the past, he powered through his sickness because he didn’t want to trouble his caretakers. And then he learned that powering through his sickness is the safest alternative, because being bound to the bed when his defenses were lowered was much, much worse than wandering outside with a pounding head and a running nose. 

When he was sick from withdrawal, he held off the nausea for as long as he could through sheer willpower. But by the time he retched and spewed his guts out, his nerves and bones - screaming at him - would win out and he would swallow more pills down his raw and arid throat. He would be manic, but at least wouldn’t be weak. 

When he lived with Nicky and Aaron, he could afford to stay cocooned in bed when he got sick, but he found out that it didn’t feel that safe either. His mind, fractured by a high fever, would run askew and leave him panting and frazzled. 

A creak in the floorboards was like the deafening crack of lightning and the screech of car tires was like a distant echo from a deep, deep well. His body would be wracked with shivers, like ice cubes slithering over his skin, but the layers of blankets only made him colder. His joints would be twinging with bursts of pain, aching and heaving like his lungs. He would screw his eyes shut but he would still see images flashing before him, fever dreams manifested into fractals of vibrant colors and distorted shapes.     

It is how he is now, quivering beneath the covers, curled up on his queen-sized bed, under the roof of his one-bedroom apartment, miles and miles away from everyone he knows.

His head is heavy, swirling and splintering. He cracks an eye open, feels the crustiness weighing on his eyelid. The slit between the curtains tells him it is daytime, and that it is snowing. 

He can’t believe it’s still snowing. It already snowed yesterday. He thinks it was yesterday. It might have been this morning, but he isn’t sure how long he’s been in bed, drifting in and out of a fitful, uneasy sleep. 

His breath wheezes out of his lungs as he snakes an aching arm out towards the bedside table. He slaps around for his phone, but his palm only hits air. His arm starts to feel cold, so he slips it back under the covers, tucking it against his chest. The movements have left him exhausted - more exhausted than he already was. The honking of cars on the streets below scratches against his ears, almost as loud as the dripping faucet from the bathroom sink. 

It is the sound that accompanies him as he plunges back into restless slumber.   

He dreams. 

They’re mostly memories, disjointed moments rolled into an illogical sequence, faraway voices and blurred faces floating in and out of his mind. 

Aaron grumbling about something as he eats his cereal. Nicky singing off-key to a pop song as he cooks dinner. Kevin tapping his racquet against Dan’s as they head out to the court. Wymack grousing about a migraine after a disastrous post-game interview. Bee smiling when she unwraps the Christmas present Andrew got her last year. Renee helping him get to his feet after she knocked him onto the training mat. Neil holding his hand and saying only you.

Neil fluttering his eyes open in the morning and nuzzling closer, sighing against Andrew’s collarbones. Neil pressing his ankle against Andrew’s under the table at Sweetie’s, his smile curled around a spoonful of ice cream. Neil cupping Andrew’s face, thumbs stroking across the skin underneath his eyes, whispering I’ll miss you, the words soft and muffled as if he is hearing them through water. 

They’re good dreams, a part of him acknowledges. Much more preferable than all the nightmares and strange hallucinations he has ever had. 

There’s a cacophony of noises, blooming at sporadic intervals like firecrackers, but the pleasant dreams continue. Neil gazing at him in that peculiar way of his, as if he can see right through Andrew’s armor, as if Andrew hung the stars and rocked the oceans, as if Andrew is the most important thing in the world.     

Andrew thinks that might be how he looks at Neil. He thinks about it, in the lonely moments and strung out days, about Neil being the first thing he thinks of in the morning and the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep. He thinks about being the moon, orbiting around Neil until the end of time, and then for longer. He thinks about burrowing between the bones of Neil’s ribcage so he could stay with him until his heart stops beating.  

When has he become so pitiful and weak? When has he come to want so much? 

He wants to listen to Nicky nattering away from the screen of his laptop, he wants to read Aaron’s existential texts regarding his choice to enroll in medical school, he wants to ignore Kevin’s rants about his poor form, he wants to send Bee animal figurines every year for her birthday, he wants to throw darts with Renee when they go to a bar, he wants to visit Wymack and Abby for Thanksgiving, and he wants Neil to be with him because he has never felt lonely when he’s with Neil.

