#It'll be a miracle if I can finish it

[majoresca]

Okay, hear me out here...

Makes me think of a scenario with my OC okay?

An O.C. who had become close to Cedric throughout the story, who ends up discovering his plans to take the throne.

They confront each other, and the O.C. gives him an ultimatum, if he doesn't give up on taking the throne, they would leave never to see him again.

Cedric is reluctant saying that he can't go back anymore, since he is so close to achieving it, and that he wouldn't let neither Princess Sofia, nor the O.C. nor anyone else interrupt the dream of of a lifetime to come true. Because after years of humiliation and contempt from others, he deserves his reward, his rightful place on the throne.

But the O.C. asks if everything they went through wasn't important after all? What would happen to the royal family? The royal children? Cedric's family? The kingdom of Enchancia? And him?

If the plan goes wrong, what would become of him?

The O.C. tries to advise him not to do that, because if he fails, he won't be able to go back to the way he was before. And that the worst would happen to him if he stayed on that path.

Cedric is offended and hurt, how dare they also be one of his critics? Who questions and doubts his abilities? That he could fail to such an extent again?

He says that if they really cared about him, they would know what he was capable of, and trust his abilities. And they wouldn't want to convince him to be of being less than he really is.

Only to them, he had never been less in their eyes. But their admiration is not enough to convince him.

They separate, and the O.C. leaves, fulfilling the ultimatum.

[scouting4love]

have you finished blue eye samurai?

✊😗.......😐... No

I'm watching Percy Jackson and The Crown w/my mommie to spend time with her BUT I WILL WATCH IT...........I WILL. being in your 20s is hard..

No drawing. Picture of my baby girls instead 👇

[utterlyotterlyx]

Worthy

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - After a hard day, all you need is your mate to tell you that everything is going to be okay.

Warnings - angst, self hatred, self doubt, blood, brief details of childbirth, death, fluff

For my lovely @thisiskaylin - hope this makes you feel better x

Blood.

There was blood everywhere. All over your hands, spatters on your face and neck, it clung to you like a disease.

It was meant to be worth it.

One more push, you would tell them. One more push and you get to see your beautiful baby. Just one more and it'll all be over and you can go home and raise your perfect little baby.

Just one more push.

The child wriggled in your arms, you had bundled the winged babe up in grey blanket, protecting him from the scene in front of him. A non-Illyrian woman lay before you unmoving, tears rolling down her face, fingers outstretched toward you with a vacant look in her eye. And there was blood everywhere.

Amalia had been one of your favourite patients in your career, full of life and wonder, kind and sweet and soft, she was made to be a mother. Every visit had been so positive, you had no reason to believe that she wouldn't make it. Amalia was strong and healthy, she should have made it. You had promised her it would all be alright.

But blood at pooled at her thighs, staining her cream coloured birthing gown, she had gone pale and sweaty and her lips had turned blue. The rapid rise and fall of her chest confirmed it, that she wasn't going to make it, and there was nothing your healing hands could do to stop it.

"Please. Let me see him," she had rasped to you and you sat beside her, lowering her babe to her face and letting her shaky fingers tug down at the neck of the bundle to see his face. "So beautiful."

Tears pricked your eyes, "You did so well, Amalia."

Amalia peered up at you, her icy blue eyes softening at your face, she had always called you an angel, "I did?"

Choking back tears, you ran your fingers through her lifeless blonde waves, a comforting gesture, to let her know she wasn't alone, "So well," you confirmed, "You have to name him."

"A name," her voice was fleeting, drifting away into the wind, carried by the coaxing breeze floating through the slightly ajar window, "Amias. Eternal love."

"Amias," you turned you gaze to the bubbling boy in your arms and smiled, brushing your fingers against his full cheeks, "It's perfect, Amalia. It's-" but you couldn't finish your sentence, not when you turned back to her and saw nothing, no rise and fall of her chest, just vacant tearful eyes and pale sweaty skin.

It was always a danger you had faced, losing a mother to the complications that came with bearing an Illyrian child, a thing you knew all too well from birthing Nyx. It was your specialised field of mastery, the birthing of Illyrian babes, you had saved many that would not have stood a chance without you. You were a miracle to them, even the males at Windhaven had come to treat you with kindness, it wasn't often that they were thought of, and you made them feel cared for.

The room was solemn. The team of midwives that accompanied you to all of the births you attended worked slowly and respectfully, draping the thin cloth of her bed sheet over her face after washing her skin softly with lavender soaped sponges all whilst you rocked and cooed the innocent motherless child into slumber. Handing the small thing over to one of your midwives, you sniffled, you went to wipe your face with your sleeve but froze when you saw the blood trailing up your arms and let out a small sob in response.

There was only one thing, one person, that would be able to fix you.

Windhaven was a place that Azriel hated you going to.

There was no doubt in his mind that you were the most extraordinary thing on the planet, but sometimes he wished that you had chosen a different specialty in your healing career. One that didn't make you feel so small, one that made you happy.

He knew something had gone wrong when he had sent a questioning love down the bond for it only to collide with a rock solid wall of iron clad fury. The bond only went silent when something was wrong. Every patient of yours was a friend, it was hard for people not to adore you, so it hurt you more when they left the world.

Footsteps scuffed up the pavement outside of your shared home and Azriel heard you sigh deeply before the handle turned and you stepped in.

The room was as it always was. Books, some medical and some historical, splayed across the coffee table, a fire dancing at the forefront of the room cascading the space in a golden glow, and two mugs of tea, one of which had long since had gone cold, on the side tables by your assigned spaces on the deep cobalt love seat.

Azriel scanned you for but a second before throwing his body over the edge of the seat and rushing to you. There was blood coating you, from your skirt up to your hair, your eyes were shocked and vacant, your lips were chapped and your cheeks were red and puffy. You had been crying.

Being no stranger to blood, Azriel took your hands in his and lifted them to his chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, so that you could centre yourself and bring your consciousness back to the land of the living. Then your gaze turned to him and your chest dropped, and Azriel knew what had happened, "Amalia?"

Shaking your head, you choked, "She didn't make it," tears pooled in your eyes and your face crumpled, "I promised her that she'd make it. There was no reason why she shouldn't have. I've been doing so well with the prenatal visits and the vitamins and the tonics, and she just," a sob broke through, "She just died."

Azriel ran his hands down the side of your face and continued to listen to your words, "What kind of healer am I if I can't save a woman, my friend, from the risks of childbirth? The risks I have dedicated my career to avoid? I've left a child without a mother, Az," you peered up at him, tears streaking down your face, collecting blood on their descent, "I'm a monster."

Unknowingly, you opened your side of the bond, and Azriel was flooded with your grief and anguish, your self loathing and doubt, and your all-consuming worthlessness, "Look at me, y/n. Look at me," he pulled your focus and smiled softly at you.

Azriel adored everything about you, but more than anything, he adored your kind soul and caring heart. You were the most magnificent thing he had ever come across.

The bond had snapped for him when he had been badly injured and Rhys had stormed into your little apartment above the pharmacy with Azriel strung over his shoulder. Despite your messy hair and askew nightgown, you worked endlessly to bring Azriel back from the brink, he truly believed he had entered heaven that day and that you were the one to guide him to the light.

He didn't realise that heaven could exist on earth until he met you.

It had taken months for you to release the bond between you, you were a busy thing, always researching and working on ways to save people from some of the most unavoidable events of life. One being childbirth. But during one certain sunset, when the sun was low and the sky was painted in pink and gold, did you feel that golden thread snap into place. Since then, you had been inseparable. He was your rock, the only one who could smash your soul into pieces and the only one who could put you back together, and you were his sunshine and rain, the only one who could cause him any real pain, but the only one who could clear his darkness and bring him into the light.

"None of the women you have saved would have stood a chance without you," blood covered your face like dirt, dusting but prominent, and your eyes were brimming with exhaustion, "I know it's hard, and that you feel worthless and like you're failing. But none of the women in this court could have survived without you, you are an angel, you have saved so many mothers and children that our study is bursting with gifts and flowers," you strained a smile, "I know that Amalia was your friend, I'm so sorry that you lost her, I know how much you wanted her to live."

"As much as we want to, we can't save everyone, y/n. All we can do is seek to save the next, to give another person a chance of a full beautiful life just like ours."

The obsession of non-Illyrian mothers had grown since you had accepted the bond with Azriel, you had never directly voiced why, but he knew you were trying to find a way for yourself to survive if the time ever came when you would carry his child. It was heart breaking to see it, to see you lose a patient and feel your own soul hang in the balance. It was heart breaking to know that you saw yourself as Amalia, broken and bloody and alone.

It had always been something you had wanted with him, a child of your own, with little black wings and shadows curling around him just like Az's. But you also wanted to live to see him grow. You weren't an Illyrian, which meant that you too were at risk of facing the same fate as Amalia's.

The fear in your eyes broke him.

"You are so worthy, so talented and determined that you put all of us to shame. You are the light of the Night Court, I'm just lucky that I get to bask in it daily. No wonder everyone is jealous that I get to call you my mate," a soft grin formed on his lips at your whispering giggle and he took your face in his hands, allowing his shadows to curl around your forearms and sooth the raging sadness within you, "I love you, y/n. I'm in awe of you every day. It's not easy to do what you do, to fall in love with the idea of saving people and breaking when the Mother decides to take one away. But it doesn't make you any less worthy or loved. You were put on this earth for a reason, to save people, and you will continue to do that because you are y/n, and you are my mate, and you wouldn't be you if you didn't. You save me everyday and you don't even know it."

The room had grown lighter, and the all-consuming anguish that had flowed down the bond had shifted, "Thank you," your eyes flickered across his face and your shoulders dropped.

Azriel tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and sighed, taking you in his arms and holding you tightly against his chest, "Let's get you in a bath, hm?" he pulled away and looked down on you, tilting his head and drinking in your radiant beauty despite the sadness and stains on your skin, "Then I'm going to brush your hair and hold you and kiss you until you fall asleep, and then tomorrow, you save another life."

Nodding, you exhaled shakily, pulling him back to you as he went to lead you to the bathroom upstairs, no doubt to the already full tub that was big enough for both of you, he gazed at you in question, with a furrowed brow and fingers interlinked with your own, "I love you, you know that, don't you?"

The desperation in his voice made him want to scoop you up in his arms and show you exactly how much he adored you, but you were hurting, and you needed him in a wholly different way, "I know. I love you too. So much. Let's go and soak okay? I'll tell you who Nyx said was his favourite..."

Light beamed in your eyes and you wilfully allowed your body to be pulled by Azriel's grip, "If it's Cassian, I will riot."

The rest of the evening was spent in his arms, his fingers massaging your scalp and shoulders, wrapping around you and his lips pressing into the curve of your shoulder. Azriel brushed your hair, his touch so gentle and his shadows peppering their love for you across your face. And as you drifted into slumber, the symphony of your dreams were set by Azriel's voice, a low and sultry sound, reading to you, his fingers running through your hair and lips pressing into your hair line.

Not once did he take his hands off of you. Not once did he stop muttering how loved you were. And you knew that as long as he was by your side, you were invincible.

[lottiesboy]

bath time, baby!!

pairing: cg!agathario x little!reader

summary: after playing in the muddy backyard, your mommies give you a well deserved bath.

tags: sfw, fluff, age regression, mama!agatha, mami!rio, baths, silly little fic :3

"you're gonna need a bath, carino." rio smirked playfully, watching you splash around in the muddy puddle you made.

it was a warmer day in westview, so rio took you out to the backyard to play with the hose and cool down. she sat in a lawn chair, watching you closely.

"no no!" you kicked your feet a little, not wanting to stop playing. "yes yes, baby. mami said so." rio got up, folding her lawn chair and letting it in the middle of the yard. "y'know mama just cleaned the house, she's not gonna want you to track all that mud in, okay?" she bent down, taking off your muddy socks. "it'll be a miracle if these will be white again." she tossed them aside.

"uppy." you wanted rio to take you in the house. “you’re gonna get mud all over mami, amor. lemme help you up.”

rio eventually got you up and helped you into the house, trying to sneak you into the house without agatha seeing you.

“riooo?” agatha called. you looked up at your mami with a smile, trying not to laugh.

“yeah?”

agatha walked into the living room from the kitchen. “can you vacuum the rug? scratchy’s hair is all over it-” agatha’s wife when wide when she saw you covered in mud. “what happened!?” agatha put her hands on her hips.

“the baby got a little carried away in the mud. help me bathe them?” rio shrugged. agatha couldn’t help but smile. “of course.”

—

your mommies got you undressed, throwing your dirty clothes in the washer immediately. they made the bath extra bubbly and warm before you got in. “you wanted some toys, sweetheart?” agatha brought up your bucket of bath toys and let you pick.

“let’s get you clean, cariño.” rio started to wash your arms, getting your muddy hands and arms clean again. “you want mama to wash your hair?” agatha grabbed your shampoo. you nodded, kicking your feet excitedly under the water. you always loved when agatha washed your hair, it always made you so relaxed.

she made sure your hair was completely lathered in soap, getting every speck of mud that was caked in your hair. “aye, don’t splash, baby. lemme get under your arms.” rio watched play with your toys.

rio scrubbed under your arms, tickling you. you squealed, squirming away from the towel. rio and agatha chuckled. “hold on, sweetheart. give me the other one.” rio held your other arm up to get it all clean. “good job, you’re all clean. let mommy finish washing your hair and then we’ll play, okay?”

you nodded, letting agatha rinse your hair. “no water in my face, mama.” you squeezed your rubber duck making it quack. “i know, bunny. almost done.” she used a cup to rinse out the shampoo, making sure not to get it in your eyes.

after getting you all clean, you and your mommies played for a little while, rio putting in your favorite toy boat and watching it glide on the water. you and agatha drew pictures on the tiles with your bath crayons.

once you were done, rio lifted you out and drained the water, agatha grabbing your hooded bunny towel. “our little bunny’s all clean, huh?” agatha dried you off.

agatha and rio got you changed into some pjs, drying your hair with your towel. “mama play.” you laid your head on her shoulder.

“what do you wanna play, sweetie?”

you pointed to the backyard and agatha’s eyes went wide. “oh- no no. we can play in your nursery, hon.”

[savannahsdeath]

Can we get something where Ellie is injured and when reader takes care of her she feels embarrassed bc she doesn't want to seem weak. But then she like starts crying about "not being strong enough" and just have some cute fluff from reader <33

AHHHZHSBHX i love writing fluff sm like its so comforting !!

ELLIE WILLIAMS X READER

mdni please<3

warnings: minors safe i think?? blood, crying

writers note: its kinda short n all but omghauzb i love ellie sm i need to give her a biiiiggg hug and just never let go like😓🩷my poor baby:(

you intensively listened to the sharp ticking of the clock, waiting for something that'd break the cycle. for someone, actually. for your precious girlfriend ellie, which had a patrol somewhere around jackson. you stayed quiet, listening intently for any signs of her. the sounds of the clock in the background seemed to taunt you, like a reminder of how much time was passing and you had to wait even longer to hear news from her.

it was something about midnight when she finally came knocking on the door, completely soaked in freezing rain. her hair was wet, her face drenched, she looked miserable. you rushed to get a towel to help her dry her hair and body.

when you were done you wrapped your hands around her. she hissed and you instantly pulled away, giving her a pout of pure worry and concern. your eyes inspected her body, without effect. your hands reached out for her top, wanting to take it off and look for any injuries, but she firmly gripped your wrists.

