amatohorrortivity

Thorn:

laughs at how stupid the characters are, and how unrealistic the gore looks.

She cannot take a movie seriously or stay quiet during one to save her life lmfaooo 💀 Mystery Science Theater 3000 sounding gal 😭💀

ADORES horror-comedy (Ready or Not, WWDITS, etc).

Wisteria:

clings to your arm the whole time, but is pretty quiet.

Gore, body horror, and psychological horror don’t get to them too much, although anything with ghosts gives her a bit of the heebie-jeebies. Has nightmares about getting haunted by the ghosts of her opponents

Fae jumps a little at every single jump scare, no matter how obvious.

She likes slasher movies, having a lot of small crushes or admiration for the slashers.

Elena:

loves horror movies of many flavors, but especially gorefests, old classics, horror-comedy, or anything about vampires lol.

Gorefests in particular really get her undead heart pumping, and whet her appetites. Don’t be surprised if she asks you for a bite during or after the movie ;)

Pen:

loves old, classic, kitschy horror movies. They don’t scare her; rather, they’re kind of like her comfort movies.

She doesn’t do well with more modern horror, especially stuff with a lot of blood, gore, and body horror— doesn’t get afraid, per se, but gets nauseated. She can’t stand the sight of blood, even fake blood. It’s why she prefers poisons to knives for her own… endeavors.

Fellow humans are tied up from the ceiling, against the walls, and on tables, whimpering and crying, screaming through gags as vampires take their turns poking and prodding and biting them. You try to block out the noise, avert your eyes, but the Countess is so proud of her work. She turns your chin to show you every “display,” she’s set up.

You watch a man strung from the ceiling by the ankles take his last breath, as vampires chitter and giggle over running him through with spears. The Countess mercifully releases your chin once he dies, sparing you the sight of the vampires clinging to his gaping wounds like leeches as the precious blood drains from him.

Vampires look at you at every turn, nakedly wondering why you’re off-limits as a party favor. Truly, the Countess must be a selfish hostess to keep a delicious morsel like you all to herself and her husband. The Countess only smiles at the jealous murmurs. Her arm around your shoulder and heavy glare are enough to quell any outright attempts at tasting you. You do your best to stuff down your horror, your tears, knowing that the Countess and the party guests would delight in it.

The Count stays at your other side, idly making conversation with passing vampires as the friendlier of the pair, arm stretched around you and his wife’s shoulders both.

The three of you pause at a table, another naked human tied to it. A ring gag stretches their mouth with a lit candle set into it, dripping wax down their throat. Tears stream down their face as they desperately try to swallow down the burning liquid to stave off their inevitable suffocation. Bite marks cover them all over, some still oozing with their every panicked heartbeat. Bile rises in the back of your throat, but you can’t look away.

The Count hums, turning to his wife, corner of his lips almost imperceptibly downturned. “What a delightful aroma you’ve chosen for that candle, my love! Rather… creative set up you’ve chosen for it.”

The Countess raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. Food is food, my love, and if you have an issue with the presentation of it, you should hunt for your own.”

The Count hums. “No, no, my wife. I appreciate your artisanship.”

He walks over to take a sip, bending around the table between other Vampires to leave new puncture marks. The Count drinks for a moment then straightens back up, turning and licking a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth as he returns to you and his wife’s side.

“Not as good as you, dearest,” the Count comments absent-mindedly, fingers tangling with your yours where they hang limply at your side.

You, perpetually anemic from the couple’s constant sampling, and horrified by the sights around you, can’t hold it together anymore. Tears fill your eyes, your entire body trembling harder with each passing second. The Countess notices, hand moving from your shoulder to your midsection to hold you upright.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she whispers into your ear, grinning against the shell of it when you only shake harder, “you will never suffer such a fate.”

Elena: Elena could smell others’ blood on you from a mile away. There’s something about the scent on you that’s like an incredibly sexy cologne. Mixed with your natural scent, it makes the hairs on her arms and neck stand, goosebumps rising in their wake. She hasn’t felt so intrigued by anyone, felt so alive, in many decades… probably since she was turned. Elena turns the charm up to an eleven, flirting with you, letting her fingers trail up your arm, dark eyes peering up at you through her fluttering lashes. ‘Easy prey,’ you think… until you stab Elena and she barely flinches, pulling out the knife and licking her own sickly, undead blood from it, finishing with a sly laugh. “So forward, mi vida… no foreplay? I was so hoping to pretend to run from you, like a scared little mouse…”