Something cool and damp lands on his forehead, and it instantly makes him feel better. The images playing across his mind like a hiccuping film reel continues, flares of starlight and kaleidoscopic colors. In the midst of it all - Neil. Neil, with his unnerving blue eyes and careful touches, swerving in and out of Andrew’s vision like he is engulfed by ocean tides. 

Stay, Andrew remembers telling him. 

I’m not going anywhere, Andrew hears Neil saying.

Neil kept his promise. It is Andrew who went somewhere, who left him behind and went to a faraway place. 

Neil would say it’s okay. He would say it’s fine, because that’s what he always says. He would say it even if he misses Andrew, even if Andrew misses him. 

And he does.

He misses Neil, and he feels lonely without Neil. The loneliness hurts like a knife through his chest, and all he can do to stop the bleeding is dream of the times when he wasn’t alone, when he was with his family, when he was with Neil.

Something gentle cards through his sweaty hair, the motion repetitive and mindless like the assurances murmured to a sobbing child. It instantly makes him feel better. 

When he reaches out in the middle of his fragmented sleep, he grasps something soft and worn.  

The next time he cracks an eye open, it has stopped snowing. It is still daytime, but Andrew isn’t sure how much time has actually passed between now and when he became bed-ridden. His breath still wheezes out of him like a compressed rubber doll, but at least he can breathe through his nose, albeit with a little difficulty. His body doesn’t feel like it’s been shoved in a freezer, and his head doesn’t feel like it’s been run over by a steamroller.

With great effort, he levers himself into a sitting position. His neck and shoulders hurt, but it might have been because of how he was laying down. His fever seems to have subsided. 

He spends a few minutes sitting and staring at the sheets, trying to marshall his strength and wits. 

His phone is on the bedside table. There is some cough medicine and a bottle of water next to the phone, along with some painkillers. He doesn’t remember putting them there. 

A clang reverberates through the apartment. Pulling on his armbands, Andrew forces himself out of bed, padding quietly towards the door.

As he treads down the hall, he hears a slew of frustrated muttering. His breath catches in his throat; he knows that voice, knows it better than he knows his own.   

He turns the corner and sees Neil standing over his stove, cleaning up a spill. 

“Neil,” he rasps out, voice hoarse and thin. 

But it’s enough to get Neil’s attention. He whips around towards him, rag in hand. 

“Andrew,” he breathes out, expression breaking out in a small smile. He moves closer, standing right in front of Andrew. 

Andrew swallows. He doesn’t quite know how to react, so he stares and remains silent.  

Neil raises his hand, reaching towards Andrew’s face. He stops short of touching Andrew, quickly dropping his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, “my hands are dirty.” He leans forward, lightly bumping his forehead against Andrew’s.

Andrew feels like a stone has lodged itself in his airway.

“Your fever’s gone,” Neil says quietly, staring into Andrew’s eyes. “How are you feeling?” 

“What are you doing here,” Andrew says instead of answering. 

“I’m here to see you,” Neil says easily, like the answer was obvious. Andrew can feel the flutter of Neil’s eyelashes, tickling his face like dandelion seeds. “It’s winter break. I bumped up my flight a couple of days earlier, and I’m glad I did, since I came in to find you running a 39.5-degree fever.”

Andrew feels a tiny frown knitting itself between his eyebrows. 

“That’s 103 degrees in Farenheit,” Neil supplies, as if that matters at all.

Drawing himself back a little, Andrew studies Neil - his hair, his eyes, his mouth, his PSU sweater, his socked feet. He pulls his gaze back up to Neil’s face, watches the way he tilts his head to the side, the way the crinkle of his brow gives away his concern. 

“Andrew?”

Andrew’s fingers twitch; he clenches them into a fist, then unclenches them. He brings a hand up to Neil’s face, fingertips gingerly brushing against the burn scar under Neil’s eye, palm cradling his cheek. 

“I thought I dreamt you,” Andrew murmurs.

Neil turns towards his palm, pressing a kiss to his wrist. 