"babe, stop." she said, and maybe you'd listen to her, if her voice didn't sound like begging. and if she begged, she was hiding something.

you freed your hands and rolled her shirt up, revealing a nasty wound on her side. it looked like bullet scratch and it was a miracle - a few millimeters to the left and the shot would pierce her waist.

ellie mumbled a quiet 'fuck...' as her attempt to hide it from you failed. she did her best to look unfazed and pretend to not be in pain, knowing it'd only add to the embarrassment.

ellie sighed and pulled your hands away from the wound, pushing you back. she took a deep breath, the pain evident on her face, and rolled her shirt back down.

"it's fine, i'm fine." she falsely reassured, her shaky voice betraying her attempt to sound tough. she forced a weak smile, trying to play down your worries, but you could tell she wasn't okay.

"ellie, you're bleeding!" you shook your head, your eyes darting back and forth from her wound and her face.

you dragged her to the bedroom, taking a first aid kit from the bathroom on the way. she stayed silent as you softly but forcefully sat her on the bed and started preparing everything.

"this will... sting a bit." you warned her before looking at the disinfectant. you knew it'll do way more than just 'sting a bit'.

ellie avoided looking at you, hating how vulnerable the whole situation makes her feel. she gritted her teeth as you started cleaning the wound, trying to maintain her composure as best as she could. you could hear her breathing get heavier as the pain began to set in, but she was too proud to let you see her cry.

as you continued to work, she looked away from you, ashamed that you had to fix her mistakes. she knew she should have been more careful and hated how weak she appeared in front of you.

"i'm sorry for making you do this." she murmured, her voice barely audible.

ellie sucked in a sharp breath and clenched the sheets as you applied the disinfectant. a wave of pain washed over her, but she managed to stay silent and hold back a scream.

you finished cleaning the wound and began to bandage it, being careful not to hurt her any further. as you worked, you heard ellie sniffle as she struggled to hold back her emotions. you looked up and saw that ellie is watching you with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. her eyes were glistening with unshed tears and she was biting her lip to hold back a wail of agony and relief.

"thank you..." she whispered, her voice breaking.

"don't mention it." you said, your eyes full of sympathy for your suffering girlfriend. you gave her a reassuring smile, best you could manage as her pain hurt you too.

ellie took a deep breath, trying to compose herself as the pain subsided, but she couldn't hold back her tears any longer. she buried her face in her hands as she sobbed bitterly, her whole body shaking with emotion.

you gently wrapped her in a hug, holding her tight to give her some comfort. you whispered reassuring words in her ear, trying to calm her down.

"it's alright- sh, shhh..." you stroked her hair in an attempt to provide some solace. "i'll always be here for you, love."

her arms desperately seeked for support in your body, as her tears slowly dropped and soaked into your shirt.

"how can i keep you safe if i can't even take care of myself?" she mumbled, her voice muffled as her face was pressed against your chest.

you continued to hold ellie in your arms, trying to provide her with the comfort and reassurance she needed.

"you're always taking care of me, and now it's my turn to take care of you." you whispered, gently stroking her hair.

ellie looks up at you, her eyes full of gratitude. you feel her embrace tighten as she clings to you for support.

"my strong, amazing els." you smile, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

you held ellie for what seemed like an eternity, neither of you wanting to let go anytime soon. as you continued to cradle her in your arms, you could feel her warm tears running down your chest, now even beneath your shirt.

you felt her begin to calm down, her sobs easing up and her grip on you gradually loosening. suddenly, she pressed her body against you even tighter, almost like she was afraid of losing you after you've provided her with such comfort.

"i love you." she whispered, burying her head in your chest.

you continued gently stroking ellie's hair, unable to stop smiling at her confession.

"i love you too." you whispered back, as if you just shared a really important secret with her, hugging her tightly.

you felt her relax, her body going limp as she nestled into your chest. it felt like time has stopped, and the two of you together in the moment was all that mattered.

you pressed your forehead against ellie's, looking deep into her green eyes.

"always, forever." you added, before sharing your first kiss in a long while.

[meatballlady]

It's time for the fandom to start Looking Where the Furniture Isn't

For a bit of background, one of my irl professional responsibilities is to identify and avoid making undue assumptions. There are a LOT of things that we humans assume. We assume that terminology means the same to other people as it does to us. We assume everyone has the same context of a situation we do. We assume that we aren't missing any information.

We operate on the information we have.

There was an ask before season 2 aired asking whether many of the plot points had been revealed by the clips (which almost all took place during the first half of the first episode). Neil's response was something like "oh you sweet summer children you know nothing yet." And boy was he right.

Neil Gaiman is a master of controlling assumptions. Just look at his Tumblr askbox replies.

Here's a few s2 examples of assumptions we all made (as I'm starting a rewatch):

Why did Crowley do the (very fun and distracting) apology dance? You might say it was because he walked out on Jim, but he never specified, did he? And Aziraphale was surprised that he proposed they would hide him "together"

How did Shax get a rumor about something going down in the Up (presumably) before Gabriel even went downstairs?

Did Jim need to bring Aziraphale something other than the box? He never actually specifies; Aziraphale just assumes it's the box.

Why did Aziraphale assume Maggie could feel [Michael, Uriel, Saraquael] arriving?

Why does Aziraphale say Heaven would notice even a small miracle? Crowley is seen doing a miracle before their large miracle (traffic light), and later Aziraphale makes the guy leave the table at the pub

To go deeper:

Are we assuming that characters are telling the truth? Example: "Miracles don't work like that," "[Extreme sanctions] was just something we said to frighten the cherubs" etc.

Are we assuming that nothing of note happened between apocalypse v1 and s2? (ex. the claims that Crowley didn't tell Aziraphale about the trial in heaven despite him referencing it in s2s1) What if we the audience are just jumping in near the end of this story?

Are these assumptions correct? Or are we just working with the information that we have?

Now that I'm looking for it, there's also SO many corrections of assumptions (usually for the sake of a joke, but still) (these are just the ones that happen while I type them out while watching e2):

"Can I be a blue one?" "You haven't annoyed me yet" "But can I be?"

"You recognized [Michael, Uriel, Saraquael] those people who were in the shop just now?" "Of course, they were in the shop, just now!"

"oh my god!" "blasphemy, angel, that's not like you", "no, oh, my god"

Many of the themes were about hiding things in plain sight: the kids (and kids), Jim, "aim for my mouth but shoot past my ear." Clue (1985) was heavily referenced in the lead-up. The whole point of that film was looking at what was going on elsewhere. Looking where the furniture isn't, you might say.

The more I watch s2, the less certain I am that any of it makes sense on its own.

I'm currently combing through it to see if there are any discrepancies with where people are (easiest example is when Crowley just disappears from the bookshop while they're reviewing the Job story). It'll be a lot of data and might not lead anywhere, but I'll definitely share once I finish looking into it.

I will also honestly admit that these things are all circumstantial, and I could be going insane. But they just keep cropping up all over the place. I've got a lot of time before S3 comes up and I intend to investigate the furniture. And try to not make assumptions.

[earl-grey-teacake]

The Jenson ask is hilarious! Now all I can imagine is Sky Sports telling Jenson to kidnap Logan again to get George and Alex on again. Meanwhile, Jenson, who has already kidnapped Logan again, rolls up like this is my new copresenter we don't need Danica Patrick anymore Logan has better thoughts on the race. Williams is on red alert trying to find their missing baby because James doesn't check his texts during races!

Oscar now attempts to escape McLaren every time he sees Logan on the Big Face Time (TV) because one miracle escape does not mean Logan will always be safe!

Oh I can totally see it!

Please enjoy this little thing I wrote. I am coping with Australia by writing and being in denial.❤️

Jenson is tired of Danica and decides if Sky Sports won’t give him a replacement, he’ll find one for himself. Logan is old enough to toddle around so he gets his own little space that he can play in when Jenson comes along and coaxes him outside.

Has Logan been given the whole “strange danger, don’t go off alone” talk by his parents? Yes, yes he has.

But Jenson isn’t a stranger so it’s okay and Jenson easily walks out with Logan in tow. After all, it’s not like he kidnapped him. Logan went off his own free will and with the promise of chocolate.

Jenson also shoots off a text to James saying:

Heads up!

Taking Logan for a bit. If you want him back, have Alex and George come to us. 1 interview.

You know where we're at.

James of course does not read it because he's busy being a team principal. In fact, the Williams staff are secretly running around trying to find Logan thinking he’s wandered off looking for his dads because “he knows better to wander off with strangers.” It isn’t until 15 minutes after that James is notified after Logan is confirmed to not be in the garage or hospitality. By then, Jenson has returned to where the rest of the Sky Sports team is with Logan in tow.

“Uhh, Jenson? “ One of the staff members spoke up, “We’re about to be on air soon.”

“I know! This is Logan. He’s my co-presenter for today.” Logan waved at the crew, who smiled and waved back.

"Did you ask to take him?" Nico smiled and waved back. "The last time you did this, Williams thought you kidnapped him."

"Logan wanted to follow me on his own." Jenson scoffed. "Isn't that right?"

Logan, for his part, just cheered and offered up a piece of chocolate to Natalie, who happily took it.

"On his own, huh?"

"It'll be fine."

"Isn't Danica supposed to be-" Natalie said.

"Nope, Logan's is already here. Besides, this is preparing him for the future.

"You don't even know if he wants to be a driver?"

Jenson gasped at Nico's comment. "How could you say that?"

"Don't listen to him, Logan. You can become a Williams driver. I believe in you."

"That's not-"

"And we're live!"

********

Oscar's eyes widened at the sight of the TV. "Lo!"

Lando looked up, having finished interviews early and returning to his driver's room. "Oh, yeah that's Logan. Looks like he's with Jenson."

Oscar watched in horror as Lando returned back to looking at the data. "No! Lo! Lo!"

Lando looked up at his son's insistent eyes. "Hey, it's okay. We're meeting them for dinner soon."

Oscar, however, did not agree with this and instead started to stumble towards the door and pull on the handle. Lando, being taller and faster, immediately jumped up and put his hand on it.

Oscar proceeds to yank at the door handle and cry. Going as far as to try and shove Lando away. "Lo!"

*******

Alex and George were walking to find Sky Sports, especially Jenson, after receiving a screenshot of his message? Threat?

"I swear when I find him" George muttered. "How dare he kidnap my child? Logan knows better than to wander off with strangers."

"Jenson's not a stranger." Alex unhelpfully replied. "I'm sure he's fine. It's good for Logan to be around new people."

"What if he's hurt? Uncomfortable?"

"He's with Jenson. He wasn't kidnapped."

"That message read like a ransom note."

Logan was actually quite happy about participating in the interviews. He stayed silent when others were speaking and at the end, they would turn to him and ask if he had any questions to ask, to which he replied in mangled words and sounds. It didn't matter since everyone treated it as serious and the drivers even provided full answers.

"Yes, I agree with you Logan. Our strategy was obviously not the best. We will come back stronger next time."- Charles

"I agree, Logan. Hamilton definitely brake checked me. Thank you for seeing it my way. You would do great at Aston Martin." - Fernando

"Did Fernando say that? If the stewards haven't said anything, I wouldn't put too much weight on it, Logan"- Hamilton

"Oh, he's a natural." Jenson cooed as Logan received another cookie from Nico.

"Dada!" Logan cheerfully yelled out, his mouth covered with crumbs.

Alex looked almost amused at the scene but George seemed to be on the warpath. Careful not to let his collateral go, Jenson adjusted his hold on Logan. "Hey, George, Alex. Nice of you to stop by."

"Hello," Alex greeted. "And hello to you Logan. You seem to be having fun."

"Oh he is," Jenson cheerfully ignored George's stare. "He's such a good interviewer."

"Well thank you so much for joining us today, gentlemen."

"It's not like we had a choice," George muttered

For the entire five minutes, Logan watched as his dads were being interviewed on their performance on the track. Alex went along with the whole thing quite well. George, on the other hand, kept a neutral face but his eyes were firmly locked on Logan.

"Lo! Lo!" Oscar yelled out.

Logan looked up and smiled. "Osca! Osca!"

"How wonderful of you to join us Lando" Natalie greeted. "It's a reunion of the 2019 rookies."

Lando laughed. "It wasn't my intention. Oscar saw Logan on TV and begged to go."

The walk back was fairly quiet with Logan knocked out from the amount of sugar and Oscar exhausted from the tantrum he threw earlier.

"I wonder if Jenson would babysit for us." Alex joked,

"Absolutely not," George said. "Logan is going to start associating Jenson with candy and cookies. Jenson will also take it as an open invitation to just kidnap him again."

"He had a lot of fun. I'm glad." Alex said, practically ignoring George.

"I'm glad he had fun. Oscar kicked me in the shin." Lando muttered, a bit peeved at how peacefully asleep Oscar was.

******

This has been sitting in my drafts for a long time. Sorry it took so long to get out. The Australian GP gave me the push i needed to complete this.

Thank you for sending me this ask! I loved answering it! 🥰

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

Today's @wolfstarmicrofic prompt is a Hospital AU

(503 words.)

CW: Cancer

"Moony!" Sirius shoves the door open with a grin, trying not to flinch at how small Remus looks in the bed today. Remus offers him a sleep filled smile, shifting his weight until he's sitting up. "Check this out." With that, he triumphantly drops a leaflet onto Remus' lap.

Remus picks it up, eyes roving over the page.

"A medical trial," Remus says, and Sirius is so excited he doesn't even notice the trepidation wavering in Remus' voice.

"Yeah! It's actually really fascinating. It's a combination of new medications alongside chemotherapy-"

"Sirius." His voice is quiet, practically inaudible, but Sirius isn't finished.

"It also makes use of a natural environment environment to try to-"

"Sirius," He says firmly.

"Remus, you don't get it." He looks up at Remus with shining eyes, gesturing to the leaflet. "People are going in terminal and coming out perfectly healthy."

"I do get it, Sirius. Let me guess," He sets the leaflet down without opening it, "they're calling it the first real breakthrough in years? That it'll revolutionise cancer care? It almost seems to be a miracle treatment?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they are." He doesn't really see Remus' point.

"Love, I've been a part of countless trials. They all say the same thing, but I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You never know, though. This could be the one!" Sirius tries.

"You know, this is why they took you off my case," Remus says with a smile, reaching out and tangling their fingers together. "You got attached. Isn't that, like, the one thing interns aren't supposed to do?" Sirius huffs an empty laugh, looking at the abandoned leaflet. "Sirius, look at me."

Sirius lifts his head, eyes meeting Remus'. There's an intensity in them that Sirius wasn't expecting, slightly taken aback. His face is gaunt, exhausted by the constant treatment.

"You're beautiful," Sirius says softly, squeezing Remus, hand.

"I'm going to die, Sirius," Remus answers simply, gently.