Wisteria: overheard somebody flirting with you, got jealous, and stalked you on your ‘date’ with them. Imagine Wisteria’s shock when you act like you’re going in for a kiss, only to thrust your knife into the other person’s abdomen and twist, gutting them for the crime of getting on your nerves. She watches with awe, reverence, fingers turning white as she grips the corner of the building she’s peeking out from. You’re just like her. Wisteria daydreams constantly about killing with you. Maybe she’d pretend not to know how to wield a knife, just so you’d wrap your arms around her, sliding your hand over hers, to guide her. You begin to receive gifts from a “secret admirer.” Weapons she thinks you’ll like… trophies from her own victims.

Penny: gags every time you come home drenched in blood. “You know I love you, sweetie, but we’ve talked about this! You need to throw your clothes in the brick oven outside and wash in the pool shed before you come in…” She sighs. “I’ll never understand why you insist on being so… hands-on. It makes life so much more difficult than it has to be.” You grin, more blood staining your teeth. Penny’s stomach flips at the sight, repulsion and attraction mixing uncomfortably in her gut. “You know I love a challenge, Pen. And it’s not like you complain about my hands-on approach the rest of the time…” Penny blushes and swats at you with a dish towel as you try to reach for her hips to pull her closer. “G-go take a shower first!”

A magnificent coastal resort, that had indeed started as a small inn, was renovated and expanded in the 1920’s and became a hit with stars and starlets of the age. Over the years, the new money crowds lost interest, but old money families still vacation there enough that the place can maintain its vintage decor and unique ambiance.

On a whim, you’d entered a contest for a free trip there. Never in a million years did you think you’d win— but you did. Now here you were, feeling like a fish out of water amongst the rich folk in the lobby, carrying your own threadbare luggage while valets and attendants trailed behind them, carrying luggage more expensive than a new car.

Seeing your distress, a young man waded from behind the front desk and through the crowd to you.

“Hey, you~! You must be one of our lucky new guests?”

You nodded tentatively, taking in his fuschia hair and the bellhop outfit he was wearing. You hadn’t seen any of the other workers with brightly colored hair and pierced ears, and he certainly seemed more relaxed then they were. Then again, the dyed hair could be a good sign that he’s just chill. Maybe there is no dress code policy here…?

He hummed happily. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! I’m the son of the owner of this fine establishment. Might I help you with your bags?”

Of course. Those earrings did look expensive. You smiled politely, “No, thank you. I’ll be fine as soon as I get my room key.”

He pursed his lips, grabbing one of your bags and slinging it over his shoulder before you could protest. “Awww, come on, let me be a gentleman? It’ll make me look bad, letting a cute thing like you struggle up the stairs with all these.”

“What about the elevators?”

“Broken,” he sighed, looking mournfully across the lobby towards the elevators.

You watched as the door opened and people got off the elevator, then more people got in. You looked back at him, and he just shrugged, grinning. You were regretting entering that contest more and more.

He helped you up the stairs, and led you to your room, opening the curtains to show off the view and taking a minute to dramatically fluff your pillows for you. The man walked over to the door, and bowed with a wink, before leaving.

You were about to breathe a sigh of relief, but the door didn’t click shut— he poked his head in one more time. “Oh, I don’t think I got your name.”

You furrowed your brow but told him. How had he known your room number but not your name? “What’s yours?”

His thick eyebrows, also fuschia, shot up towards his hairline. “My apologies, valued guest! My name is—”

“Kurtis!” A tinny voice came through his earpiece loud enough that you could hear it across the room.

Kurtis winced. “Yes, Mom?”

More tinny noise, but not loud enough for you to make out more of the words. “Yes, I’ll be right there.”

He looked back up at you, eyes apologetic and smile tight. “Sorry about that. Duty calls! Please do give us a ring if you need anything, though~!”

And with that, he was gone. Now you could breathe more easily. What an overwhelming guy…

You sat back on the bed, feeling the expensive sheets under you. You almost felt bad even touching something so expensive… almost.

The air was surprisingly cold and dry for a building so close to a warm beach, especially a building as old as this one. Although you supposed they did have enough money to install a new AC system every year if they really wanted to. The decor was mostly in white and pastels, with shell-shaped sconces on the walls and even a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Hey.” 

The word stirs you from a peaceful nap. You glare blearily up at Mason for waking you, wrinkling your nose and trying to pull the blankets up to cover your face. He huffs, though not without affection. The bed shifts with his weight as he sits next to you and rubs your shoulder.

