#but i got busy with school so this is all i could do

[an-idyllic-novelist]

Goku + Vegeta when their spouse is away on a work trip headcanons

warnings: established relationship, husband/wife, fem!reader is taking Chi-Chi and Bulma's place as the Saiyan’s significant other in each separate, respective scenario.

If this does make you feel comfortable, please hit the back 'button' on your phone or laptop and do not leave any mean comments. This blog is a safe space for everyone to share their thoughts and enjoy fics.

Special thanks to @actuallysaiyan for being my beta-reader and cheerleader, this piece wouldn’t have been possible without her.

I would love to hear feedback on these types of scenarios for Dragonball/Dragonball Z and if I should continue them or what I should try writing next~!

divider by @cafekitsune

Son Goku

Goku would definitely be excited to have the house all to himself for an entire week because that meant he got to spend more time training to get stronger! Your sons would also be home while you’re gone on this business trip, so that’s a bonus right there!

As much as he loves to fight, he would like to make up for the time he had missed seeing Gohan grow up and get to know Goten more. Goku wouldn’t exactly be called the best father, but he had been putting in the effort after the Old Kai had given him another chance at life. He had an inkling just how hard you worked at your job to provide for the family from Gohan, but once you were out of the door? Totally different story.

Goku only knows how to cook simple meals, but he would wait until almost all the food you had meticulously prepared for your departure was almost gone. At least before he walked in the door one evening after a grueling session with Vegeta and he saw Gohan cooking in the kitchen with Goten clinging to his side. Not just what you would you normally eat, but the portions you always dished out that would fill him and the boys up.

Turns out that after he had died and his oldest son defeated Cell, you had developed a new routine in his absence: You would be up first thing in the morning, followed by Gohan, who had early morning classes. He would take care of making lunches while you did breakfast, then wake up Goten. Gohan would fly with Goten to West City to go to school, and you would leave for work. If you left work on time, then you’d come straight home and start cooking dinner. If you had to work a few extra hours, then Gohan would be in charge of the kitchen. Goten would help with setting the table, since he was still too young to do any cooking or handle sharp objects.

Once dinner was served and finished, you would clean up the kitchen while Gohan helped his little brother with homework or getting him ready for bed. Afterwards you would read Goten a bedtime story, then it was lights out for everyone until the next day arrived. Gohan would be an exception to the rule if he wanted to put in a few extra hours of studying.

This routine taught the boys not only how to do chores on their own, but also to be a little more independent. It was actually Piccolo’s idea; the Namekian had helped you with looking after them when they were younger on days when you would be stuck at the office longer than expected when Bulma couldn’t. She already had her hands full as the new president of Capsule Corp and being a mother herself.

You were more than happy to compensate for Piccolo’s time with jugs of high-quality water or a meal. It was no surprise that he became a father-figure to Goten as he had been to Gohan.

Hearing all of this from his oldest son stunned and made Goku’s chest swell with happiness and pride. He had sacrificed himself to save the world from Cell, but it wasn’t until after he arrived in the Other World that he realized he had left you all alone. It couldn’t have been easy, especially after Goten was born, but you all did it. He was very proud of you, and he wished you were here now so he could show you just how much he appreciated you.

But you weren’t here. You wouldn’t be back for another six days. Maybe that’s why it felt sort of lonely to go to sleep that night, noticing how cold your side of the bed was.

By the third or fourth day Goku will be whiny, constantly annoying Vegeta during their training sessions on how much he misses you and wants you to come soon so he could eat your cooking or worse, complains why you had to leave for this trip when you could have stayed home before the Saiyan Prince points out how many times he has left his family alone before promptly kicking Goku out of the gravity room.

On the fifth day, he was more than ready to fly wherever you were and bring you home. Unfortunately, the reason you had suddenly called the house right after dinner was because you wouldn’t be coming home like you had planned. Something unexpected happened with a major project at the office, and the higher-ups put you in charge of damage control. Right now you were looking for another day, maybe two days? You promised to keep him or Gohan updated, but Goku was not happy with the news.

He knows your job is important, but what about your family? Nope. You have already worked enough, someone else can handle the problem! You were coming home in two days, no ifs or buts.

You had better be prepared to get the shock of your life if you decide otherwise, because Goku will use Instant Transmission to be wherever you are and suffocate you with bone-crushing hugs and wet kisses. Don’t worry about the kids, he called Piccolo to watch them until the two of you got back.

Now, please give him some attention~.

Vegeta

Vegeta is an arrogant and stubborn-ass Saiyan, even if everyone else says he’s definitely calmed down a lot after getting married and having Trunks. This guy will never admit how much you have changed his life for the better.