"No. No, you-"

"Yes, I am. We both knew that going in, my love. You don't have to stay and watch that happen, really you don't, but you- you can't fix this. Nobody can."

For some reason, this is when it finally hits Sirius. Everything that he's been trying to do, the conversations that they've been having. It all finally sinks in.

The tears come with it, breaking down before he has a chance to say anything back. He can barely even register the way Remus tugs at his hand, pulling him onto the bed and wrapping his arms around Sirius. The moment arms are around him, warm and comfortable and safe, he curls up into Remus' side and sobs. He cries until he can't breathe, can't think, can't even cry anymore. He's grieving the life he could have gotten with the man holding him through it.

If only they had met under better circumstances. Like normal people, through friends, or at a party. That way, he'd get to watch as Remus grew old, grown right alongside him.

He fucking hates the universe.

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All the Good Girls Go To Hell 18

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, power imbalance, injury, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home for the summer but your break is not as relaxing as you expect.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Note: this week has been a week!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You steer along to Naomi's directions, hesitant as she has you turn towards the mall. You're pretty sure this isn't the right way but you have no idea. You just assumed they all lived in the same suburbs.

"Um, Nay?" You roll slowly between the rows of cars, "is this a shortcut or something?"

"Pfft, nope! We're going shopping. We need something cute to wear to the party."

"Shopping?" You frown, "I don't... have money."

"I do," she wiggles her phone, "the miracle of technology. I still have all the cards on my cell."

"Oh, do you think that's a good idea?"

"Look, we can't show up looking like this," she whines, "besides, it'll be fun. Girls' day!"

"Mmm, well, I'm fine in what I'm wearing," you shrug as you look for a spot.

Her phone lights up and she quickly reads the screen, blacking it out and rolling her eyes. She flips down the visor and checks herself in the mirror as you strain to see around her. You turn into an empty spot and roll up the windows.

"You have to get something extra cute. It's not about the boys, alright? It's about us."

"Sure," you say, letting your seat belt repel as you stare across the lot.

You still can't believe it. You're effectively homeless and Naomi doesn't seem to care. Well, she's used to the uncertainty by now, you can understand now how it made her so erratic.

You exhale. What else can you do? Wallow in reality. The distraction might do you well. No wonder she's always up to something. Anything. It's not pointless when the important things are so scary.

"Come on," she nudges you, "I wanna dress you up!"

You peek at her and give in with a nod. You grab your purse and fix your glasses. Anything to waste time, not that you're looking forward to anything.

She leads the way down the aisle of cars, almost skipping. You can't decide if she's compartmentalizing well or hopelessly optimistic. You drag your soles up the tarmac as she rushes ahead to the mall doors.

Inside, the crowd makes you want to turn around. Something about seeing the families clustered together and the teenagers hanging off each other makes you feel even more out of place. They all have somewhere to go after this. Ugh, how quickly it all dimmed to gray.

"Alright," Naomi hooks her arm through yours, "let's find the shortest dresses in this damn place."

"Nay," you huff.

"You're gonna rock it. Trust," she giggles, "you always look so sexy." She leans into you, "and tonight, we're gonna get lit."

☀️

Hours spent traversing the mall and your feet thrum. The day is far from over. As you drive down the cul de sac you dread the finish to the long day. A party. You're not a party person and the last one you went to…

Yikes.

Naomi has her seat belt off before you even stop. You shift into park as she reaches over to hit the horn, honking up at the large house. She trills and gets out, grabbing the bags out of the back as she watches the door expectantly. 

You climb out on your side, lingering nervously as she heads towards the winding little walkway to the steps. The door opens as she gets to the bottom. Harry greets her with a smirk and a wink, opening his arms.

"Kitty cat," he purrs, "funny seeing you here."

"Whatever, Harry," she chirps, "don't act like you weren't waiting for me."

"Mm," his eyes flit towards you, "didn't tell me you were bringing a friend."

"Two for the price of one," she lets him kiss her lips, "you know how… he is. Fucking nightmare. We need to let loose."

"Bring any goodies?" He looks at the bags in her hand curiously.

"No drinks," she pouts, "sorry, baby."

You slowly make your way up the walkway and hide behind her. You feel like an intruder. You wouldn't have let her bring you if you knew you weren't invited.

"It's fine," Harry says as he backs up, "Peter'll be here. Him and Gwen are on the outs again."

“Boo. So… can we come in or what? We gotta get all thotty for the party.”

He scoffs and waves her inside. You trail a few paces back and give a sheepish smile. He hardly seems concerned with you as he watches Naomi’s ass. Right, you’re not expecting much tonight. Really, you don’t know what to expect.

“Come on, sweetie,” Naomi looks over her shoulder as she struts on, “let’s get you dolled up.”

☀️

The lilac sheath overlaid in indigo and silver sequins is much to scant to your liking. When you tried it on in the store, you swore you'd put it back. Naomi insisted and put it in the basket before you could argue.

The dress is even skimpier than you remember, or maybe it’s Naomi’s insistence that you skip the bra. She didn’t like how the straps peeked out under the narrow purple ones. You’ll be spending most of this occasion with your arms crossed.

You hear voices as you follow her down the hall. You feel ridiculous. She spent too much time prettying you up and it doesn’t feel like long enough. The one thing she couldn’t convince you of is to leave your glasses behind. The last thing you need is to be stumbling into strangers.

“Harry,” she squeals as she takes you through the open sliding door into the backyard. There’s a folding table lined with colourful shot glasses and a cooler underneath. There are several guests already milling about and gabbing noisily. “There you are.”

She saunters forward and you stay stuck to the ground as you watch her sling her arms around Harry. He lets her and puts his hand on her lower back. They kiss, long and sloppy. You knew it wouldn’t be pretty with Naomi sipping vodka while she got dressed.

“Hey, didn’t know you were coming,” a voice shakes you from your worry.

You look over as Peter steps up. A reddish curl hangs down his forehead as he grins at you. He wears a striped short-sleeve button up and teal shorts. His muscled chest peeks out the top as he holds a red solo cup.

“How about a drink?” He offers.

“I don’t know–”

“Sort of the whole deal here, to have some fun,” he says, “she sure will be.”

He glances across the yard as Naomi hangs off of Harry, his hand now firmly on her ass. Oh, yeah, you don’t know why you’re disappointed. You cross your arms and turn back to Peter. You catch his eyes flick up from your chest. Great.

“Uh, sure, why not, I’ll have a soda.”

“Soda and…” he tilts his head coyly.

Your furrow your brows, “come on, specs, live a little,” he grabs your hand and you teeter as he tugs on you. You give in if only to keep from tripping over your own toes. He takes you to the long table and grabs two of the shot glasses, presenting the neon jello shots with a devilish grin.

“Let’s start with the appetizer.”

You accept the orange one. You examine it. You’ve never had one before. It jiggles as you move the glass.

“Go on,” he clacks his glass against yours and raises it, swiftly dumping it in his mouth.

You sigh and do the same. One shot won’t hurt. It’s sweet enough and mostly cool. You can taste the alcohol for sure but it’s not awful. You put down the empty cup and gulp down the melting gelatin.

“Mmm,” you hum through your full mouth.

“Alright, so what’s next? You want a cooler? You a beer girl?” He bends and flips open the cooler.

“Really, that’s good for me–”

“Raspberry lemon twist,” he pulls out a bright pink can, “that seems like a you drink.”

He holds it out. You stare at it. He still has his red cup in his other hand. You reluctantly take the can. He looks at you until you crack the tab open.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He winks and takes a drink from his cup, “better catch up,” he pulls the brim back, “oh, and before I get obnoxious, I should tell you how good you look.”

“Uh, thank you,” you take a tentative sip. It’s not bad, stringent but palatable.

“You seem… grim,” his smile falls, “what’s up?”

“Nothing,” you lie.

“Look, I’m not looking for a therapy session but there’s obviously something going on–”

“Really, it’s nothing,” you crane and look for Naomi as you hear her giggle.

“Ah, yeah, trouble follows her around,” he says, “she can take care of herself. It’s a party. You need to let loose. You’re wound so tight, I’m sure you could use it.”

You turn back to him, “not to be rude but what do you care?”

“Well, I’m going through a break up. Again,” he looks into his cup and swishes around the contents, “and I need to get a little bit loose myself. So, you and me, we’re sticking together. Think you’re the only one here who doesn’t know Gwen so, yeah.”

“Ah, got it,” you say dryly.

“No, get it,” he insists as he pokes the bottom of your can, “let’s go, sunshine. Get messy.”

You let your eyes fall back to the top of the can. What is the point in staying sober in a sea of drunk idiots? You’re done being the wallflower and you’re done tiptoeing around. It’s one night and you’re not going to spend it thinking about Steve or your mom.

You lift the can and gulp from the top, stopping before you can choke. You cover your mouth and swallow painfully, holding back a bubbly belch. Peter chuckles and empties his cup.

“There we go,” he encourages you, “I knew you had it in you.”

☀️

The world is slanted. You feel light and heavy at the same time. Your vision is hazy at the corners and each step is uneven. You have your arms slightly out as you make your way across the room.

You fall onto the sofa next to Naomi as Harry talks loudly beside her. As usual, she’s in the middle of the crowd, enjoying the limelight. She looks over as you jostle her and she slumps towards you.

“Heyyyyyyy, you’re here,” she says as if she forgot.

“Mmm,” you withhold a hiccup, “yeah…”

She smiles and reaches up to pet your cheek, “are you drunk?”

“Little,” you admit as she caresses your face.

“She’s blitzed,” Peter perches on the armrest on your other side, “told her not to keep pace with me.”

“Whatever,” you blather, your tongue clumsy as his chirping piques your irritation. “You’re the one… giving me drinks.”

“Aw, babe, you’re silly,” Naomi preens as her hand tickles down your neck, “Pete, Pete,” she hisses as she waves in his direction, leaning over you, “doesn’t she look fucking hot?”

You grab the hem of your dress, remembering how short it is. She flutters her fingers down the strap and gropes your chest. You swat her away and squeal.

“You should see what’s underneath,” Naomi slurs.

“Nay,” you catch her hand as she tries to grab you again.

“What? Why are you being like this?” She snips, “she sleeps in my bed and now she’s acting like a little prude.”

“Naomi,” you exclaim.

“I made her cum, you know? She was whining and whimpering–”

“Naomi, stop,” you beg as her other hand crawls back up along your cheek, “shut up.”

“Why, baby? I’m being nice,” she looks at you with her glassy eyes. She’s so drunk her head wobbles. “You like it when I’m nice, don’t you?”

She leans in as you hear Peter snicker. Before you can stop her, her lips are on yours. You wriggle helplessly and push on her shoulder. She slips her hand behind your head, keeping you pinned between her and the couch as her other hand creeps along your thigh. You hear others oohing and awing at her scene.

You whine and shove her as hard as you can. She recoils with a gasp as she wipes the slobber from her lips. You can’t believe what she just did. You know she’s drunk, and you are too, but you don’t understand why she’d do that. 

“Ah, come on, that was fucking hot,” Peter growls.

“Yeah, that was sexy,” Harry agrees, “go on, girls, let’s get the full show–”

You grunt as you shove yourself up to your feet. It’s difficult to get them under you as your head swims dizzily. You feel Naomi try to latch on but you swipe her away. Peter pinches your ass and you yipe as you stumble and hurry away. What’s going on?

You stagger across the room without looking back. Are they following you? Where’s your phone? You have to call your mom. You’re scared.

You find your cell outside and find your mother’s number. You stop from pressing down on the screen. You can’t call her, she hates you.

You clasp your cell tight and wade through the shadows around the house. You sidle through the tight space between the fence and the siding and come out to the front lawn. Your car is blocked in by a bunch of others. It doesn’t even matter, you can’t see straight, let alone drive.

Your phone flashes suddenly and you answer without checking the screen. 

“Hello?” You garble as you walk aimlessly along the driveway.

“Hey, sweetie, you okay?”

“Dad?” You utter as the deep voice surprises you.

“No, honey, it’s me. Bucky. I’ve been calling you–”

“Bucky…” you mope, “no. I want… I want my mom. I want my dad, please.”

“Doll, where are you?”

“I don’t want to talk to you. I know what you did,” you close your eyes and push your lip out.

“Sweetheart, where’s Naomi?”

“Naomi?” You repeat, “she– please help me.”

Your legs fold and you sit in the gravel. You can’t move. You don’t want to. Moving means you need to think and you’re all out of thoughts. You don’t know where to go or what to do. You’re trapped here in this suburban hellscape. Drunk and dumb and desperate.

“Are you with Naomi?” He asks as you hear a jingle on his end.

“She’s here,” you admit as you hang your head.

“Alright, sweetie, stay on the phone,” he says calmly. The even keel of his timbre comforts you, despite everything, despite his lies, his certainty eases the swell of nerves, “how are you feeling? Why don’t you look around and tell me something. Find something red for me.”

“Red?” You sniffle.

“Yeah, like I Spy,” he says, “find something red. Make me guess.”

“Um, uh,” you stutter and look around, “alright…” you hear rustling, a soft click, and footsteps. He’s moving but you don’t know what he’s doing, “I see… something red,” you focus on the lawn gnome’s cap, the round-bellied figurine standing in the garden.

“Alright, is it something… big?” He asks.

You squint and focus on his question. Hm, it’s not very big but compared to the flowers, it is. Ugh, you don’t know. You’re too drunk.

“Doll,” Bucky urges, “stay with me. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

[zagreusapollyon]

"Do you think it'll stop one day?" Percy asked of him one day, breaking the comfortable silence they both basked in.

Poseidon tilted his head toward his child, raising his eyebrow as Percy laid down on the wooden floor of the dock.

"What, little one?" He questions the boy back, his tone curious and fond.

His son sighs softly, splashing around the water with his feet. He looks up at the lavender-toned dawn, stars shining across the heavens like a divine pattern on the fabric of the world.

"The suffering. The constant struggle for a losing battle where I can never win." The boy says, the reflection of the stars in his eyes, like a swirling galaxy of miracles and wonder.

Poseidon stills.

He slowly turns to his son and closes his eyes as he breaths out his words.

"I'm sorry." He apologizes.

"Don't be," Percy says back, his voice firm but soft. "It's not your fault, and neither it is mine. I'm not blaming you for loving me enough to make my existence a reality."

Poseidon opens his eyes, his gaze filled with sadness.

"Then what can I do?" Poseidon whispers desperately. "Whisk you away to be my side? Keep you chained to this land by immortalizing your body and destroying your soul? You wouldn't want any of that. I am a god and yet I can do nothing to aid you with your pain." He finishes, falling silent as angry waves crash upon the shore and stormy clouds cover the sky like curtains.

Percy glances at the crashing waves on the horizon, at the dark ocean that stretches to eternity and beyond.

"I don't know. And it's okay for you to not know either." Percy says calmly.

"Just be here for me until I won't be here at all."

And wait until comes forth the inevitable end.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

104/150 with lethal company?

104) I can hear it calling my name

.........

[Y/n], January 29th, [Log 001]

---I'm afraid this will be my last log. So I'm keeping this encrypted.