“C’mon, s’time to get up. Got a surprise for you.”

Your heart thrums with excitement. You’ve learned to trust Mason’s surprises— he’ll bring you movies, soft blankets, trinkets he thinks you’d like to decorate your room with. Though you know these gifts are meant to buy your complacence, your affection, each one brings you warmth. Without Mason overtly asking anything in exchange for the gifts, unlike some of the other werewolves, it’s easier to pretend they’re given unselfishly.

So, when he moves again to pull down the blankets a bit, you let him. He points to the door, where a more formal outfit than you’re used to hangs from the door. The cut, the color… it’s gorgeous.

He stands to let you get up. You can feel his eyes on you, gauging your reaction as you run your fingers over the fabric. Mason doesn’t miss your quick grin.

“Also got you some shoes.” Mason sidles up next to you, dipping his head to draw your gaze to the floor, where the pair sits. “Go on, get ready.”

You blink at him, uncertainty plain in the way your fingers tighten, crinkling the fabric. Before you can muster the courage to ask for privacy, he’s stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. You let out a shuddering breath, steeling yourself. He’s not the type to pretend to give a privilege like that and take it away, you tell yourself. He begins to hum to himself quietly. Johnny Cash, maybe.

The clothes fit perfectly. You bite your lip, gently rapping on the door.

Mason cracks the door open, eyes widening as he takes you in with the full outfit, breath catching in his throat. He turns and coughs into his sleeve. His voice is gravelly, strained.  “...You look nice.”

A little laugh escapes before you can help it. “What, cat got your tongue?”

He rubs a hand over his face, but doesn’t respond. Damn, if you’re not going to be the death of him. As soon as your confidence had come, it crumbles into a shy warmth under his gaze turning back to you. And slowly, carefully, as if worried he’ll suddenly change his mind, you cross that threshold you haven’t been allowed to for months. You stop just outside the doorway, almost at a loss for what to do next.

Your voice comes again, meek this time, “shouldn’t we leave a note? Everyone will be worried if they come to my room, and I’m not there…”

Mason’s eyebrows raise in surprise, settling down as his eyes crinkle with a warmth that sends your heart racing even faster. He rests a hand on your back. “S’okay. They already know.”

Mason leads you down the hallways of the lodge. To set your mind even more at ease, he brings you to the front desk, where the other werewolves are hanging out. Mateo sniffs and immediately looks up from painting Hana’s nails, shoving the brush back into the bottle and rushing over to you.

“You look stunning!” Mateo gushes, moving to adjust your neckline. His fingers flirt over your shoulder, playing with your hair.

Hunter and Cyrus put down their book and old Nintendo DE respectively. They and Hana watch from where they’re sitting. Ace saunters around the counter, openly looking you up and down. 

He bumps Mateo out of the way with his shoulder, prompting a disgruntled “hey!”

Ace grabs your hand and presses a kiss to it. You feel him open his mouth to say something when Mason moves closer, rumbling low in his chest.

“Give them some space.”

Ace’s smirk dissolves into a baleful glare, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “Fine.”

His eyes slide back to you, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Have fun if you can, with that old stuffy old coot.”

Mason scoffs, looping his arm with yours and damn near pulling you outside where his truck waits for you. 

It’s overwhelming. 

The outside world is so much more than you remembered. So much brighter, louder. 

Music crackles over the old radio, sunshine streams in from the windows, the old road making the ride bumpy.

It’s strange, you muse. Just a few months ago, you’d had a whole life outside of this town, the pack that had claimed you as theirs. As ephemeral as a desert mirage– the more you chase the memory, the further away it feels.

Mason’s pinkie nudges yours on the center console. You risk a glance over at him. His eyes are fixed on the road, but there’s a ruddy tint across his cheek, spreading to the tip of his ear. His left hand flexes around the steering wheel. You look away before he can meet your gaze.

The town is closer than you remembered, too. It’s not long before you’re driving down the town’s main road, taking in all the picturesque buildings that had drawn you in last year, all of the flowers and people emerging for the spring.

Mason pulls into the parking lot of a cute little building and pauses, hands flexing around the steering wheel. With a steadying breath, Mason hops out of the truck and walks around to open the door for you. His hand finds its way to your back as soon as he shuts the door behind you.

The two of you walk into the building— a restaurant, judging by the host that greets you. Curious eyes follow you as the host leads you to a table for two. Mason feels it too, his hold around you tightening until it’s time to pull out the chair for you.