There is a shade of warmth in Neil’s eyes, a hint of mirth in his voice when he says, “I’m not a hallucination.”

Andrew grabs the collar of Neil’s sweater with his free hand, fingers knotted around the soft, worn fabric. Loneliness eludes him. 

Quietly, like a confession, he says, “You are a pipe dream.”

****

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#andreil #aftg #tfc #all for the game #the foxhole court #eza writes #thelonlierversionofyou #this was barely proof-read so im sorry if it's messy #andrew minyard #he's quite maudlin in this one lmao #then again i always write him like that #neil josten

[irwinkitten]

drown it out | l.h

requested: lmao soulmate!luke of course it’s requested pairing: luke x reader prompt: “ Promise me, that whatever happens, you'll remember me. “ notes: i wrote this whilst on the train to Sheffield for my mytt show whilst listening to ghost of you and honestly i’m sorry. also i played around with the writing, let me know if you liked it or not?? i’m experimenting and changing things up a lil bit  words: 1.4k!

---

People never really believed the soulmate theory when it was put into test with many variations. 

People couldn't believe that there would be one person who would fill the small hole that people had been describing as they got older. 

There were so many beliefs on the subject that it became something frequently asked about. Celebrities were asked what they believed, politicians were asked if they thought the tests were truly real or fabricated to push the agenda of those who were simply lost.

Luke had never been sure of his feelings on the subject. He'd always felt the emptiness that many described before they'd met their soulmate. And in the vast emptiness, he'd destroyed himself to try and stop himself from feeling that.

Tabloids ran with the news of how he was spiralling, how his current arm candy had been caught with someone else. How he was becoming a burnout and the band had barely had their foot in place in the musical world.

It'd been Ashton pulling him from the pit he'd dug himself in that made him realise his feeling son the subject. But as the band began to gain traction once more, the new release hitting all the charts and sending their name soaring through the world, he couldn't shake the empty feeling that sat in his gut. 

Part of that feeling had inspired so many songs on the album but he'd kept quiet about that, letting the others come to their own conclusions about the lyrics. 

He was lonely.

Going back on tour helped to fill the void in his heart, it felt like he could breathe again with the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, but he knew it was a quick fix to the sadness. It was still something he needed to deal with, healthily. 

So he googled therapists who were willing to talk about soulmates, to help him from falling into the pit he'd created with his own hands.

And his therapist listened. They reassured and gave him self-help tips and he began to explore his emotions, his looks, who he was.

And he'd felt so much better for it.

And it was one of the days where he'd tried not to get maudlin about it all, to focus on the good that his soulmate was still out there. When he ran into her.

Quite literally.

His hands shot out to steady her, his fingers coming into contact with soft skin and he could've sworn his heart skipped a beat as he looked down, her eyes widening as they met his and he could feel his breath being taken from him as he realised who she was.

His soulmate.

"Hi." He breathed, his fingers unable to move from their spot on her arm.

He could physically feel something in his heart shift, and she was the reason behind it.

"I never thought---oh my." His heart sank slightly, but the look of wonder on her face gave him hope. Hope that she wouldn't laugh at him.

"I'm Luke." He finally murmured and she found herself offering a shy smile in return.

"Y/N." Came the soft whisper and he found his own lips pulling into a wide grin.

"Uh, would you like to maybe take a walk?" He hated the fact he sounded so hopeful, knowing she had the chance to absolutely crush his heart with one negative word.

Instead, she beamed at him in return.

“Of course, I, can I make a call first? I was meant to meet someone, but I think they'd understand." He nodded as she stepped a few steps away, her eyes still returning to him every now and then, almost as if she was checking he was still there.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I know we agreed, but---and you can't shout at me for this---but I think I just met my soulmate." 

He watched as she winced, the tone clearly louder than expected.

"You of all people know this is important! I promise you, I would never ditch you like this, but please, for me?" A pause. "Thank you." 

She put her phone away and walked back up. Luke immediately offered his arm and she found herself giggling at his actions.

"You're definitely better than what the news could ever say about you." He grimaced at that.

"I'm not proud of that." 

"And if you had been, I'd be going back home." The sharp response came and he gave her a small smile.

