:')

“I think I got in my own head and convinced myself that if I rushed into something, I’d screw it up.”

[A little note: After that chapter with Viktor Montemartre..I just have a lot of conflicting feelings. So on a whim, I wrote this. There isn’t a lot of details in regards to what happened, I feel like sexual harassment is a very tenative topic, and if you aren’t comfortable with any mentions of it - feel free to ignore seeing this across your dash. Plus I’ve waited like 10 years to write hunt x mc fanfiction lol. P.S. If you read this, thanks so much for reading! I’ve been feeling really down about everything, even my writing so this always means a lot!].

[Word Count: 2102]

[Tags:  @mariamatsuo @mrswalkerwrites, @nerdpossible, @mysteli, @simplyaiden-blog, @innerpostmentality  @craftytacotrashdream, @nathan-sterling, if you want to be added or removed from this list - let me know].

Her hands are shaking and much to no avail – she cannot get the shaking to stop. They tremble harder the longer she stares, and she stares at them like it is the first time she has paid attention to the smooth planes in her palm. 

Yet, very quickly – her hands change. 

They turn paler by the second and she watches in complete horror as they warp; blurring until the next time she blinks they are suddenly too big and too board to be hers; too manicured to belong to her. An image of Viktor Montmartre burns itself through the wall she’s placed inside her head.

Her heart nearly comes to a stop and the music pulsating around her quickly filters out. It becomes background noise while she studies her hands. It’s impossible – she knows it cannot be his hands that is attached to her skin and yet her haggard mind seems to feel differently.

Her stomach drops and she clenches her fists. She digs little moons into her palms as she forcibly drops them to her sides. She has to convince herself that it isn’t real – not this part.

The alcohol simply isn’t doing its justice.

She shifts forward into her bar stool and catches sight of her phone’s bright light from the corner of her eyes. She ignores the incoming text from her friends and grits her teeth.

She swears she can still feel his stare, gazing at her hungrily despite her protests and indignation when he suggested she slept with him. She can still feel his breath unwantedly grazing her neck when he pulled her solidly against his chest, and his fingers tugged her into him, reeking of cologne before she finally managed to wrench herself free.

She squeezes her eyes shut and forces the bile she feels rising to her throat back. She can’t think like that. She can’t let him win.