Mason sits in front of you, crossing his arms and surveying the restaurant. He’s cleaned up as much as he can, with his shaved face and the nicest shirt he owns, but there’s still hints of that rugged, wild nature of his that puts him at odds with the rich tablecloth and fine silverware between you. You can’t help but smile a little at the thought.

The waiter comes to take your drink orders, looking to Mason first, who only nods at you to go first. Mason nods in approval as you say what you want, eyes fixed on yours even as the waiter turns to him and asks what he’ll be having. 

“A whiskey on the rocks.”

The waiter nods and bounces back to the kitchen. The conversation dies down, Mason watching as you pore over the menu. The amount of choices is simply incredible. You clear your throat, raising your eyes to catch another glance at Mason, only to meet his gaze again. Had he even looked away…?

“What are you going to get?”

“Steak.” He tilts his head. “How about you? What’re you hungry for?”

“I’m not sure yet...”

The waiter comes back over just in time to clear the silence. Mason’s lip curls in a small smile at the way your eyes light up at your drink. Mason gives the waiter his order first, giving you a moment to enjoy your drink. When the waiter turns to you, their eyes and Mason’s practically boring into you, you suddenly feel a bit shy. Mason senses your hesitation, and orders for you. He chooses something you’ll like without a second thought, as if some of your preferences come as easily to him as breathing.

Not your preference for freedom, though. You shove the thought down.

As you wait for your food, you slowly grow more comfortable, loosening up and beginning to chat with Mason. He seems to loosen up a bit too, eyes crinkling when you laugh at the bits of dry humor he sprinkles into the conversation.

The waiter comes out with two plates, smoothly laying them in front of you and Mason. The waiter looks proud of themself, giving a little bow, leaning a little closer to you than you expected. “Enjoy~!”

Mason takes in a sharp breath, letting it out slowly as the waiter nods to him as well. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he watches the waiter flounce back to the kitchen.

Your eyes flick from him to your food, catching on his steak. As he cuts into it, it begins to damn near bleed. Your stomach knots at the sight, torn between a hunger of your own, and the reminder that you could just as easily be the next thing on his plate.

“You want a bite of mine, darl?”

You shake your head, hurrying to eat a bite of your own food. Mason watches you again, that wolfish stare picking apart your every reaction as always. You and Mason make small conversation between bites. You manage to draw out more stories from his day job, from what it’s like to help manage the lodge.

Mason finishes his meal first, leaning back in his seat.

You pause between bites, feeling the full weight of his gaze again. It makes your skin feel hot, almost too tight. Does he even realize how heavy his stare is… what he does to you? You’re not totally sure what it is you feel when he looks at you. Desire? Fear? Your heart skitters like a scared little rabbit almost every time, but it’s not… entirely unpleasant.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Mm?” Mason tilts his head in acknowledgment. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, darling.”

You finish your meal too, and Mason is quick to  lay some cash on the table and offer his hand as you stand.

”C’mon.”

Mason’s grip is tight as you walk past the families and other couples dining, feeling their gazes now too. Some of them wave at the sheriff, prompting tight smiles and curt nods. Even as you exit the restaurant, and try to make a joke to break that strange tension, he remains silent. It’s like a summer thunderstorm, those moods. Roiling over in what seems like the blink of an eye.

Once you get to the truck, you take in a deep breath and one more moment to look around. There’s a twinge in your chest. The need to cement the memory of those blooming flowers, the faint murmurs of music and other people talking from the restaurant. 

Mason shuts the door for you, careful to avoid closing it on your clothes.

The truck ride is quiet too. Perhaps Mason forgot to turn the music back on, or perhaps he just needed the silence. You want to say something, to ease the tension rolling off him in waves, but your throat feels tight, your tongue leaden. Mason glances over at you. His hand comes to rest on your thigh, thumb running back and forth gently as if in apology.

He only relaxes as the town falls away into the rear view mirror, and then disappears. Mason drives past the lodge, squeezing your thigh reassuringly when you give a questioning look.

The road opens up to a grassy clearing, surrounded by trees and beyond them, the silhouettes of mountains. They rise sharp and white as fangs against the start of sunset. Mason carefully maneuvers the truck, sidling into the clearing and backing up slowly to an old tree stump.

Mason hops out and walks around to open the door for you. You slide your hand into his. He leads you to the back of the truck, pulling up the cover to reveal blankets, pillows, and a little picnic basket. You fight a smile, recognizing it as Hana’s from the little plastic butterflies hot glued all over it.