Everyone's gone, but I'm still here. And I'm terrified. We started on this job as strangers, and we became family. Now I'm all alone because of a stupid mask. A piece of scrap we should've just sold off.

But he thought it would be funny to wear. I don't blame him. He was always a jokester, willing to do anything to turn a frown upside down and make light of our dreary trips. I know he didn't mean to hurt us. He thought it was harmless. Honest to god we thought so too.

Until he started vomiting blood and tried grabbing me. He tore off my helmet, along with my tracker, but I managed to get away. I still don't know how. But I wish I was smarter about it, because I got lost.

Then I heard the ship's engines.

They must've thought I was dead. Or maybe they all died and the autopilot kicked in. I'm not sure. I don't even know the current time. But what I do know is that I'm stuck here now. Possibly forever. I could make an SOS but that monster is still outside. I had to barricade myself in this storage room and wait until it goes away.

It keeps knocking. I can hear it calling my name. But I know it's not him.

To anyone who reads this, don't pick up the porcelain masks. They aren't worth shit. It'll tempt you to put it on. Don't. You'll find better loot elsewhere. If you see anyone already wearing it, kill them. Stun them. Run. Whatever. Just don't let it take you.

And if you see me wearing it, put me out of my misery. I promise I'll understand---

Finishing what would likely be your final log, you sighed and slumped back against the wall, letting the tablet slip from your hands.

You don't know how long you've been stuck here--whether it's been hours or days.

But all you know is that the Masked on the other side of the door hasn't left. It was using your coworker's corpse, mimicking his voice as it pounded on the steel and tried convincing you to let it in, even shattering the window. For some reason it refused to leave you alone, and kept begging and begging until it began screaming unintelligently...

That would go on and on until eventually it would cease, weakly clawing at the door, only to rinse and repeat once it rested its voice.

You were starving, trying your best to ration the jar of pickles you were luckily able to find in this storage room.

Unfortunately, that's as far as your luck will go at this point. They were sour and made you want to vomit every time you ate one. But while you didn't want starvation to take your life, you weren't exactly sure how you really wanted to go out instead.

It sure as hell wasn't gonna be from that bastard who took away your friends.

"It's clear....all clear......come on out....the ship is leaving..leave....out.....COME OUT..!! COME OUT!! COMEOUTCOMEOUT-!!"

With your heart hammering in your chest, you curled up and covered your ears, squeezing both eyes shut. 'Fuck, it's losing its mind again...this is a nightmare..why did I ever take this job?' You tried not to focus on the screams so much, and instead prayed for some kind of miracle.

But in space, would anyone really hear your prayers?

Yet somebody must have, because the screaming abruptly stopped a minute later, being replaced by the sounds of heavy thumping and growling drawing near.

You only knew one other alien creature that made those.

And you knew it was pissed off.

Getting up and backing away from the door, you fearfully clutched a stop sign as you heard a series of terrified shrieks, roars, slamming and crashing sounds....before silence followed, save for the low growls you heard earlier and chewing noises.

Cautiously, you went back over and pushed aside one of the things covering up the window, and the sight on the other side was quite nauseating:

The Thumper was hovering over the Masked's body, teeth covered in blood and flesh as it tore into it, clearly wanting to savor this midnight snack.. But eventually it decided to drag the rest of the corpse away and to another part of the facility, only leaving behind a few shattered fragments of white dirty porcelain.

You couldn't believe it.

You were actually happy that a Thumper, of all things, saved your skin.

But you sure as hell didn't want it coming back for a second lunch. Now was your window of opportunity to get out of here. The adrenaline pumping through your veins was the only reason you were able to grab your loot and book it out of that storage room, being careful not to run into that Thumper again.

At least now you could go outside and (hopefully) send an S.O.S.

[barbiewritesstuff]

Love is Patience, love is kind

---

AN: I'm back! And this time it's a Benedict Bridgerton fic! Don't know if it's good or how long it'll be but I'm hoping it's a slow burn. As always, this isn't proofread.

Also this is soooo long, I'm not sorry :)

The title is still a work in progress.

TW. None I don't think but shoot me a message if you think one applies.

--

The servants quarters at the Bridgerton house are never quiet in the morning. It’s a miracle it doesn’t wake the household, Kit thinks, serving tea to everyone crowded at the kitchen table.

Because there are so many servants and maids, they usually do the morning food service in two goes. The Lower servants get first service, because they’re up earlier than the rest, and an hour later, the upper servants come down for their breakfast. Dinner is the opposite, with the upper servants eating first, and the lower servants eating afterwards. It’s only at lunch that everyone eats together while the Bridgertons luncheon upstairs. It’s short and rushed, especially for the Footmen who have to eat between food courses but cook is practised at her art and makes meals the boys can scoff down as they run plates upstairs. Mr Graves, the steward, doesn’t mind, so long as the boys aren’t still chewing on their food when they’re within eyesight of the family.

It’s rare that the staff finds a moment to converse around the kitchen table as a group outside of their respective mealtimes, but everyone tries for birthdays, Christmas and Easter, and, like today, for employment anniversaries.

Despite being the one rushing around, serving tea, it’s Kit’s employment anniversary. She’s been employed by the Bridgertons for seven years today, and it’s gone by in a blur. She started off as a scullery maid and two years ago, moved to kitchen maid. She’ll likely stay there until Cook retires, which might be some years yet. Cook’s no spring chicken, but behind her facade of cute little old lady hides a strength and energy she only allows to be seen when something isn’t to her liking in her kitchen. The kitchen is Cook’s domain. Her kingdom. And she rules it with an iron fist and all the mercy of a dictator.

That being said, Cook really is a kind and caring woman. Which is why, unbeknownst to Kit, she’s been up for hours preparing a treat. She’s had to clear it with Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, weeks in advance and then hide it before Kit could discover her surprise, but as she finishes pouring tea and passing around the milk, Cook pulls out the plate of hot scones, cream and raspberry jam. It’s still steaming when she sets it out on the table with a satisfied grin at Kit’s surprised face.

The staff cheers but waits patiently for Kit to have the first one, watching with hungry eyes as she smears the jam on first and then drops a measured dollop of clotted cream to finish it off. They even hold off long enough for her to take a bite. As if waiting for her approval, as soon as she smiles, they all throw themselves on the plate to grab their own scone. In the hubbub, the jam spoon flies off, hitting a wall by the staircase that leads upstairs but no one notices.

Then, in less than five minutes, everything has been eaten, and the lower servants down their boiling hot teas as fast as they can before the shift starts. Soon, the merry conversations of the kitchen tables turn into orders and task lists and only the upper servants remain seated. Next to Kit, Cook pulls out her notebook and begins planning the day, and meals.

“Isn’t the new scullery maid supposed to start today,” Mrs Wilson remarks, tapping Mr Graves’ arm in order to get his attention.

He looks at his watch, a present from Edmund Bridgerton some years before, “She should be here in time for the Lunch service,” he replies, turning back to his tea, drinking the last mouthful and then shaking his cup at Kit to signal for a refill.

“Patience, you’ll be showing her the ropes,” he tells Kit, who he simply refuses to call by her nickname, stating that “Your parents put such thought in your first name, I will not show such disrespect as you call you by anything else,” and ignoring her when she tries to tell him that even her parents call her Kit. Only her brother Michael calls her Patience, or Patsy, when he’s cross with her.

Kit nods, until two years ago she’d been a scullery maid herself, and since her promotion, she had been juggling both jobs herself. It was a relief that Mr Graves had finally hired someone else, she’d be able to sleep more, and it would give her skin and lungs some needed reprieve. The cleaning chemicals she used to scrub everything clean were effective, but they were quite harsh on her. Graves’ reluctance to fill the scullery position was a mystery to everyone else too, the Bridgertons’ were more than rich enough to pay another member of staff, and even Mrs Wilson, who usually followed Mr. Graves’ instruction to the letter, had been on his case about hiring someone else.

“You should have --” Mrs Wilson starts

“I will not hear of it,” Mr Graves says, cutting her off, “I have now, there’s no need to harp on about it.”

The housekeeper throws him a look. If Kit didn’t know them as well as she did, she might be tempted to say the two were secretly courting, but as it stood, Mrs Wilson made her opinion of Graves perfectly clear. He was her superior and therefore worthy of respect and blind obedience, but privately, she thought him a self-important little man.

Before Graves could reprimand the housekeeper for the glare, the bells began ringing. Lady’s maids and valet stand up from their chairs, climbing up the stairs to the main house to assist their family member, then, the footmen stand up, finishing their tea to set the table and bring breakfast. Eventually, Humboldt and Mrs Wilson leave their place at the tables too.

After another cup of tea and a specially made jam on toast, Mr Graves bids Cook and Kit goodbye and retreats to his office, a small room to the side of the kitchen.

“I do not wish to spoil the fun of your special day, Kit dear, but we must get on,” Cook says. Springing to action, she tidies the kitchen table, neatly stacking plates, cups and cutlery by the kitchen sink and then, almost automatically, peeling vegetables.

For lunch, the Bridgertons will have asparagus soup, cold meat, cake and fruit. The soup is a special request of Violet Bridgerton herself and Cook wishes to make the Viscountess' soup of her own hands, while she busies herself with that, Kit moves on to the rest.

Then, as they finish up, the new scullery maid is announced by one of the Grooms as he walks in, traipsing mud and horse manure all over Kit’s perfectly polished floor.

Amused by the death glare she throws his way, the Groom introduces the girl, “This is Elaine,” he says, “And this is Cook,” he tells the girl, “And the Kitchen Maid,” he adds, winking at Kit, “Her name is Patience, everyone calls her Kit,” he adds.

“Except you,” Cook says, trying not to giggle

“That’s right,” The Groom smiles broadly, “My name is also Kit, short for Christopher,” he explains, “So to keep things clear, I call her ‘the lesser Kit’. So there’s no confusion,” he adds, winking at the girl. She giggles.

“I suggest you do not try to call me that,” Kit warns the girl.

“I’ll leave you lovely ladies to your work then,” Christopher says, “Happy anniversary. It’s been a pleasure to tease you for so long,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks out. Despite her best efforts, it does force a smile out of Kit.

“I’ll leave you to clean. I must go to market, and Mrs Wilson has asked me to inventory the pantry,” Cook says, taking off her apron and hanging it by the back door, she picks up her basket and then shakes the tea tin she keeps by her prized cookery books over the table and picks up the few coins that fell out. With a wave, she exits the kitchen, leaving the scullery maid and Kit by themselves.

Knowing that the dinner service needs to be prepared in less than two hours, and that the staff will descend upon the kitchen in roundabout an hour, Kit wastes no time showing Elaine where the cleaning supplies are kept and what must be done, how and when. The girl takes it in, asking any question she can think of as soon as she can. By the time Cook is back, Kit is suitably impressed by the girl.

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch, Elaine watching all she does very closely.

“I’ll do the end of day cleaning with you for a week,” Kit says, “And then you’re on your own. You managed the cleaning fine after lunch, so I don’t think you’ll need me much,” she sighs, “Right, let’s get on with it. We start with the counters, obviously, then dusting and we finish with the floor,” Kit says, handing Elaine a brush, nodding towards the chopping block where Cook butchered the pheasant the Bridgertons ate for dinner. As the scullery maid got to scrubbing, Kit worked at the other end of the kitchen, cleaning the remnants of the staff lunch. She then moved on to the fireplace, picking up the sand they had spread to catch the grease and spills of whatever Cook had boiling in her cauldron, and then spreading new sand.

Elaine worked valiantly at the stove, braving the leftover heat of the coals to get everything clean without a word of complaint. And then, right as Kit started the yawn, the two girls set about cleaning the floor. It was the least pleasant job, in Kit’s opinion, worse than cleaning bloody chopping blocks, or sticking your arm in the warm stove. Cook despised mops and insisted that a scrubbing cloth be worked around the floor with bare feet, and that the water must be ice cold, as she thought any temperature above simply wasn’t as effective. By the end of it, Kit and Elaine’s toes were numb, but the floor sparkled, and painful feet were worth avoiding Cook’s wrath.

“Tea before bed?” Kit offers. Elaine happily agreed, taking a seat at the table while Kit pulled out a teapot and two cups.

“If your name is Patience, why are you called Kit?” Elaine asks, halfway through her cup, “If it’s alright to ask.”

Kit grinned, “My mother named me Patience Katherine Byrd,” she says, “I don’t like being called Patsy, so Kit was the next best thing.”

Elaine nods. She’s about to say something else when the door opens and someone starts down the stairs. Kit expects it to be Hyacinth on her weekly trip to the kitchen to wrestle some leftover cake out of Kit with puppy eyes and pretty pleases, but the footsteps seem too heavy.

The person stumbles, missing a step, and catches themselves on the railing with a groan and a mumbled swear. A few steps later, shoes and trousers come into view.

It’s a man. It cannot be Colin Bridgerton, for he is out of town, and it cannot be the Viscount, as he left for his own bachelor house earlier in the evening, taking his valet with him. Sure enough, Benedict Bridgerton soon steps into view. He’s white as a sheet, and barely able to walk.

“I was hoping someone would still be awake,” he says, swaying as he stands two steps away from the bottom of the stairs. Kit and Elaine stand up, remembering themselves.

“Would it be possible to have some warm milk?” He asks.

Kit always liked Benedict best of all the male Bridgerton’s. They’ve crossed paths twice in seven years but he’s always been polite to her, despite her status and in spite of his.

“Please,” he adds

“Perhaps you would like to sit,” Kit offers, pulling out the chair closest to where he’s standing. He nods, holding his hand against the wall for dear life as he walks down the last two steps. He stumbled down onto the chair, crash landing haphazardly onto the seat with a pained moan.

“You can go,” Kit tells Elaine, “Go to bed, we wake at dawn tomorrow.”

She then turns towards the stove, lighting it under Benedict Bridgerton’s watchful gaze. She warms up a pitcher of milk and pours it into a cup for him. Unsure of what to do with herself, she stands by as he sips it.

Kit’s never heard the kitchen so quiet. She could hear a pin drop from miles away but despite the awkwardness, she struggles to keep a yawn from surfacing.

“I’m sorry,” Benedict eventually says, “I am keeping you up.”

“It’s alright, sir,”

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of work to be done tomorrow and I am keeping you from sleeping. I’m sorry I’ll be the cause of your tiredness,” he says, looking genuinely sorry, “I couldn’t sleep,” he eventually adds after finishing his milk, “I have such a headache, and Andrew couldn’t find the laudanum. I thought I would be okay but it’s too much.”

“If you wait here, I shall fetch you some of mine,” Kit offers, unsure of what the alternative could be. She knows just how painful headaches can get, and because she has no choice but to work through them, she keeps her side of the wardrobe well stocked with homemade laudanum.

Kit opens her bedroom door as quietly as she can so as not to wake Dorothy, one of the lower housemaids, with whom she shares the room. She steps around the bed and opens the wardrobe door, fumbling the keys and almost dropping it. She feels around for a glass flask until her fingers close around its neck. Once the medicine is in her possession, she leaves the room again. Walking to the opposite side of the corridor, passing through the door announcing the male servant’s rooms, Kit makes her way towards Andrew’s quarters. His room is all the way towards the end, as close to the main house as it can get, in case his gentleman were to have an emergency. Kit’s been here before, but never unchaperoned, and the distance between Andrew’s room and the safety of the communal corridor is a curse.