"I'm still getting help for it. I'm trying to be better, but---" He hesitated, unsure of how to describe it to Y/N how he felt.

"It's a struggle, isn't it?" He was caught off by the soft tone, her features soft and kind, not an ounce of pity in her eyes, only understanding.

"I've been trying to function without relying on adrenaline to make me feel better." He admitted as they wandered away from the busy city, walking through a neighbourhood she clearly knew.

"And how's it going for you?"

"I managed it. I got to the point where I could focus on something else and it didn't hurt. Not as bad as it used to." 

"But then you met me." She hummed playfully and Luke found himself grinning.

"Then I met you." They'd come to a stop in front of a small kids park, a look of nostalgia upon her face. Without a second thought, he laced his fingers with hers, making her look up in shock.

"Maybe this is where things are better for both of us?" His question was quiet, but she paused before nodding thoughtfully.

"Always, rockstar." And before he could do much, she pressed her lips against his and he felt his world explode into the most blissful feeling as his hands pulled her closer, holding her against him.

She didn't protest, pulling her arms tighter around him, almost as if he were the only thing holding her together.

News got out fast of his soulmate and at first, Luke hated it. He hated how he was demanded to talk about her, to tell the world her secrets. But he never did. 

Her secrets had been hers to keep and he had promised they would never leave his lips without her permission.

She'd convinced him to move out of LA, or at least move to the outskirts of the city, more focused in the rural areas. And it helped take the pressure off him when they'd moved into their own place away from the hubbub of the city that never really slept.

As time moved on, he felt his soul heal from the damage he'd done to it. All because of her soft touches, her gentle kisses that left him wanting more. The way she held him on his worst days. She had helped him heal and he loved her with his entire being. 

He reciprocated, making sure he was there when she'd cried out from nightmares that still plagued her sleep. His own soft touches soothed her bruised soul and helped her love once more. They had brought the best out in each other and everyone could see that.

But nothing could prepare him for shortly after they'd married, their routine set in stone, or as in stone it could be when he was home. 

He was preparing for a day in the studio when a crash resounded around the kitchen and he dropped his keys and bag, racing to find Y/N sprawled in such a way that his heart stopped for a second before he dialled 911.

He was with her as they arrived and he was begging for her to come back to him.

She was alive, but barely.

They rushed her to hospital where they stabilised her, sending her for all sorts of tests to understand why she'd collapsed.

By the time that they'd sent away for the results, she'd come around, her eyes drifting in and out from consciousness as she tried her hardest to hold onto Luke.

"You aren't allowed to leave me yet." He almost begged her, with tears in his eyes.

"Promise me, that whatever happens, you'll remember me." Y/N whispered, her eyes holding his.

"How could I forget you? Especially with your carbon copy at home." He whispered. Their little girl, Sophie, had become the light of their lives a handful of years ago. 

He watched as she smiled gently, her fingers lifting up to trace his jaw.

"I love you, soulmate." Her hand went slack, hitting the bed as Luke felt his heart stop with hers before it broke, a wail escaping him as nurses began to surround her, trying to pull her back.

But he could feel it, she was gone.

---

tag list: @cals-babylons, @plainwhiteluke, @calumsdemons, @wrappedaroundcal, @pumpkincalum, @blameiuke, @pumpkinsmashton, @irrevocablylukes, @astroashtonio, @catchinqcalum, @plaidpantsluke, @qualitylu, @5saucewho, @babylon-uncrowned, @dontstopisagoodsongchangemymind, @therainydays4, @my-world97, @silverchainbee, @hidd3nfangirl, @doodleasouarus, @hemmomfg, @mylovehes, @songforhema, @kinglyhood, @youngblood199456, @makecoffeenotwars, @5squash, @negative-love, @softboycal, @allltimehemmo, @you-of-ghost, @mzchnandlerbong, @jane-ofalltrades, @meetyoutheremgc, @lmao5sosimagines, @lietoash, @aw-hawkeye, @biggestslutforcalum, @drummerboy794, @itkindajusthappenedreally,

#if u wanna be added to the tag list just ask or message me!!! #luke hemmings x reader #soulmate!luke #soulmate!5sos #soulmate 5sos #soulmate 5sos blurbs #soulmate 5sos blurb #soulmate 5sos imagine #soulmate 5sos imagines #luke hemmings blurbs #luke hemmings blurb #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings imagines #lashton network #my writing

[xylianna]

Hey Xy! If you're still doing the drabble challenge thingy: 64 for Gladnis (do they have goats in Eos? lmao)

Prompt: “Just don’t buy a goat. I don’t care what you do, just no goats.”