Mason continues to hold your hand as you step up onto the tree stump, then up onto the bed of the truck. He pulls himself up beside you, and settles to sit up against the cab of the truck. He opens the basket, revealing some bottles of soda, cider, and beer, and some small sweets he hoped you’d like.

The sunset bathes the clearing in a golden light. Crickets hum, and a warm breeze tickles your skin. You try a bite of one of the little desserts— some of the other werewolves’ attempts at a petit four, you think— and he grabs a beer.

Mason lets you steer the conversation, as he usually does, humming in response as you talk more about what you’d thought of the restaurant, what you think of the books Hunter and Cyrus have brought you, anything else that’s been on your mind lately. The dusk descends ever-more rapidly, it seems, the breeze turning colder as the evening wears on. 

A comfortable silence settles over the both of you for a time. You let your gaze slide to Mason, admiring him in the waning light. He’s all rough edges worn soft with time, not unlike the mountains that cradle you and that sleepy little town to the south. Something wild and rugged lays at the hearts of both, drawing you in like a moth to the flame.

His gaze has long since moved from vigilantly scanning the edge of the forest, to staring up at the stars wistfully.

It’s a strange expression on him. You run the back of your hand against his, smiling at the way he instinctively lifts your hand close and turns his face to press a kiss to your knuckles. His stubble scratches your skin and makes you wrinkle your nose playfully— he’d been perfectly clean-shaven when he’d woken you up! You wonder if that’s a werewolf trait, or if he’d have been like that as a human too.

“What are you thinking about?”

”You,” he sighs, lips still pressed to your hand. His brows furrow, eyes sliding shut. “The others.”

You laugh. “What, worried they’re going to burn the place down by accident while we’re out here?”

Mason snorts, shaking his head and moving to wrap his arm around your shoulder and pull you into him. “You’d be surprised.”

The small smile you’d pulled from him soon falls back into that faraway, pensive expression. He breathes in deeply, steadying himself. “Truth is… I don’t like the way they were looking at you… y’know, back at the restaurant.” 

Trepidation scours your skin like another gust of wind, raising goosebumps in its wake. Sure, you’d felt a few curious stares, maybe admiring or judging, but… surely it was normal for a small town, where everybody knows everybody, to be curious about their Sheriff’s new companion… “What d’you mean?”

Mason tilts his head, brow furrowed and hand tightening on your arm. His eyes search yours. There’s a fire there, a steeliness, something that steals your breath and fills your stomach with butterflies, anxious and anticipating. Eventually he relents with a sigh, letting his eyes slide closed. 

“You really don’t know, do you?”

A wry chuckle fans over your lips, broad hand coming up to cup your face. A calloused thumb brushes over your cheekbone, pressing into the skin a bit too firmly. Mason’s nose brushes yours, salt-and-pepper lashes fluttering over his cheekbones filling your vision as your own eyes slide shut.

Rags to riches, dirt to gold, no fairy godmother to help you and yet your romance with the reigning Monarch of the land you lived in was truly like a fairytale. So in love were you, so focused on your royal lover always, that you hardly noticed others’ jealous stares and venomous whispers. The court’s intrigues mattered little to you— you were above it all, head in the clouds and protected by your dear Monarch. The two of you had a darling little Heir to the throne together.

Of course, fairytales come to an end, with a pretty little picture of your darling family in your little crowns titled, “and they lived happily ever after.”

What a lie. You and your child survived, but your spouse died in a far-off war, a brutal war that your country had won with much hardship, and left you alone in the pit of vipers that were the aristocracy.

Your beloved’s body had barely returned to the castle and been entombed, when avaricious suitors began to seek your hand in marriage one after another, seeking power or fame or riches as stepparent to the heir apparent.

You didn’t know who to trust. Your sweet nature fell by the wayside with time, as circumstances demanded that you regard everyone with suspicion and keep them at arm’s length for your safety, and that of your child’s.

The kingdom was at peace now, and beginning to prosper once more as crops flourished. You didn’t have anything to take your mind off your loneliness and grief except for your baby and the soul-crushing task of finding a new suitor to wed— if only to escape the constant advances from new suitors and the nagging of your advisors.

Suitor after suitor was dismissed. None had passed your questioning so far. You finished each day tired and forlorn, wishing you could go back in time and avoid meeting the previous Monarch at all. The only highlight of your life was your sweet baby— no, toddler. The time had flown dizzyingly fast, despite your heartfelt wish for it to just stay still for a moment.