Like Goku, he would be delighted to hear that you are leaving for a weeklong work trip; to him, this means he has more time to focus on getting stronger than being forced to sit with you after dinner to watch a show you liked and cuddle for a bit in bed before it’s lights out. It was also an excellent opportunity to get Trunks in the gravity room. He will not tolerate the idea of Kakarot’s younger son being more powerful than his heir apparent.

He would definitely rely on either the meals you prepared ahead of time because he cannot cook or takeout with the emergency black card you’ve left for them on the counter to use while you are gone. Vegeta is a hazard in the kitchen unless it’s warming up something on the stove and microwave.

Although he is technically a stay-at-home dad, Vegeta would quickly realize just how much you do around the house. Regardless of the extra hours you put in at the office, you had always made sure everything was spotless, there was plenty of food on the table, and spent time with him and Trunks. Vacation days? Used only to take four day family trips together or if you were sick.

On the third day, he wouldn’t spend it training from morning to late afternoon in the gravity room or spar with Kakarot. Instead, he scrubs the house from top to bottom once he’s dropped Trunks off at school; washing the dishes in the sink, throwing out expired foodstuff, and decimating the dust bunnies with the vacuum. Once the last load of laundry is done, he rushes to get his son.

He would make Trunks clean his own room. If it was dirty or didn’t meet his expectations of cleanliness? Extra thirty minutes of training or doing one hundred push-ups would serve as his son’s punishment. He did not raise a lazy son, thank you.

He would be more moody than usual in your absence and not realize until Yamcha or another Z-Fighter pointed it out at a surprise cookout at Capsule Corp held on the fourth day. Vegeta would scowl silently and not say anything, even if he took up Mrs. Brief’s offer to take home any leftovers.

As much as he wanted to use the new Instant Transmission technique and bring you home immediately, his pride prevents from doing so. He is the Prince of Saiyans. He is not a weakling to where he cannot handle you being gone for an entire week.

(He does not take it well when you call him on the day before you are supposed to be back that you need to stay for another day to work on a report for the higher-ups. Trunks had to remind him to breathe and loosen his grip on the phone or he’d break the damned thing)

Expect Vegeta to act like a grumpy and super clingy cat as soon as you walk in the door. He will literally follow you into the bathroom because he does not want to be left alone like that again. Do not even think about denying Vegeta the opportunity to take a bath or shower with him because he will have a hissy fit.

Trunks will have to wait to cuddle with his mother. A prince’s needs come first after all~. 

Taglist: @uninhabitedsworld-18 @nasty-redrum @zvmbieb0y @boonsmoon @mythoswarrior-23 @jadeprouductions @hoodiepandaninja16 @jurikuran86 @vegeta-bananabluish @fanboilingwriter

[magicalqueennightmare]

Halloween with Bucky

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Nicknamed Belle)

You’re getting closer with Bucky and he spends Halloween with you and the Wilsons

You were fixing a display case in the general store you worked in, well general store was a little weird to call it. When you thought general store you thought the old ones like Paul and Darlene would’ve taken you kids to, not this big store you worked in but the prices were decent for local people and it had enough small time charm for tourists that it stayed busy year round which meant your paychecks were always decent.

You heard the door alarm chime followed by “Aunt Belle!” That was also a perk. It was within walking distance of the school.  You turned around with a smile to see Aj and Cass coming in the door. “Hey boys” they both smiled “Can we help?” you shrugged “Sure, go put your backpacks in the office then come on. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can lock up”

Between the three of you you had to display put up within half an hour.  You stepped back and grinned at them “Go grab some chips and a drink to last you both till supper. Not a big bag or your mom will kill me” “Yes ma’am” they both headed for the front of the store so you started doing everything you needed to close up for the day.

You pulled up to Sarah’s laughing as the boys sang along with the radio. You weren’t even sure what station they’d found but they enjoyed it so that was what mattered. “Hey look. I think Sam’s back” you spotted his car parked behind Sarah’s. 

“I think aunt Belle wants to see Bucky” Cass laughed and you gasped at him “What was that kid?” he grinned and hopped out of the jeep. You cut your eyes at Aj who shrugged and followed his brother. Those little shits were teasing you! They were just like Sam was when he was younger!

You climbed out the jeep and followed them inside. “Sarah! Where is your brother?” you asked as soon as you got inside the door and she laughed “If he’s my brother he’s made you mad. What did he do?” you felt your face warm “My nephews were saying aunt Belle just wanted to see Bucky” she grinned “I don’t know where they got that from” you shook your head “Not you too” she shrugged “Honey, it was kinda clear you were liking what you saw” you sighed “I’m gonna go start supper” she laughed “Ok. I’m gonna go finish laundry”

______________________

You had just finished the sauce when Sam walked in the backdoor. You turned towards him and a bubble popped in the pan, splashing the front of your shirt. “Christ!” you held it out from your skin but the entire front of your shirt was covered in the red sauce. He grinned “Bad day Belle?”