Sorry this took me so long!  Hope you like it.

In the years that had passed since the return of the Dawn, many things had changed in what was left of Lucis. Insomnia was still the Crown City, though there was no monarchy - a democracy was instituted, currently presided over by none other than the Immortal himself.

Barriers had fallen away, things that had once seemed so important having been rendered moot by the decade of Dark. Old attitudes towards foreigners had relaxed, and racial prejudices were a bygone relic of a nearly forgotten time. Insomnia had truly become a melting pot, and it made Ignis’s heart happy to know that all were welcome.

All were safe.

Ignis had to admit, though, he vastly preferred the tiny, solitary cottage he shared with Gladio on a small chunk of land not far from Galdin Quay. While they ventured into the City when requested, happy to offer their assistance as best they could with whatever Cor and the others might need, Ignis relished the quiet calm of their rustic home.

They had a small vegetable garden that Ignis tended as best he could, dexterous fingers learning the different textures of the plants he chose to cultivate and the weeds that needed removal.

And if he’d planted a row of gladioli along their front porch, well, he was allowed a little sentiment in his middle-age.

Ignis and Gladio had lived in their idyllic little cottage for three years now, and the topic had come up of raising animals in addition to growing food.

Much to Ignis’s consternation, Gladio had mentioned the idea during Prompto’s last visit, and their ebullient friend had naturally declared they should start breeding chocobos.

When Ignis dryly explained they would be nurturing animals for human consumption, not recreation, the former gunslinger had rapidly changed his tune.

Ignis had sent Gladio off that morning on a trip to the markets of Lestallum, hoping that the thriving marketplace would have leads on where they could purchase some starter stock for the small menagerie they hoped to foster.

He had given Gladio but one instruction, largely trusting his husband to make the decisions since he would be the one caring the livestock. “Just don’t buy a goat. I don’t care what you do, just no goats.”

Gladio had laughed and agreed. “I don’t even know what a goat is, Iggy.”

Ignis tsked. “I read about them, once. Though to be fair, it was in a book of nursery rhymes I’d been reciting for Noct.”

As always, the specter of their departed friend loomed near. It was an awareness constantly carried, born of their shared feeling of failure as royal retainers. Despite the knowledge that Noct’s death was fated long before his birth, neither his Shield nor his Advisor took solace in the fact that there had truly nothing else they could’ve done to prevent it.

Ignis in particular felt the loss keenly. With the visions granted him by Pryna years ago in Altissia, he had tried to avert his liege’s destiny, but to no avail.

What was pre-ordained by the Gods must needs come to pass.

That didn’t help them miss him any less.

With a sigh, Ignis banished the maudlin thoughts. He could only hope that somewhere out there, Noctis’s spirit was happy, reuinited with Regis, with Aulea, with Lunafreya.

Just as he fervently prayed that someday he’d see his King again.

But, Ignis didn’t plan on dying anytime soon. And he knew Noct would want them to be happy.

Ignis lived every day to the fullest, eking out every scrap of joy he could from his sedate life with Gladio. He kept in touch with all the friends they’d made on their journey as often as was prudent. Ignis positively delighted in the sporadic visits from Prompto, who was living his dream as a traveling photographer, riding all around Eos on his trusty chocobo, Kweh.

Perhaps Ignis couldn’t see the photographs himself, his sight never coming back beyond the ability to perceive extreme brightness, but Prompto’s enthusiasm in describing every shot was enough. Ignis was just happy to hear the joy in the blonde’s effervescent voice.

Goodness knew, Prompto deserved every happiness this world had to offer.

“Iggy!” Gladio’s shouted greeting had him rising from the garden plot, brushing dirt from his knees as he turned towards his lover’s voice.