Eventually, she knocks on his door but he doesn’t respond. The Valets have been asleep for hours now, and she imagines Andrew is much the same. Wishing she didn’t have to, she pushes the door open and steps in. She walks closer to the bed, putting a hand on Andrew’s sleeping shoulder and gently shakes him. He wakes with a start.

“Say, Kit, I’ve always wanted you in my bed,” he mumbles groggily, grinning at her, “But I wasn’t expecting it to happen today.”

“Very funny, you incorrigible rake,” Kit grins back, “Your gentlemen is looking white as a sheet in my kitchen, you might want to come with in case we need to fetch a doctor,” she explains. Andrew sighs, picking his trousers off the end of his bed.

“I cannot be seen in my sleepwear, you go first, I’ll join you in a moment,” he adds, shooing her away with a wave of his hand.

Benedict Bridgerton seems to only have gotten worse by the time she is back. In the flickering light of the fireplace, his palour has turned to colouring his face a strange shade of green. Seeing this, and perhaps selfishly afraid for her clean floors, Kit hurriedly pours the second eldest Bridgerton a bit of laudanum. He downs it in one go and coughs.

“Christ, that’s strong!” he says, looking surprised.

“Well, it’s homemade,” Kit explains, “It’s alcohol and opium. The doses might be different to what you’re used to but I promise it will work.”

“Yes,” he coughs, “I daresay I needn’t more than a few sips for this to knock me right out.”

“Well, you did say you had trouble sleeping,” Kit mumbles to herself, not expecting Benedict to hear her but a laugh soon bubbles up from his mouth. It’s delightful but short lived, for merely a second later he coughs again, bends over, and spills the contents of his stomach all over the hardwood floor.

Kit’s fury is immediate, and Benedict knows it. He stands here, green and ill, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“I did not -- I’m awfully sorry --” he sputters.

Her anger doesn’t last, there’s something about Benedict that softens Kit’s heart, much to her dismay, and as much as she would have liked to send him away with a scolding and a glare -- as she would have done with anyone else -- she steps forward instead, placing a hand over his shoulder to place his back against the chair. As she would with her own brothers, she then places the back of her hand against his forehead.

“You have a temperature,” she states, just in time for Andrew to swing the door open, dressed but dishevelled, a cowlick lifting all but one tuft of hair on the left side of his head.

“I see I’m too late,” he comments, ignoring how close his gentleman and Kit are, “I’ll take you back up to bed, sir, and I’ll ask one of the footmen to fetch a doctor.”

“I’m awfully sorry for your floor,” Benedict apologises again, looking greener than ever and as though he might be sick again.

“It’s nothing Kit’s not seen before,” Andrew says, placing one of Benedict’s over his shoulders and lifting him up to a standing position. Gingerly, Andrew walks Benedict back up the stairs and into the main house, leaving Kit to clean the floor all over again.

By the time she’s finished, the sun is shining low on the horizon, the roosters in the courtyard are crowing and Cook opens the door to start her day. She stands on the threshold, surprised.

“Don’t ask,” Kit says, throwing her cloth in the kitchen’s laundry basket, “It’s been a night.”

“I can see that,” Cook says, “Has it been a fun night?” She asks, mischievously.

Aside from cooking, Cook’s only interests are gossip and matchmaking. She has been on Kit’s case about finding her a nice young man since the second month of her employment.

“Andrew’s been up all night too,” she adds with a wink, “He’s a handsome lad.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” Kit groans, “Master Benedict came down for hot milk last night. He was taken ill. I had to fetch Andrew.”

Cook sighs, disappointed, “Well, I was certainly hoping for something else.”

“That makes both of us,” Kit sighed

“Oh does it now?” Cook grins, turning Kit as red as her hair, unaware of how her words could have sounded.

---

Everyone else is already fast asleep by the time Elaine and Kit finish cleaning the kitchen and sit down for their last cup of tea. Swearing her young scullery maid to secrecy, Kit shaves off two thin slices of cake to have next to their drink. They eat it slowly, savouring every mouthful, but much like the day before, right as they finish, the door to the main house opens, and footsteps descend the stairs.

They’re steady today, and confident, but Kit recognises Benedict’s shoes before much of him comes into view.

“Pardon my interruption,” he says, “I merely wanted to apologise again for yesterday.”

Kit can feel Elaine looking to her for an answer. She throws her a look promising explanations later. As a maid, an apology like that can have a range of reasons, from the innocent to the rakish. With the reputation the Bridgerton boys have, it isn’t hard to imagine that Elaine is thinking more on the scandalous side of things.

“I hope you feel better,” Kit says, avoiding any words of forgiveness towards her soiled floor -- after all, she hasn’t forgiven him. She’s been up since the day before at dawn and the sheer exhaustion she has felt all day is nothing she has ever experienced -- and it seems Benedict has noticed. He grins at her.

The three of them stay quiet for a moment until the silence becomes more than Kit can bear, “Well, if it’s all, sir, I think we’ll go to bed.”

“Right,” he says, looking down at the floor, “Of course… Yes. Good night, Miss. Goodnight Kit,” he says.

“Miss Byrd,” Kit corrects him before she can stop the words from leaving her throat. While calling her by her first name is a disrespect, correcting her employer so rudely is a greater offence than anything he could have done. If word of this reacher Mr Graves, Kit is in for a telling off she has never experienced before.

“Pardon me, Miss Byrd. I meant no offence,” he says, “I seem to forget my manners.”

“Well, goodnight,” she says, hoping it will make him leave. Surprisingly, Benedict seems rather unwilling to leave her kitchen despite the awkwardness making her want to run away.

He takes the hint and with a nod in either direction, walks back up the stairs.

Kit stands there, unsure of what to say for a moment, “He vomited on our floor last night. I’m rather surprised he was brave enough to face me, I thought my glare had scared him off,” she eventually says.

Elaine stays quiet.

“You don’t believe me?” Kit sighs

“No, I do,” she eventually says, “It’s just…” Elaine hesitates, “You ought to be careful.”

“How so?” Kit asks, feeling herself blush at the situation. A sixteen year old scullery maid giving her lessons, Kit should like the floor to swallow her whole.

“I have heard things about the masters. Other maids think they’re rakes,” she says, then, casting her eyes on the floor, she adds, “At my last household, one of the Masters charmed a maid. He got her in the family way and it left her ruined.”

Kit remains there speechless.

“I don’t know what I have done to give you such a poor opinion of me, Elaine, but rest assured that I am not that kind of girl. I have no desire to run around with a master of the house and ruin myself,” Kit says, furious, “I think it’s best you go to bed. I’ll finish up here.”

“I did not mean --” she sputters, “It’s just --”

“Leave.”

Elaine nods, leaving her cup on the table. She vanishes through the service door seconds later.

Kit sits there for a while, stewing in her own anger. Partly at Elaine, and partly at Benedict. If anything were to come of this, be it rumour or inappropriate behaviour, she would be ruined and destitute. No household in London would ever employ her, and she could kiss the position of Cook, and its high salary, goodbye.

Still fuming, Kit stands up, washes the teapot and cups and climbs up to bed.

“You’re angry,” Dorothy says, sleepily, “You always stomp around when you’re angry.”

“I can’t believe the little --” Kit starts, “First that spoiled ass sicks up all over my pristine floor, then the new maid suggests he might try to ruin me!”

“Seems like a jump,”

“He came back to apologise,”

“Right,” Dorothy says, “She’s just looking out for you, I’m sure.”

“She’s sixteen!” Kit whispers back, “She’s a child!”

Dorothy sighs.

“Do you know what would happen to me if Graves hears what she said?”

“Kit, that’s enough,” Dorothy says firmly, “Nothing will happen because nothing untowards has happened. Now go to bed, I don’t want to deal with your moods in the morning.”

Kit glares at her.

“You can look at me like that all you want. It won’t change anything,” Dorothy says, tucking herself back into her duvet, “Sleep tight.”

Kit climbs into bed, huffing and puffing.

“I’ll vouch for you if Graves asks,” Dorothy eventually says, on the verge of sleep.

“Good night,” Kit replies, falling asleep as soon as her eyes close.

It seems like only a second has passed before the bell rings in the corridor and Kit must rise again. She shaked Dorothy awake and gets dressed, quickly brushing her hair and pinning it up in a tight bun. Downstairs, Cook had boiled water and made tea. She serves Kit a cup, and then Elaine when she appears a moment later. Wanting to avoid Elaine as much as she can, Kit throws herself in the day’s work, speaking as little as possible.

“Out with it,” Cook orders as soon as they step out to the courtyard after the lunch service. The scullery maid is inside, cleaning up.

“Something’s bothering you,” she adds, “I could taste it in your soup.”

“What?!” Kit asks, confused and wondering what kind of cookery witchcraft Cook knows of.

“You salt too much when you’re cross,” Cook shrugs.

“Oh,” Kit sighs, “It’s nothing. Elaine gave me advice yesterday, I didn’t appreciate it.”

Cook laughs but says nothing.

“Do you think Benedict Bridgerton is a rake?” Kit asks.

“I think he likes ladies, yes,” she responds, “I don’t think he likes maids.”

Kit sighs in relief, “Elaine seems to think --”

“Elaine was previously employed by Lord Berbrooke,” Cook cuts her off, “Give her some leeway, she’s only working off of her own experiences. The Bridgertons are different, they’re a good family with kind hearts. The Viscountess and her late husband raised them right.”

“They seem nice,” Kit replies, “I didn’t like that she was implying that I would be such a… Well, you know. That I would go above my station.”

“I don’t think that’s what she was implying, Kit dear,” Cook says, patting her arm. They stay quiet for a moment while Kit ruminates on what she said.

She’s not completely naive. She knows about these things. Maybe not everything, but she’s been working a while, and before the Bridgertons she worked with another family. She saw things she hadn’t been prepared for, then. But since working for the Bridgertons, she hadn’t thought back on it. She hadn’t felt unsafe, worried or scared that a moment alone or spent with a man might result in something she could never erase from her mind.

She’d taken Elaine’s advice so personally, like an attack on her own character. She hadn’t even thought it might have been a reflection of her own experiences. She hadn’t even thought it might be a warning on Benedict’s character. And strangely, she hadn’t thought, although it felt a little true, that the attack felt so offensive because Benedict had an effect on her Kit didn’t want him to have.

Benedict Bridgerton is undoubtedly a handsome man, but more than that, it was the boyish grin and big blue eyes that charmed her. She wasn’t in love, obviously, but he did have a certain effect on her.

“I think it’s time we go back,” Cook says, grabbing Kit by the arm and gently leading her back in to see Elaine finishing up the kitchen. Just as she throws the cloth into the laundry, they start messing up the kitchen, pulling out flour, vegetables, to start on dinner. As the sauces simmer and vegetables cook, Mr Kingman walks into the kitchen holding a couple of partridges and a hare.

“For dinner tonight,” he says, smacking the birds down on the table so violently it scares Elaine, who looks on dejected at the mess they so quickly created, “And for the family, I have a nice deer coming in. The boys are a little slow with it though,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Three voices argue loudly behind him, trying to wade through the muddy courtyard. Kit leans to see what the commotion is behind him. Carrying the biggest deer she has ever laid eyes upon, she can just about see Edmund, Francis and Frederic, the three gardener’s assistants Mr Kingman has borrowed to bring his prize.

Somehow, they negotiate the doorway and manage to fit the deer inside the kitchen. Elaine and Kit spring into action, removing chairs from the kitchen table so the boys can put it down.

Cook looks on, satisfied, “That’ll do nicely, I daresay,” she says. Then, she picks up one of her best knives and hands it to Kit, “We’ll need the bones for stock, and I’ll make a nice stew out of the organs, so be gentle with it.”

“If you keep the pelt in one piece, I’ll make a nice coat out of it,” Mr Kingman says.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kit braced herself. She’d only done this a handful of times, but it never got any more pleasant. Still, under the watchful eyes of the game warden, the three boys, Elaine and Cook, Kit begins to skin and quarter the animal.

Glancing back at her audience, she saw she had gathered a few more spectators. Mr Graves looked on from his office window, arms crossed over his chest with all the concentration of a man trying to keep his lunch inside while being entirely unable to look away.

Turning back to her work, she continues her cuts. She keeps going, asking the boys to roll the animal halfway through so she could replicate her butchering. Then, once she had finished cutting off the skin and quartering the animal, she and Cook moved all the meat to the cold room for safekeeping.

As much as Kit would have liked to take a shower to wash off the grime and blood, there was no time to waste. The leg would take a while to roast, even over the fire, and the kitchen needed to be cleaned, a job which, in light of the deer, Elaine could not complete by herself.

By the time it was time to return to her quarters, Kit could only think of a nice long bath. She drew the water and brought it upstairs, careful not to spill any on the stairs. Then, she undressed and gingerly lowered herself in the copper tub.

Kit closed her eyes, letting herself relax. She breathed deeply in and out a few times, then slipped under the water. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes. From underneath the water she could see almost nothing, just the flickering light of the candle at the side of the tub. She exhaled gently, watching the bubbles rise til they hit the surface, and then pop.

She resurfaced again a moment later, wiping her hair from her face. Water in her eyes having temporarily blinded her, Kit felt around the side of the tub for the little table she had put the soap and cloth on. After a minute, she felt the soft bar underneath her fingers.

One of the perks of working for the Bridgertons was without a doubt the soap. While other households often stocked soap for their servants, it was rarely of a good enough quality that it was worth using, but the Bridgertons’ or Mrs Wilson, anyway, regarded the staff’s overall appearance as highly important and hygiene most of all. They had therefore stocked each room with decent, scented soap. A treat Kit appreciated greatly.

She rubbed the soap over the cloth to make it bubble and then washed herself with it, breathing in the smell of jasmine on her skin. Then, with the same soapy cloth, Kit washed the top of her head til it bubbled up enough to clean the rest of her long hair. Once rinsed and ready, she stepped out of the bath and dried herself off and blew the candle out. Feeling more human than she had in days, she made her way back to her room.

To her surprise, Dorothy was still up, reading a long letter by candle light.

“From your Pa?” Kit asked, eliciting a humm of agreement from her friend, “How is the family?”

“My sister’s getting married in the spring,” she replied, “She’s marrying our vicar’s son. Ma says it’s a nice match but I get the feeling Pa’s not so happy about it. I don’t see why not though,” she says, “It’s not like she can do any better. He seems nice, and he’ll provide for her.”

“That’s nice!” Kit says, excited. She’s always loved weddings, and while she’s never hoped for a love match herself, finding someone willing to provide and care for her has always seemed just as good. In her books, Dotty’s sister isn’t doing half bad.

“Do you think if I ask Graves he’ll let me go for the wedding?” Dotty asks

“I don’t see why not,” Kit replies, “He’s a pain but not a monster, you know.”

“That’s only because he likes you, Patience,” she replies, emphasising her legal name.