You gathered your robes and left the room, without even looking at the crestfallen suitor you passed on your way out. Just another person desperate for your money and devastated that they’d get no piece of it. You sweep your way up to the tower your child’s bedroom was in.

Fear clouded your mind to see there was no knight outside the room, and you rushed inside to check on your child, ready to kill anybody who stood in between you and them— only to see your Knight having a “tea party,” with your child. Your shoulders dropped with relief, the Knight’s helmet turning towards you in a panic, their gloved finger held in your child’s chubby little hand. You raised your hand, letting the knight know they were in no trouble after all.

You let yourself relax in the presence of your child and your Knight, kneeling down beside your child and letting them tell you all about the tea party. They pat your cheek and hair excitedly, babbling away as if they were actually speaking.

Thorn almost wants to fight back when you insist on giving her a bath— but then she thinks of your hands on her, warm and wet from the water, and quickly relents. She still pouts a little, determined to hold onto her indignation at being told what to do and when to do it, even as she secretly expects things to escalate into you touching her in more sexually satisfying ways.

You have other plans in mind. Hands moving quickly and methodically, not lingering anywhere she really wants you to, you scrub Thorn down with an antibacterial soap, an exfoliating scrub, and finally your own body wash. Thorn watches the water swirl down the drain, somehow both dirty and soapy, and clutches at the warm fluffy towel you’d pulled from the dryer just for her.

You reach around her and Thorn expects, hopes— that this’ll be the good part, that you’ll finally touch her how she’s been hoping you will— but you only reach around and turn the water on again. You coax Thorn back into the bath, and have her tilt back so her hair is under the faucet. Thorn closes her eyes, resigned to the lack of sex in the near future, and lets you do what you will.

You take your time washing her hair, gently scrubbing at her scalp with your nails as you lather shampoo and rinse once, then twice. The attention feels strange. Thorn can’t help but squeeze her eyes shut tighter, something painful curling up in her chest at the kindness and gentleness of your touch. You begin to drench her hair in conditioner; it’s curly, and been dyed to hell and back, so it needs as much moisture as it can get. She hiccups, and you pause.

“Thorn?” You ask, pulling back to look at her face rather than her hair. “You doing okay?”

Thorn can’t find in in herself to look at you. She shakes her head a little bit, and you notice the tears streaking through the stray water droplets running down her face.

“Oh,” you sigh, rinsing your hand before cupping her cheek. Thorn grabs your hand and nuzzles into it harder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

And the whole time, her jealousy eats her alive.

Every time you need help finding something in the library, and she’s too shy to offer to help, she grits her teeth and clenches her fists until her nails or cat claws dig into her palms, watching as one of her coworkers helps you instead. Felicity will use her jobs as a way to follow you— if you frequent a different library or bookstore, she’ll apply there instead. And she follows you outside of work, too, a jealous and silently-seething shadow you can never quite get a good look at.

Felicity had really only taken the position as a librarian to pay rent and fill time. Her real passion lies in writing. Throughout the first few weeks of following you, she manages to write novel-length romantic adventures with you and her as the leads— saving each other from dragons and loveless engagements to other people— but as time wears on, and her sleepless nights stretch on to write and watch you sleep, her pen slows.

Fee isn’t much for technology, barely tolerating the old desktops of the library and the one in her house that she uses to finalize manuscripts. Her writing is contained in notebooks upon notebooks, red and pink cursive filling the pages with a passionate slant. The longer she watches you, sees you interacting with other people, the more her stories begin to include the suffering she wishes would befall anyone else who gets too close to you. She fills pages upon pages of wishing those others were dead in the dirt for daring to disgrace your mind with their empty words and lay their filthy hands on your perfect form. She doesn’t deserve you— but neither do they.

Other pages are simply filled with your name, scrawled over and over again, increasingly messily.

One day she breaks down, thinking of the way you’d smiled at someone else yet again. Her pen breaks from her grip, ink soaking into the pages of her beloved notebook. Felicity sobs once, then twice, tears plopping onto the already ruined pages. Her claws tear at the edges of the notebook. She finds that she can’t write much at all for a while after that, even with a new notebook.

She wishes you would just smile at her like that, just once. Then she would be satisfied— not like those other greedy people, who steal so much of your time and attention.

But of course, one smile and one moment could never truly be enough for her, either.

~~~~