“Welcome home, Gladiolus,” Ignis said, brushing a warm kiss against his husband’s cheek. “Did you have any luck?”

“Oh, yeah!” Gladio’s excitement was contagious, and Ignis felt his lips curve in a smile as he listened. “I wasn’t able to buy anything today, but a couple of the vendors in Lestallum promised to have some farmers contact us when they had stock to sell.”

“That’s wonderful, darling.”

“No goats though,” Gladio teased, slinging an arm around Ignis’s waist fondly.

“Drat.” Ignis affected an expression of dismay, though he imagined the effect was quite spoiled by the sardonic twist of his lips.

“Don’t fret, love,” Gladio said, and Ignis could hear the grin in his voice. “I’m sure you can come up with goat-free recipes.”

Ignis groaned.

Gladio just laughed and picked him up, carrying him off into their cottage.

Ignis made sure to lock the door behind them.

#drabble #writing prompt #gladnis #post-game #minor episode ignis spoilers #pikachubird

[thisissirius]

number 48 for robron PLEASE i'll die lmao!!

Robert hates reunions. 

It would help, he thinks, staring into his beer, if the alcohol on tap was better. He could get drunk and pass out somewhere. Unfortunately, whoever’s in charge - and honestly, he doesn’t care enough to find out who - wasn’t particularly clued into Robert’s specific please-let-me-forget-this-tomorrow needs.

Thankfully it’s not an overdone celebration, muted and maudlin as opposed to bright and loud. Figures, Robert snorts. He can’t imagine why anybody would willingly come back to this school and revel in their very successful career. 

To be fair, most of the people here do look successful, but Robert knows from practice that looks can be deceiving. He can’t remember the last time he looked every bit the divorcee with too much money and nobody to spend it on. 

The faces that pass by his table aren’t familiar, and Robert’s not surprised. When he bothered to attend the school, he didn’t pay too much attention. Most of his friends cycled out of Emmerdale, ended up in jail, or fell off the ends of the earth. 

“This seat taken?”

The voice is gruff, and Robert looks up, eyebrow raised. 

“Aaron,” Robert says, heart lurching, a burst of grief, anger and hurt settling low in his belly. 

Okay, so there’s one person he remembers. 

Aaron slips into the seat opposite, placing his own beer on the table in front of him. He’s wearing a suit like he wants to take it off and burn it, and Robert tries to hide his grin against the rim of his glass. “You’d rather be elsewhere too then, eh?”

Taking a gulp of his beer, Aaron gives him a look that Robert can’t decipher. “A waste of time.”

“Yet you’re here,” Robert points out. 

“So are you.”

“Your sister didn’t threaten to toss you out on your arse if you didn’t come.” Robert thinks of Vic’s stern and unforgiving expression and almost winces. 

Aaron laughs, and it’s a transformation. It’s always a fucking transformation and Robert’s heart lurches. Right here, the last place he’s expected, is the very reason Robert fled Emmerdale in the first place. 

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“How long have you been back?” Aaron asks the question to the tablecloth. 

Robert stares over Aaron’s shoulder, towards the (bad) dancers currently rocking out to something Robert doesn’t know the name of. “A couple of weeks.”

“Divorced then,” Aaron says, voice heated, indicating the ringless finger. 

Robert snaps, “You don’t get to be jealous now,” before he can stop himself. 

Aaron winces, looking uncomfortable and guilty in equal measure. 

Robert presses the heel of his hand into his left eye. “Sorry,” he says, even though he’s not. “Yes, divorced. Three fucking months of hell.”

Sympathetic, Aaron runs a finger down his glass, catching condensation. “I know you loved her.”

“Yeah.” Robert settles back in his chair. “Love doesn’t always get you what you want.”

It’s a not-so-subtle dig and Aaron catches it. He huffs out a breath. “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t,” Robert says immediately. “If you apologise, I might have to punch you.”

“Fair enough,” Aaron allows. He looks contrite. “Hurting you wasn’t my finest moment.”