Kit laughs, “Say, have you ever noticed how funny his name actually is?”

Dotty shakes her head.

“His name is Robert Graves. Rob Graves.”

Dorothy grins, “Leave it to you to find that out,” then, she sighs and without a word, goes back to reading. Suddenly exhausted, Kit climbs into bed and falls asleep almost immediately.

She wakes up late for the first time in seven years. By the time she makes it downstairs, Cook is already starting with breakfast. Without a word, but with a disapproving look, she hands Kit a bag of flour, some yeast and a little water.

---

Kit’s outside for a tea break when Michael, her ten year old brother, walks into the courtyard, newspaper in hand. 

“Any good news?” Kit asks, pressing a coin in his hand.

Michael shrugs, “I dunno, I don’t read it, I just sell it.”

Kit grins. She takes off Michael’s cap and ruffles the hair underneath it. It’s almost as red as hers, only much shorter and curlier. It suits him, she thinks, and paired with the freckles covering his face, it makes him look younger than he is.

He leans against her in a not-quite-hug. Michael likes to pretend to be older than he is, and very much resists any of his sister’s babying, but occasionally, especially when he’s tired, he’ll still hug her. She holds him there for a moment, savouring it. 

“Have you eaten anything?” She asks him

Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say anything, Kit already knows. Their father’s out of work again, and despite all of the children working, money is stretched thin. Kit hates to speak badly of her father, but she hates that he’ll let his children go hungry if it means he never has to go thirsty. For every shilling that goes into food, three go into alcohol.

“Stay there,” Kit tells him. Michael watches her disappear inside, and then reappear a moment later, holding an apple and some bread. She watches him eat it all, and then fetches him some milk to wash it all down. Once she’s satisfied that he won’t drop from hunger, she lets him finish his route.

Once she steps back inside, it’s back to work. The staff having soup for dinner and the family is divided with the eldest going to a ball, and the younger ones staying behind. 

Seeing as it’s only the children having dinner, Cook has been bribed by Hyacinth to make tea sandwiches and cakes, and so, Kit spends the better part of her afternoon making cakes and breads. 

After dinner, it’s time to clean. The end of her evening clean with Elaine is upon them and after tonight Kit will be able to retire to bed alongside Dorothy. She’s been looking forward to it, she’s even asked Andrew to borrow a book from upstairs for her. 

There’s been very little chatting since Elaine gave her advice, and as much as Kit wants to apologise for her reaction, she can’t really seem to find the right words, and by the time she thinks she might be brave enough to try, the cleaning is done and it’s time to go home. 

Tonight, though, Kit is determined to do it. She’s been talking herself into it since she woke up this morning and her chance finally appears as they remove their shoes to work the scrubbing cloth around the floor.

“I wanted to apologise,” she says, staring firmly at the floor, “I misunderstood your intentions earlier in the week and I was awfully rude.”

Elaine seems surprised, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my place, I’m sorry.”

“You were looking out for me,” Kit says, “I appreciate it. Thank you,” she smiles at the scullery maid, “I’ll be careful.”

Elaine smiles at her, moving as fast as she can on the cloth before her feet become numb. They’ve done most of it now and the end can’t come soon enough. 

“Tea?” Elaine asks, already reaching for the teapot and mugs. Kit smiles and nods, turning around to rummage through the cupboards for jam and a few slices of fresh bread. 

She spreads jam on the slices as Elaine pours the tea. They eat in comfortable silence, all awkwardness dissipated by their apologies. Right as they bite into their bread, the front door of the main house opens upstairs announcing the elder Bridgertons’ return home from the ball. They hear them climb up the main stairs, and minutes later, the bells ring for the valets and lady’s maids. 

Quick as a flash, Kit hides the teapot, cups, bread and jam on one of the empty chairs. She shoves whatever toast she still had in her hand into her mouth, making sure Elaine does the same, before the upper servants enter the kitchen and file up the stairs to the main house. 

As soon as they’re gone, the contraband is placed back up on the table and their chatting continues. By the time the upper servants come back down, the tea is finished, the food is eaten and Kit has washed away any evidence of their midnight snack. Elaine soon bids her goodnight and climbs up to her quarters while Kit stays to chat and gossip with the Lady’s maids. 

“I say Master Colin will wed by the end of next season,” Rose says, “And I wager a shilling, he will marry Miss Featherington.”

Kit laughs, “I wager he will not. I hear Miss Featherington’s dowry has already been gambled away by her father. I doubt Master Colin would marry without a dowry.”

“Kit, you sadden me,” Andrew says, “True love will vanquish all. I say he will marry her regardless of the dowry,” he adds, earning oohs and aahs from an appreciative Rose, “But,” he says, raising his index finger in warning, “I say it takes him two more seasons.”

“And when do you plan to wed, Andrew?” Bernard, Colin’s Valet, asks with a grin

“As soon as Kit gives me the time of day,” Andrew replies, shooting her a wink. It earns him a laugh from Bernard and Nicholas, Anthony’s Valet, as they clap him on the back.

“A bachelor forever, then!” Nicholas guffaws 

“I’m going back to bed,” Andrew announced, faking grumpiness, “Goodnight!”

Soon after his departure, the rest of them climb up, leaving Kit alone in a quiet kitchen. She’s about to go up when the door above the kitchen opens once more. 

Hyacinth chats loudly as she comes down, leaving no wonder as to who is disturbing Kit now, but she’s not alone. Trailing not far behind is Benedict Bridgerton, wearing only sleepwear.

“Hello Miss Byrd,” he says, sheepishly smiling, “We were rather hoping --”

“Is there any cake left?” Hyacinth cuts him off.

Kit rolls her eyes at the girl, earning herself a toothy smile, “I made you three different cakes for dinner and you still haven’t had enough?”

“Please?” Hyacinth begs, putting on her best puppy eyes, knowing very well it’s Kit’s one weakness.

But she holds strong, largely because Benedict is standing right behind, and she feels that if she does not stay stern, he’d get ideas. 

“Please Miss Byrd,” he eventually says, “We’re awfully hungry,” he adds, joining in on the relentless beating down. 

Kit lasts only a minute longer before giving in with a sigh. 

“This cannot happen again,” she says, as sternly as she can. Benedict smiles at her and much to her surprise, Kit’s knees go weak. She lets go of the plate she was holding, and it shatters all over the floor, sending bits of ceramic flying everywhere. 

She immediately bends down, grabbing all the pieces she can see. Shuffling around on her knees, she doesn’t see where she’s going. Soon enough, she bumps her head against something hard and yelps in pain. Expecting to see a table leg, she raises her head only to come inches away from Benedict Bridgerton. She stands up as fast as she can, taking as many steps back as she can as he does the same. They look at each other across the room, both trying to catch their breath. 

Trying to get a grip on herself, Kit slices two bits of cake and places them on two new plates. She hands them to each Bridgerton, expecting them to take it up to their rooms, but only Hyacinth does. As soon as the kitchen door closes, Benedict puts his plate down and reaches for the broom Kit had left leaning on the door.

Half expecting him to hand it to her, Kit is surprised when he starts sweeping.

“Oh you don’t -- I’ll --”

“Am I not doing it right?” he asks

“No, it’s -- Sir, I’ll take care of it,” she eventually says, “You may go up, you must be tired.”

“I am awake enough to sweep, Miss Byrd,” he smiles

“Perhaps, but you really oughtn’t,” she replies, gently taking the broom from his hands, “Go up, go to sleep. If Andrew finds out you missed out on sleep because of me, he’ll have my head.”

“Goodnight,” he says eventually, seeming unsure of what to do, before turning around and following his sister. His slice of cake forgotten.

“Goodnight, sir,” Kit replies.

---

The morning has been everything but calm from the moment Kit steps out of bed. All the late nights she’s been doing have started to take their toll and she’s starting to make mistakes, from burning the toast to cutting herself chopping vegetables, Kit is visibly perturbed, but Cook doesn’t ask and doesn’t comment. The servants live in close enough quarters that soon enough, she’ll know without needing to pry.

Kit doesn’t appreciate the looks though, and she’s grateful when tea break comes around. Cook’s made it for her, a rare treat, as she’s usually in charge of it. It’s piping hot and very sweet, the kind of cup of tea that fixes everything. They take it out in the courtyard, on a little rickety wooden table soaked through by the previous night’s rain, instead of standing by the back door like they usually do.

Cook takes out her pipe and lights it, alternating blowing big puffs of smoke and sipping her tea. The women stay silent, looking around at the Bridgerton’s garden through a small gap in the gate while a duck and two chickens circle them for crumbs.

Mr Colpher and his boys have done a wonderful job. The grass, the trees, the flowers all look as beautiful as they could be in the autumn colours.

Kit cranes her neck to see more, attracted by voices out in the garden. It’s the Viscount and Daphne, running around with their younger siblings, playing a game Kit doesn’t know. She looks on for a few more minutes until she’s rudely interrupted by the duck. Kit catches him, beak in her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief which she had wrapped around a leftover piece of bread.

“Oh go on, leave me be!” She tells him, “I'll turn you into a roast if you don’t mind your manners!”

Cook chuckles but Kit, unamused, bends down to pick her handkerchief out of a muddy puddle. She picks up the bread too, but throws it away as far as she can to spite the duck.

A few minutes later, Cook stands up, signalling that the break is over and they must return to work. Kit follows suit, energised by the tea and sugar.

When they walk in, Andrew is waiting for them.

“Ladies,” he says, with a dashing smile, sitting back on a chair, his boots on the dinner table, “Looking wonderful, as always.”

“Are you pestering the scullery maid, Mr Fitzwilliam?” Kit asks with a grin, “Feet off, I don’t want to eat whatever you traipsed on here.”

Andrew puts on a look of shock, ignoring her remark about his boots but sitting properly all the same, “Now Kit darling, you know my heart only beats for you,” he says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, “Say, Cook, mind if I borrow your kitchen maid for just a flash?”

“Only for a flash, Andrew,” Cook says, sternly shaking a finger at him. Andrew stands, knowing that Cook’s soft spot for him means he’ll face absolutely no repercussions for not keeping his word.

Andrew leads Kit back outside and leans against the wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his coat jacket. He lights one, then offers it to Kit, who refuses.

“Bridgerton asked about you,” he says, meaning Benedict, “Asked if I knew you. If you had a special someone,” he continues with a grin, “If you were always so stern.”

“And what did you say?” Kit asks, stomach in a knot for reasons she can’t quite place a finger on.

“I said you had a fiancé,” Andrew shrugs.

“Whyever would you say that?”

“What? Wanted me to tell him you were single?” Andrew laughs, “I thought you’d appreciate me shutting the questioning down.”

Kit sighs, “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Kit,” Andrew says, pushing himself off the wall, “He’s charming and he’s nice, I’ll give you that. But he’s looking to marry well so he can sustain the art career he desperately wants. I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says, putting both hands on her shoulders, “Besides, if Graves finds out, he’ll let you go and I don’t need to warn you of the trouble you’ll have finding somewhere else to work.”

Kit shakes him off, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it on the floor. She stomps on it with her foot until it’s thoroughly covered in mud and animal waste.

Andrew grins, “I don’t want to lose my best girl,” he says, “No one makes a cake quite like she does.”

Kit smiles, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Will it get me a date?”

“Sure,” Kit grinned, “Why not, since you asked so sweetly. Where are you taking me?”

Andrew stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, “I thought you would refuse me. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

She laughs, and he smiles, a blush spreading over his cheeks, “You better take me somewhere nice, Mr Fitzwilliam. After all, you are competing with a Bridgerton. Apparently…”

[hitthatapex]

Sneak Peak for Chapter 9 - Radio Check!

“Hey, look at me please.” Charles whispered. 

Max brought his eyes back to Charles. His beautiful green eyes.

Max loved looking at them. He loved it when they sparkled mischievously. He loved it when they became a little misty after intense sex. He loved Charl —

He didn’t let himself finish that thought and instead focused on Charles once again.

“I said that back then to rile you up. I did not actually believe it." Charles was gently carding his fingers through his hair, ruffling it a bit and Max couldn't help leaning into the touch.

"Well, not really anyway.” Charles added, giggling lightly. Max felt a warm smile spread across his own face at the sweet sound.

“Max I lo —” Charles paused once again. “I really like you. You have no idea how much. So please — please just don't think otherwise. And don't let those comments get to you. Okay?” 

A moment passed before Max whispered back just as softly. “Okay.” 

*Also wanted to apologise for missing last week's update :(( but hopefully this extra long chapter will make up for it (it'll be out Mon - Wed)

I also might add an extra chapter? unsure yet, but I want to do an epilogue and have a proper send off for these characters (why am i emotional 😭). If I do add an extra chapter, I won't keep you waiting for long! It will be up within a few days of chapter 10 being up.

If you have made it this far, can you please pray for a miracle and hope that Lestappen gets a podium in Singapore? 🙃

[duelacadatoolshed]

it's a bitch convincing people to like you {Evan/Reader/HABIT}

Part 2/4

{ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 }

Summary: Despite all of HABITS's neon red flags, you stay with Evan. On the pros and cons list of your relationship, there's only really one, and yes it's a big one, but you decide that it's worth it. HABIT deciding to start coercing you into being complicit in his atrocities, since his ego doesn't like that you refuse to think he's special, is actually less of a down-side to you than anyone might think, though you'd take that thought to the grave.

Warnings: suturing a wound, violence, HABIT breaks a bone in your hand, arson, mind manipulation, knives, murder, mentions of torture, HABIT typical cruelty & behaviour. Unedited.

A/N: continuing to emhpost in 2024. HABIT is distressingly fun to write. I love HABIT and reader's dynamic, Alexa play No Children by The Mountain Goats. That's not the song for this chapter, but it is the song for their relationship. Hand in unlovable hand. Again, like it if you like it, if you like, or comment, or anything. Print it, shred it, grind the remains to powder that you can cut with coke, and snort it. If you hate it, tape it to a punching bag.

Evan wakes with a start, terror in his eyes, and starts apologising so much the second he sees you that he quickly becomes incoherent. As he scrambled to sit up, your cool facade breaks and you smile at him, taking his face in your hands, assuring him that everything was fine. It seems like he can't quite believe you, forehead pressed to yours as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, still apologising all the while.

The two of you stay like that, on your kitchen floor, for almost an hour until you finally convince him to shower. He spends another hour in there, emerging wrapped in a towel, and you sheepishly tell him you bought him some s sweat pants, thinking something like this would happen. Evan turns pink actually looking a little endeared at that, and he changes in the bathroom before coming back to join you in bed. You ask him if he remembers anything, he admits that he doesn't, that that's why he was terrified to wake up and see you, so scared something had happened to you. He's glad, but still genuinely shocked, to know nothing had. Well, almost nothing. He is quick to clean the shallow knife wound in your back, but grimaces when he mentions that it'll probably need stitches. Again, you hesitate but admit to going overboard with getting medical supplies after researching him and HABIT. Evan goes very quiet at that, before asking what you'd learned.