Robert says nothing, remembers the clarity of kissing Aaron, of being kissed in return. Remembers that honeymoon period of being able to be with Aaron in public, to kiss him and touch him and know that it was love. He remembers the fight, the vicious words thrown from both sides, Aaron running off with Jackson and leaving Robert behind. 

“You could have told me,” Robert says. His voice wobbles and he feels a burst of anger in his chest. “Did you think I wouldn’t have let you go?”

“It wasn’t that,” Aaron says, honest. “Jackson was easy. I was - scared. You’d had more time to deal with it, to know what you wanted.”

“If you believe that you’re mad.” Robert sighs. “You were the first - and only - guy I’ve ever loved.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t say attracted to,” Robert tells him hotly, “I said loved. You’re the only guy I’ve ever loved. The only person I’ve ever truly and completely loved. And yes, that includes my ex-wife.”

There’s a softness in Aaron’s expression, and he leans across the table. Robert swallows, tries not to be affected but this is Aaron, and Robert can never not be. 

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, hand flat on the table. “I did it because I knew it would hurt ya and I was angry enough to want that.”

It hurts, Robert can’t deny it, can’t keep the expression from his face, but he does his best to quash it. “And now?”

Aaron’s eyes flick back to the crowded room and he grins, all teeth. “Wanna get out of here and grab a drink back at mine?”

Robert should say no, shouldn’t want this not now, but it’s Aaron and despite everything, Robert’s never been able to say no. “Alright,” he says, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “But you have a shit ton of grovelling to do.”

Aaron shrugs, eyes alight with something that makes Robert’s body warm. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

#robron #robert sugden #aaron dingle #fic by me #Anonymous

[kindly-creatot]

memories to daydreams pt1

ahahahahahah. so that idea about danny being a live-in boyfriend? wrote it. or well, part of it cause i’m ngl, it’s gonna be a chapter fic. lmao rip me

pt1-pt2-

Vlad was lonely. There was no denying it, he was too old to even think about denying it to anyone. Pushing closer to 'lifetime bachelor' and further from 'workaholic' than he'd actually wanted lately had the man thinking about just hiring someone off the internet to come and stay with him to keep him company and… well, Vlad was not going to force anyone to do anything they didn't want to, but he had urges. He was only human.

No, no. It would be a stupid idea to indulge in, Vlad thought to himself as he stared out the windows of the home office he worked in. Well, really he just sat here at the expensive desk until someone sent him something to sign off on or get a green light to start something. It was a maudlin way that his employees felt they needed in order to keep him 'busy'.

He lets out a sigh and spins his chair back to the dark computer screen before he makes his decision and stands.  He pulls on his suit jacket just as his (poor bored) assistant walks in.

"Uhm, sir?" Desiree looked confused for a moment and Vlad could understand why, it was only noon. "Where are you going?"

"Ah, I figured I would grab my own lunch and then take the day for myself. Would you like the day off too? It must be dreadfully boring working for me," he chuckles and his assistant can't help the small smile on her face but nods anyways.

"If you say so, sir. I was just going to let you know I was going down the street to that little Italian place for lunch," she thinks for a moment and Vlad fidgets. "Would you like to come along? I'm sure the girls won't mind at all,"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose-"

"Nonsense! You'd be a wonderful addition to the lunch party," she assured the older man with a wide grin and grabs his arm in hers but Vlad feels wary at the moment. Like he just got thrown into something he didn't know about yet. -----

The group of women he was seated with for lunch, Vlad would equate to a pack of hyenas. The laughing and cacophony of noise that they made almost grated on his ears. They were as welcoming as his assistant had said and Vlad was grateful for that.

"So, Mr. Masters," one of the younger women, Ember if Vlad remembered correctly, looked him over as she lifted her glass of wine to her blue lips. "You got anyone special? Someone at home, warming your bed tonight?"

"Ember!" Desiree called out, she looked offended for Vlad and the man was struck with such a feeling of friendship for the woman at the moment. "You cannot just ask that! We're at lunch,"

"So? If he wasn't here, we'd already be talking about our partners," Ember laughs as Desiree blushes.

"This is my boss, okay? Be respectful," she tries once more before another girl pipes in.