You hand him the suturing needle and medical thread, and ask if he's okay to do this. Swallowing hard, he tells you he is, that he's done it before for the guys. The rest of EverymanHYBRID, you realise. So you lay on your bed, and Evan sits beside you, taking care of your wound as you try your best to explain your research.

"I'm sorry if I come off like a creepy stalker-" you mumbled softly, but Evan, who'd finished stitching you up and was now dressing the wound, cuts you off.

"I should have told you before any of this happened," he paused, sighing deeply, "I didn't know how. I didn't-" his voice catches in his throat, and his hands still against your back, "I'm sorry," he mutters finally, "it's a fucking miracle that you're alive and it's my fault for being a coward and putting you in that position. We hadn't even been together that long, I - fuck," he hisses, "thank you for taking me in for the night despite everything, I'll get out of your hair tomorrow." Slowly, you sit, getting to your knees, regarding him with a soft smile.

"There's no way I would have believed you if you'd told me," you admitted, "I have no clue how you'd even start that conversation," you laugh softly, and Evan's just looking at you with the saddest little expression, "but believe it or not, this isn't a deal breaker for me; I care about you, Evan." You take his hand; Evan looks at your fingers laced with his like he can't quite believe it.

"You should be running far, far away from me," he mumbled, but you gave his hand a squeeze.

"HABIT, probably. You? No."

For a long moment, Evan just looks at you, wide eyed, disbelieving. Then, all at once, he surges forwards, kissing you frantically. He peppers you with kisses, telling you he loves you, and something eases in your chest when you finally get the chance to say it back.

Later, the two of you curled up beneath the duvet, Evan holding you securely against his chest, he asks you about what happened earlier that night with HABIT. What had you said to end up with only a bruised cheek and shallow knife wound to the back, but alive. So you recount the conversation to the best of your ability, parts of which actually startle a laugh from Evan at your boldness.

"You're actually kind of terrifying," he laughs, grin pressed to your back, "I can't believe you."

"I know I've poked the bear," you admitted softly, "I know he's going to hurt me, probably badly, probably even kill me, but..." you trailed off, "it doesn't feel scary when it feels inevitable. I know we haven't been together long, but I really, really like you, Evan, so a little bit of pain isn't the end of the world. I know your heart is good. HABIT's isn't, but he's not you."

Evan's holding you so tightly it feels like your ribs are about to crack. He has no words in this moment, so you just gently tell him to get some rest. There's more to talk about, but that can happen tomorrow.

For a long time after that, things with Evan are good. Really good. Still, he's adamant that you don't spend the night at his place even if you've been over there countless times. If HABIT wakes you up again, there's far too many weapons around for him to sleep comfortably with you in his arms.

Sometimes he will disappear for days at a time. You know it's HABIT. Sometimes he'll text you during these periods.

[what's your address again?]

[nice try habit. fuck off]

[🥺 PLEASE I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU]

[is it a weapon to injure me with?]

[YOU RUINED THE SURPRISE]

[no you're just predictable]

[YOU'RE SUCH A BITCH]

Evan is thoroughly disconcerted by these exchanges whenever he comes back to himself. He always apologises for them even though you assure him he has nothing to apologise for. You help where you can with his investigations while keeping up with your own studies and keeping tabs on HABIT out of curiosity.

Except then there comes a day where you're out with Evan at the museum, and when he disappears for a moment to look at something, HABIT is the one who comes back. You can tell just by looking at him, the way he seems kind of lost, almost confused and disgusted to be here, that it's him.

And the smile that lights up his face when he sees you is a dead giveaway. If he weren't a monster, it might actually be endearing. Instead, you begin to grow a little nauseous, but don't let it show on your face.

"Rabbit, you are a sight for sore eyes," he loops his arm in yours forcefully, voice low in your ear, "were we on a date?" He teases sharply. As you try and wrench your arm out of his grip, he just holds you tighter, tutting disapprovingly.

"I was on a date, with Evan," you spat back icily. His nails dig into your arm uncomfortably as he calls you quaint. When you cut to the chase and ask him what the hell he wants, HABIT sucks a sharp breath in between his teeth, calling you a stubborn bitch under his breath. You elbow him in response and he tells you to watch it.

"Today, you're gonna be my good, little helper, and you're gonna play along, or I'll make you play along."

"Well not to skip the foreplay but I'm not going to play along, so either posses me or piss off," you told him candidly, much to HABIT's ongoing frustration.

"You're such a buzz kill," he actually whined, and you couldn't help but smirk at that, "there's no fun in that."

"I know," you couldn't help but snort, "you should probably just kill me." HABIT is quiet for a very few long moments after that, though he's still steering you both towards the exit, "you're thinking about it, aren't you?" Your tone is teasing, and he makes an amused noise in the back of his throat.

"Making a pros and cons list in my head, except I can't find any real cons."

"So why aren't you maiming me? I know you have no problems causing a spectacle," in the sunshine, you stop, turning to him. By now you know how to play this game, you think you know the answer. It's there in the way he looks at you, like you're a puzzle he's enjoying the game of solving. Except you're surprised by how much you like the way he's looking at you.

"Call it intellectual curiosity."

"Your ego can't handle the fact that I don't think you're special for wanting to hurt or kill me," you counter. This conversation really shouldn't be this light, you really should speak with even a bit more caution than you do. But then HABIT smiles, and your heartrate picks up for all the wrong reasons.

"You are going to be so much fun to break," he murmurs, and you have to fight back your automatic response, because Jesus Christ, why is your automatic response to say something flirty? Really, what is wrong with you?

"Good luck with that," you give a cold smile, and attempt to walk away. Attempt to. HABIT grabs your hand and starts to drag you down the street; his grip is unyielding, and only grows tighter, until you yelp, tears stinging your eyes as you feel the sharp, intense pain of a delicate bone snapping in your hand.

"I didn't just mean psychologically, rabbit," HABIT offers cheerfully, giving another pointed squeeze. An involuntary sob escapes you, and you've never seen someone's attention be drawn so quickly.

"I'm in pain, I'm going to cry," you rolled your eyes, despite your wobbly voice, "the fuck did you expect, you silly bitch?"

"Did you just call me a silly bitch?" It's like he can't believe you're giving him attitude right now.

"If the clown shoes fit -" you have to bite down to muffle your whimper of pain as he squeezes your hand again. Your whole face scrunched up, tears shine on your cheeks in the sunlight, and when you open your eyes, HABIT's regarding you with the most curious expression.

"You get hotter when you cry," he comments idly, "I'm probably biased though, I might just think you get hotter when you're in pain, I think everyone does -"

"You're a sadist, shocker," you say sarcastically, "get hard on your own time; can you focus on forcing me to help you commit atrocities so we can get this over with?"

"You're sassing me right now? With a broken hand? This is like if you stepped on an ant, and when you look under your shoe the fucking ant flips you off despite his mangled ant legs."

"You'll get over it."

"I don't know if I will, rabbit; you wound me," he presses his free hand over his heart, but his smile is wide and incredulous.

"I should be so lucky."

HABIT's smile turns dangerous once more, but the conversation drops, and he leads you on. As you continue on, he tells you about his victim, a conspiracy theorist getting too close to the truth and had to be silenced. When you ask what truth, HABIT's grin is cruel.

"Doesn't matter, not like any of his findings 'll ever see the light of day."

When you ask how he plans to kill him, HABIT sounds almost dreamy when he says he's still figuring that out. Turning down a street in nearby suburbia, HABIT looks over his shoulder at you.

"You're gonna get us inside."

"The hell I am."

"Its not a choice kind of situation, rabbit," he says flatly, but he perks up again, "though I am curious about how your mind works, so I'm gonna nudge you into obeying, but the details are up to you,"

There is suddenly an ice cold presence in the back of your mind, a voice you know is HABIT's true voice, not the one he manages to coax from Evan's throat. It orders you to say thank you, and you do so with a scowl, through gritted teeth. He sighs, shaking his head as if terribly disappointed, and just asks that you at least try and be believable with the victim. Then, he's in your mind again.

HABIT's presence in your mind is sweet, almost eerily seductive as he murmurs for you to figure out how to get them into the house you'd both stopped in front of. The voice is cold but ultimately smooth as it adds, be good for me, rabbit, be believable. It's like your mind and your body are two seperate entities, one desperately trying to revolt while the other turns to HABIT. You ask him to squeeze your hand again; he seems surprised and delighted by this turn of events, and complies. Immediately you burst into tears, and he seems taken aback, but you furiously hiss for him to put his arm around you as you both stumble to the door.

"Hello? Hello is anyone in there? Please help, please- we need help," you sobbed loudly, leaning into HABIT's arms, half collapsed against him.

"Who are you?" Comes a terse, nervous voice from behind the door.

"I- my name's Amelia, sir, please, I tripped and hurt myself, there's something following us," she whimpered, dissolving into tears.

"Someone?" The voice behind the door asks sharply, but before she can answer, HABIT plays along.

"Someone maybe, but it- I don't know how to describe it, sir, it was so tall-" the door opens swiftly, and they're ushered inside. HABIT holds you tightly, even as the man ushers you both into his living room. Locking the door, you both hear several chains being locked after, and he mutters something irritated about Chinese security cameras and shipping time. You're curled up, mostly in HABIT's lap, his arms around you. He's murmuring softly to you, lips against your forehead, telling you it's going to be okay. It's sickening the part of you locked away and still capable of free thought. He rubs circles against your back as you tearfully apologise to the man, babbling weakly about how it could have all been a misunderstanding, but there was something unsettling about the tall figure in the suit you swear was following you. The man goes very quiet, drilling you for any details you remember, interrogating you both. Finally, he asks if you were okay.

"I think I did something to my hand," you sniffled, still holding it to your chest. Nervously, when the man asks to take a look and check, you offer it, but before he can even touch you, every part of you recoiled, burying your sobbing face into HABIT's chest as he curls his arms around you and apologises for how skittish you were. He sounds so much like Evan in this moment you can't help but genuinely start to cry harder.

The victim asks if you're sure you were being followed, and you and HABIT quietly nod. In the next moment, he disappears back down the hall, and you feel HABIT's grin turn wicked against your temple.

"So you do know how to act scared," he muttered. You his for him to shut up, but he just laughs under his breath. The have that had been wrapped around your shoulders moves to your face, fingertips gently caressing your jaw, your cheek, even once stopping with his fingers beneath your chin so he could run his thumb along your bottom lip. It's so bloody innocuous, so why did it all feel so strangely possessive? It's also surprisingly soothing, and despite all odds, you find yourself relaxing somewhat against him as he rambles, "it wasn't exactly a creative solution, but he folded like a sheet. I told you, you get hotter when you cry."

"You're an asshole," you whimpered, "I hate you." With a softness you hadn't realised he was capable of, HABIT holds your jaw, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. He's so much closer than you'd expected, even if you know, logically, that it makes sense since you're all but in his lap.

"Yeah, clearly," he sees fit to mock you, considering the circumstances, how close you still seem to insist on being. How you're looking at him now. Something about the way he's looking at you, the affection in his eyes, it almost reminds you of Evan. If not for the way his gaze burns behind it all. Behind his mask of humanity, HABIT is all razor sharp intensity, trapped inside the visage of your boyfriend. You wonder how many people have gotten this close and lived to tell the tale.

HABIT makes short work of tying the victim up when he gets back, bored of the facade, he explains. Still he assures him that he won't draw this out like he usually would.

"It's rabbit's first murder, I'm still trying to ease her into it -" he explains, and the crying victim now looks to you in a panic.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out; while HABIT hasn't forced you to continue playing along and deceiving the man, he has kept you frozen in place, watching, helpless.

"No she's not," HABIT laughs, undercutting you immediately.

"I am!" You tried to insist, "I don't want this to happen, I don't want to do this -"

"It's like you keep finding new ways to get on my nerves," HABIT snapped suddenly, "go be useful; start as many fires as you can." And your body obeys without your consent, picking up the lightest from the stove. All you can do is disconnect from the process, squeezing your eyes shut while you're body moves around like a puppet, going through the house room by room and clicking the lighter to life every time.

The fire is beginning to chew through the house by the time you get to HABIT, and his praise makes you feel a little ill. The feeling only grows when he asks you to open your eyes, and he's standing before you, knife in hand, covered in blood.

"I've made it easy for you, little rabbit," there's something so sinister about his sweet tone. HABIT places the handle of the knife in your hands, curling your fingers over it, holding your hand steady in his own grip, "at this point, it'd be crueler to let him live," and stepping aside to reveal the horror show he'd made of the victim in that sort time; you feel like you're about to throw up, but you can't move. Except then he's behind you, his chest firm against his back as he wraps one arm around you to keep you secure, while the other once again holds yours as it holds the knife, guiding you.

"Don't make me do this," you whispered, even as the man before you begged for it all to end. HABIT's laughter is warm against your ear.

"There's very few ways to die that are more painful than burning alive," he mutters against the shell of your ear, voice turning into a low, almost pleased growl, "you're a fucking monster."

"I'm not a monster for not wanting to kill someone."

"You're a monster for being too selfish to put this guy out of his misery, making him suffer like that,* but HABIT sounds downright appreciative, and he holds you a little tighter against him. A traitorous, pleased shiver runs down your spine.

The bound man is downright unrecognisable, clearly suffering, praying for you to provide him a swift and merciful end. Honestly, to help him escape enduring another moment with HABIT, even through death, would make you something of a saviour to him in his final minutes, you tried to reason.

But HABIT's no longer in your mind, and the dark little voice that whispers insistently that you'll never get a chance like this again, is entirely your own. An eldritch abomination has decided that you were intriguing, that you were worth the effort of corrupting; HABIT is acting like you're special because you told him he wasn't. Despite your better judgement, you do really find him fascinating.

You tell yourself a million different things to try and rationalise what you're about to do, even lying to yourself that you can still feel the last of HABIT'S supernatural influence curling at the edges of your free will. It's not. HABIT's hands on yours, still holding the knife, is firm but still, he doesn't puppet you into this act of cruel mercy, all he does is still the shaking of your hand. His thumb brushes over your knuckles almost tenderly; you close your eyes.

"I'm so so sorry," you murmur to your poor victim, steeling your resolve. HABIT just laughs.

[mjanelupinblack]

starving creatures | chapter one 🖤

pairing: xu minghao x reader // jun x reader (mainly lol)

description: starving creatures have arrived at your homeland in forks. little do you know, they not only intend to drain the blood out of you... they'll also to break your heart in two.

genres: slowburn (please bare with me), fluff, angst, vampire!au

warnings: blood drinking, lot of blood related themes, repressed emotions, family issues, miscommunication, kinda toxic friendship with cheol? blood and smut will be mixed. emotionally and physically starved vampires oops. did i mentioned blood?

minors dni!!!

fic playlist 🖤

w/c: 3.2k

a/n: like i said, slowburn as f*ck. you'll have to wait to have fun with jun and hao but it'll be worth it if you bare with me. also i am having so much fun writing this omg ^_^ english isn't my first language and i don't have beta readers so kind feedback is welcome <3

CHAPTER 1

Joshua Hong had been the first for many things in his life: the firstborn, the first brother to complete his education, the first student among his classmates to perform a solo surgery, and one of the first doctors to try chloroform for his medical procedures, as anesthesia wasn't nearly as developed as it is now.