"Okay, but seriously. Do you have anyone in your life, Mr. Masters?" This one is a shy looking girl, light hair braided to one side and wearing what he thought was a peasant blouse, Dora he thinks her name is that.

"Oh, no. I, uhm, I've been focused on my work for so long that I am afraid I have neglected that idealistic home life," Vlad admits to them and the girls just stare for a second before bursting into what Vlad only knows as 'cooing'. That is a sound that does grate on his ears and all he can do is give an awkward smile to the girls. "I am afraid that there is not much to talk about when it comes to my romantic life. This morning I'd had the ridiculous thought of hiring someone to be a sort of 'live-in boyfriend or girlfriend'. As if anyone would ever do that!" Vlad laughed at his own idea as did the women at the table. He smiles when they all calm down and they start chatting again easily. Vlad offers to pay for everyone's lunch that day.

He leaves the lunch in a good spirit and feeling ready for the long weekend alone. -----

Monday comes soon enough and the older man is glad to see his assistant already at her desk and looking over, what Vlad presumes are, e-mails.

"Good morning, Desiree," He calls out as he passes by her.

"Ah, Mr. Masters! Good, uh, good morning," he gives her a glance as he stops at his office doors. She was smiling nervously at him but Vlad doesn’t know if she wants a man like him to pry into it so he smiles back and walks to his desk. It's all very normal and humdrum to begin with. Letters for the company, some expenses and new notifications about products from other sellers, a letter for Vlad to attend a banquet.

Sometimes when they include a plus one invitation it feels mocking.

He sets that all aside to turn on the computer, settling in his chair easily. The day wasn't going to be all that bad, he knew because most people avoided doing any real work on Mondays. He was hoping for an almost empty inbox for his emails, honestly. Maybe he could take another half day and-

'ping! ping! ping! ping!'    

Maybe not, he thought to himself. Various emails were flooding into his account and Vlad had half a mind to believe them all to be from some sort of virus or some such, until he read the subject lines on some.

"Application for Potential Live-In Boyfriend? Live-In Girlfriend?!" Was this some sort of joke? How would someone have gotten this kind of an ide-

Ohhhh. Vlad looks to the door way pf his office, cracked open the slightest so Desiree would be able to hear him no matter if he spoke up or softly.

"DESIREE," she pokes her head just the slightest into the doorway.

"Yes, sir?" she smiles but it looks like she's worried. Vlad thinks she should be.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" He moves the screen to show the inbox to her.

       (372) Unread INBOX "Ah, well… See, uhm," Vlad brings a hand to his temples, feeling a headache coming on. "The girls wanted to, you know, bring your idea to life? There's an actual application and everything," she leans over to pull up one of the latest emails and opens the file to show the attached application to Vlad. It's in depth and lists all sorts of information.  

"I should fire you," he states with a frown and Desiree freezes for a second and Vlad can see the tears welling up in her eyes. "But you are the best damn assistant I have ever had so… I thank you for caring but please, no more of these ideas, okay?" With that he shoo-s her back to her desk and she spouts 'thank you' a few times at him weepily. She had left the email open and Vlad takes a look at the one she pulled up with a sigh.

Daniel J. Fenton, age 20, black hair and blue eyes, college student working as a barista… it was not that this Daniel character was impressive but Vlad was curious to see just how in depth this application went and how much information these people were willing to give up for this sham. At least there was a simple 'about me' paragraph that Vlad could read easily.

My name is Danny, I work full-time and go to school full-time for my Astrobiology degree. I'm not looking for a handout, but if you really are looking for someone to keep you company, I'd ask for only tuition money. I would love to stop working at the Coffee Palace (yeah, the name sucks I know) and focus on my studies. This is probably a sham though so I don't expect much from this. (Sorry, but it's too good to be true that a famous billionaire like Vlad Masters doesn’t have a bunch of woman/men hanging off his every word.)

It rambles on for a bit, there was even another attached document to the email entitled 'More About Me' that Vlad had to laugh at. The audacity that this, this child would think that Vlad would open another file simply to know about him was hilarious to the man.  

He clicked open the file anyways.

#pompous pep #danny phantom #danny fenton #vlad masters #danny fenton/vlad masters #fanfic #my writing