He was also the first one to be turned.

No other outcome could have been expected. People like him - young, enthusiastic, seemingly blessed by the gods - had to have some divine punishment waiting for them. Josh's penance would be to live forever with his luck... and to have it slowly fade into misfortune.

As a doctor, he never thought life could be eternal. He had witnessed all types of miracles at Paris Salpêtrière, but no soul had ever gotten to escape the sweet lullabies of death. At first, he felt terrible about it. Doctor Pierre had told him to get used to it, as God only gives special treatment to his friends. Little did he know, Pierre was a close friend of Him. He didn't notice it until he found himself digging a blade into his tutor's jugular vein.

No pulse could be found, but Pierre's breaths were still steady.

"Let's go, Josh! Everything's packed!" Vernon shouted as he got into the driver's seat.

"Do we really have to go through this again?" Jun complained, as if it would change anything. For the last time, he stared at the California house that had been their home for the past ten years.

He always got too attached.

"C'mon, man, you know it's better this way," Vernon replied.

From the passenger seat, Joshua looked at them. Minghao rubbed his brother's back and gently pushed him into the car despite his deep and frustrated sighs. This might be the worst part. But upon reflection, the worst part might also involve the one where locals started noticing their lack of aging, leading him to search for a new town.

"Jun, you can't be mad..." Vernon tried.

"Hum, yes, I can be mad," Jun countered. "And I can't believe you all think it's possible to move from California to this nowhere town."

"This 'nowhere town' is called Forks, alright? And it's your new home, so you better get used to it."

Nowhere Town. That's a good name, as it reflected all the peace Joshua had been praying for since Junhui and Minghao joined his and Vernon's odd nomadic, supernatural-like lifestyle.

"It's always cloudy there. You'll get to hang out more often with your friends."

"Sorry, what friends?" Jun asked sarcastically.

"You'll make friends eventually, Jun. Stop whining," Minghao said.

You didn't believe Forks was the best town in the world either. The landscape, always covered by mist and the ground sticky wet from the most recent storm, looked exactly as it did when you were born. You finished cleaning the house an hour before the awaited arrival. The large windows were all cleaned, not a single stain preventing passersby from catching a glimpse inside.

The house was empty for now, as it had been since the heartbreaking death of the previous inhabitants. You sat by the porch, trying to catch your breath and wondering what the new family looked like. Were they old? Were they nice? Certainly, they wouldn't want anyone to disturb them, otherwise, they would have chosen to live closer to the town center.

Surrounded by trees and animals, your aunt's house was known for attracting people who appreciated solitude.

That's the first thing you learned about Minghao.

There is a van approaching from a distance. The new renters arrived half an hour earlier than you planned. You stand up quickly, shaking the dirt off your pants when, for the first time, you see his face.

You won’t be able to forget that face.

"Y/N, right? We talked on the phone yesterday," one of the guys says. There are four of them now. By his introduction, you supposed you are talking to Mr. Chwe.

"Yes! It's so nice to meet you all, Mr. Chwe."

You shake his hand, surprised to find Mr. Chwe, a doctor, looks more like a student who just pulled an all-nighter.

He also has the temperature of an old man.

"Just Vernon, please," he said.

You had a speech planned, but right now you're having trouble remembering what you were going to say. There's a man behind Vernon who looks at you with tender and compassionate eyes. You assume he's Joshua, the one who responded to your emails.

"I'm so sorry my aunt couldn't make it today. As I told you, she's been sick. It would be difficult for her to climb all the way up here. I'll give you the tour, if you're comfortable with it."

Vernon shows his understanding. The same goes for Joshua, who breaks into a sincere smile and thanks you for being so attentive. It's almost as if they're acting like parents. And then, there are the kids...

"Actually, I'm tired. I'm sure we can figure out the house ourselves."

"I could really use some sleep."

"We've stayed in bigger houses anyway."

"Jun, Hao... Enough of that."

Jun and Hao; you're not sure which one takes your breath away more. With their silky, white, shoulder-length hair, they stand in the woods like fairies in a fairytale.

But you imagined fairies to be... more polite, perhaps.

"It's okay. It must have been a long ride for them. I'll leave you to rest." You tranquillize Mr. Chwe with a smile, but think, Morons, in your head.

Almost as if he heard what you said, Jun's face contorts in a gesture that appears both surprised and offended.

"Do you all see that little house right there?" you ask, pointing down into the distance past the trees. "That's where I live. Just call me if you need anything. We're the only neighbors you have around, besides the Boo Family. Oh, and I almost forgot. They asked me to leave you a present since they won't be able to come and say hello today. I left it inside."

"A present?" Minghao asks, his forehead furrowed and a fucked up temper. It's as if you'd just left a bomb or something in their kitchen.

You feel small under his gaze.

"Yes... it's just a beautiful mirror."

•••

Vernon was the second one to get turned.

He graduated from uni, having already killed a man. He tasted his blood, vomited to stop feeling sick, but then got the imperious need to drink from him again.

“Who the hell is this Boo Family?” Jun asks once they get to the house. The mirror is still covered in the living room. There’s no use in unwrapping it as they can’t use it anyways.

“Some old friends.” Vernon answers, face paler than usual.

He made a vow to never to steal a life again. No matter how hungry he was, no matter how weak he could get, he had a strong set of values he planned to spend the rest of his non-desired eternity with, even if people told him it wasn’t the natural thing to do.

“Explain yourself.”

“No explanation needed… Just go to your room, Jun.”

“Are you grounding me or something? I thought we were over with all this weird family shit.”

“I could be your grandfather, how is that weird to…”

“Boo Seungkwan is the man who brought Vernon into this life, okay?” Joshua explains.

Josh had been his mentor. Studying hard for his degree, Vernon was only seven years younger than him and had a mind full of dreams. One of them was to become a doctor as brilliant as Joshua, which, after a lot of sacrifice, he did. But he never thought his desire to be like Joshua would put him into a world so dark and twisted. When he said he wanted to be like Joshua, he never imagined… this.

“There’s your answer.” Vernon says.

He wouldn’t have endured sane this long without Joshua as a friend.

“Don’t worry, mate, we are leaving this place.”

The house is big. Of course, they lived in much larger houses than your auntie’s, as Jun said. But this house… There is wood covering the walls and enormous trees blocking the sunlight from the windows.

Vernon asks himself, is it always going to be like this?

Will Josh and he finally be able to take daytime shifts? Will they be able to walk around town without having to worry about deadly eruptions on their skins?

Sunglasses and long sleeves, then they are ready to go. The offer is tempting.

“There’s no need.”

“What do you mean?” Joshua asks in disbelief.

“I mean… We already paid the girl.”

“And she can keep the money. We’re leaving.”

Jun seems thrilled. What will their new location be? Bahamas? Maybe France? Oh, he loves pain au chocolat! Now it is gonna be great.

“I want to give it a try, Josh,” Vernon says, much to Jun’s disgrace. “Yejin is dead. And there’s no other reason for the Boo family to attack me again.”

“Yejin? Like your ex-friend Yejin?” Minghao asks.

“More like the maniac, out-of-her-mind-obsessed-with-Vernon, Yejin.” Joshua corrects.

“How did you know about her, Hao?”

“I might have stumbled upon your diaries once. But then we moved, and I don’t know where you hide them anymore. So I’m kinda stuck in the middle of the tale.

“Well, well, well… Looks like we know very little of each other to be part of the same family, Mr. Chew. Or should I call you Doctor?”

Jun disappears from the room, not caring for Joshua, who wants to say something to him. Even if he couldn’t move at this dazzling speed, he would’ve been able to escape the situation with equal grace.

That’s the way he is.

“Welcome to Forks, then.”

•••

“So… the new renters are a piece of shit.” your friend Cheol says. It's nice to catch up after a whole summer apart, not seeing or hearing anything from him.

Your ankles ache from the cold wind that bites as you walk the last stretch to school.

“That’s not what I said,” you explain. “The doctors were very nice to me. But the young ones… This guy Jun was in a terrible mood and treated everyone like shit. The other brother was…”

Threatening? But gut-wrenchingly beautiful? Eyes so deep like sinking ships after crashing with an iceberg?

“…a bit serious, I don’t know. When the doctors asked me if there was a highschool nearby, I thought I'd get to make some friends.”

“Are you saying I’m not enough of a friend?”

Okay, that was a low blow and you need to respond to it.

“The whole summer you went missing. So yes, at some point your friendship felt short for me.”

Many years of friendship taught you that you can open up with Cheol whenever you feel sad or lonely. You arrive at school and identify some of the friends he spent the whole summer with. A sight escapes your mouth. You love the guys, but you kinda wish your alone time with Cheol would have lasted longer.

And he notices.

“We can hang out later. Just you and me,” he promises, grabbing both of your hands. “We can sneak and spy on this jackasses’ house. Then you’ll watch them nose-picking and realize they’re not that big of a deal.”

“Voyeurism? That 's the date?”

Cheol pinches your nose in between his fingers and smiles playfully. Same old smile. Same old gesture that makes you feel safe. Even after a whole summer of not knowing what the hell is going on in his head.

“I know you. Don’t act like you don’t like to get into other people’s lives.”

Touché. You admit there’s a certain rush of adrenaline growing in your veins whenever you think about getting into your new renters’ intimacy. There's a certain power that comes with knowing about other people's secrets. Even when you don’t plan to use any of those against them.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I take it as a yes.”

“Take it as a maybe I'd rather go grab some coffee and not do such creepy things!”

You hit your friend in the arm playfully. When they see you coming, the gang welcomes you with a hug and some cheering. Hoshi tells you about how your best friend drank his blood’s weight in beer and none of the parties were near as entertaining as when you are there to join them.

You don’t believe him. You know he’s only saying this to make you feel better. But you have nothing against white lies when they serve their purpose.

“Maybe invite me next time?” you say, knowing that you are asking for the impossible.

Soonyoung looks at Dino, who answers without saying a word. Cheol pulls you closer to him. Silent and almost surrounding you with his arms.

“I really don’t think you’d like it,” Soonyoung says. “Plus you’ve been busy training, from what I heard.”

Of course. Training. You are not sure what Soonyoung must have heard about it, or who he must have heard it from. But this summer, you have been leaving your house at five in the morning everyday with the intention of running your sacred five miles before seven a.m—or whatever number of miles you could do before starting to feel like you’re about to pass out. It has been awesome; wind whipping your skin and not a single thought crossing your head. Just a pleasant sensation of hurt that would leave your legs shaking and your mind blank.

After that, you’d return home just in time to give your auntie her meds.

And then you’d like to run away again.

“Are you getting into a competition or something?” Dino asks.

“Nah. I was just doing it to clear my mind. But who knows… I’m fast.”

“Maybe I could help your train then”

Around the corners, or maybe even a couple of blocks away, there’s a soul with the extramundane ability of hearing your thoughts and sayings with just the gaze of your silhouette.

“Hum… who the hell are you?” Seungcheol asks him.

He wasn't there just minutes ago. You must have been too lost in your own thoughts as the sight of your neighbor makes your heart skip a beat.

Maybe he wants you to introduce him?

“Guys, this is Jun. My auntie rented the house to his family, so he and his brother are new here.”

“Great way to introduce yourself, mate. You’re an asshole, from what I heard?”

You step over your friend’s foot, hoping to subtly silent him. Damn, Seungcheol has a big mouth.

“Actually, I’m here to apologize,” Jun says, much to your surprise. And then he looks at you like no one else is there. “My manners weren’t the best. We had a long trip from California so I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“California? You’re a ghost, man.”

Ignoring Soonyoung’s comment, your neighbor continues trying to apologize.

“I just wanted to let you know that whatever neighborly thing you need, you can count on my family and me.”

Just by the way they’re silent, analyzing every bit of him but actually finding nothing, you can tell that the guys already hate Jun without even knowing him.

And for that, you feel relieved.

“Thank you, Jun. I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

•••

You live in a place so different than Mr. Chwe and Mr Hong’s new house. It only has a few rooms; none of them fancy and only spacious enough for you to sleep and change in there. The little wooden cabin remains hidden in between the trees, all of them prominent enough to prevent your house from being in plain sight. Rain has to make an effort to fall in between thick leaves. And if it wasn’t because of the oscillating movement of your auntie’s chair, Joshua would´t have found it.

He has always been a good neighbor. It’s a signature part of the made up story he tells about himself every time his life changes. So there he is, standing on the porch of your house with a basket of freshly baked cookies in hand. He expects to find you there and maybe ask you a couple of questions about the Boo family and your relationship with them.

“You didn’t have to” you say, receiving the basket in your hands with guilt wrinkling your eyebrows. “Really. I feel terrible. I don’t have anything to give you in return.”

“You’ve given more than enough. This is just a thank you. To you and your aunt.”

Some persistent raindrops have started to pierce through the trees.

“Come in, I insist” you say, opening the door fully even though it’s kinda messy inside. You haven’t found the time to clean up and embarrassment shows in the crimson red of your plumpy cheeks. “You won’t make it to the lodge before the rain. And I was about to make some coffee to warm up anyways.”

Joshua knows perfectly that he will be able to reach the lodge even before the next drop of rain. Despite that, he decides to enter your house and take a seat at your table, waiting for the cloudburst to stop, like any normal person. In front of him, there’s a cup of coffee. He asked for it without sugar or milk because he wouldn’t be able to enjoy those flavors if you put them in there anyways. Of course, the story he tells is different. It’s easier to explain he’s grown accustomed to preparing his coffee bitter in the rush of his night guards.

“So, California…”

Your friend Hoshi’s observation over Jun had been rude but sharp. California’s sun had rejected Joshua’s family in an inexplicable way.

“Yes, we stayed there for a short time,” he answers. For him, that is not a lie. Ten years really is a short time. “We have a condition. It makes us sensitive to the sun. So long term wasn’t an option.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for that...”

“It's okay. We just have to be careful. Forks seems like the perfect place for that.”

“Trust me. Forks can give you a lot of trouble but sunny days won’t be one.”

Joshua takes a sip of his coffee. It doesn’t taste like anything, but it’s reassuring to see you enjoy the cookies he baked but can’t taste.

“A lot of trouble?” He asks, eyes full of curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”

Coming from California and —from what Vernon told you— previously New York, you imagine your neighbor has no idea of the consequences of living in a place like Forks.

“Well, a small town can be a vast hell if you don’t keep things to yourself,” you explain. “Forks is amazing. But there’s only a few habitants and they all get bored easily, so rumors fly.”

Joshua’s well aware of how deadly rumors can be. Especially when truth revolves around them.

“Do you have secrets to entertain us with, Mr. Hong?” you mock him, feeling a little more comfortable around your neighbor who’s not only a kind person but also a great baker.

His eyes get all wrinkly when he smiles.

“I’m afraid we’re gonna bore you all,” he answers “And please don’t call me Mr. Hong.”

“Fair enough.” You say, while cleaning leftover cookies from the corner of your mouth.

“What about you, do you have secrets?”

You laugh at the question. Maybe it’s because you know the answer damn well.

“Of course. We all do.”

masterlist | next chapter