Your eyes narrowed “Samuel, you’ve got my nephews teasing me” he grinned “If I get you a clean shirt can we call a truce?” you looked down at the mess you were wearing and nodded “Yeah cause this is horrible” 

He disappeared into the laundry room and came back out carrying a black long sleeve shirt “Go change, I’ll finish the food. Bucky will be inside in a minute” your eyes widened and he grinned “Oh yeah, did I not mention that?”  you shook your head, snatched the shirt and headed for the hall bathroom.

____________________

You slipped your shirt over your head and slipped the shirt on Sam had given you. It didn’t look like one of his, it was a black henley. It was soft and comfortable so that was all that mattered. You washed the sauce out of your shirt and hung it over the towel rack to dry before heading back out.

You could hear Bucky talking to Sam in the kitchen and tried not to let a smile slip onto your face as you walked around the corner. “Sam, did you finish the food or are we stuck with pizza?” you asked and they both turned around. You noticed a smirk on Sam’s face but didn’t think much of it until Bucky’s eyes tracked across your form “Doll, is that my shirt?” 

Your face warmed as you looked from him to Sam “I um I got sauce on mine and Sam gave me a clean one, I didn’t know it was yours..I can go change again!” you’d never been more embarrassed and was considering making Sarah an only child and yourself an enemy of the united nations for taking out Captain America himself when Bucky shook his head “No, it looks good on you”

_____________________

Good was being mild. Bucky’s heart nearly stopped when you walked into the room wearing his shirt. You looked absolutely beautiful. “Keep it” he told you and the way you smiled at him? It made his heart start racing. No one ever smiled at him like that. “Are you sure?” he nodded because if you kept smiling at him like that he was fairly certain he’d give you just about anything he had.

___________________

At the end of the night after you’d helped to clean up the kitchen and the boys were in bed you told Sarah goodnight and headed out to your jeep. You grabbed Sam’s arm on the way out of the door and dragged him backwards out of it, much to Bucky and Sarah’s amusement.

Once it was just the two of you on the porch you raised an eyebrow “Spill it Cap” he grinned “It’s cute. My little Belle has a crush on her very own beast” you rolled your eyes “Lay off him, he’s not that bad” he shook his head “Aww. You’re adorable”

You shook your head “You’re horrible. Are you gonna be home for Halloween or is it just gonna be me, Sarah and the boys again?” He shrugged “I’m gonna try to be home. Depends on what happens” you nodded “Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow if you’re still here” “See you tomorrow if I’m still here” that was the perks of one of your best friends being Captain America, he could get called at any time and have to leave then and there. 

You walked down the steps and he called behind you “I’ll tell Bucky you said goodnight and give him your number. He’s learning how to text and can call” you threw him a look over your shoulder and he cracked up laughing. “Night Belle” “Night Sam”

You stood at the back of the truck, staring at the pallets. Your help had called out sick and you were going to be here all freaking day. At least it was a sunday so the store wasn’t open anyways. 

___________________

You were halfway through the truck when you heard Bucky’s voice “Belle?” you walked to the open door and saw him standing there and a smile slipped onto your face “Hey. I thought you and Sam were in France” he nodded “We got back about two hours ago. Sarah said you were still unloading” your eyebrows furrowed “Don’t you have an apartment in D.C?” 

He nodded “Yeah but I like it here better” you raised an eyebrow “Can’t say I blame you but Sarah’s couch can’t be that comfortable” he shrugged “I’ve slept in worse places” you shrugged “Well I still have a couple hours ahead of me” he motioned to the truck “Can I help?” You shook your head “Go rest. Super Soldier or not, you still need sleep”

He climbed up into the truck and stepped close enough to you that you had to crane your neck slightly to look up at him. He smiled slightly “Or I help you unload this truck in the next half hour or so and we can both have the rest of the day off” damn his eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue. You swallowed hard and nodded “Ok”

___________________

You were carrying the last box off the truck and lost your footing. You were certain you were going to end up in the E.R. with a fractured skull or worse but instead of landing on the concrete you landed in a set of strong arms, one metal, one flesh. Your eyes widened when you realized you were tucked against Bucky’s chest and not only had he saved you but he saved the stock also. 

You both froze, staring at each other. “Are you ok Belle?” he asked and you nodded “Thanks to you” he smiled “Super soldier reflexes” you nodded “Glad you were here or I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened to me” “Me neither” he whispered and you smiled “Not that I mind my current position but I need to get on my feet to finish putting this stuff away so we can leave” “Oh, sorry” he gently placed you on your feet, taking the box out of your hand. “I’m taking this, you concentrate on walking” you shook your head “I would be mad but considering you just saved me from looking like a cracked egg, I will let that one go” “Good, come on and lets get finished sweetheart” “Sweetheart huh? That’s a new one” you laughed and his cheeks turned a light pink. For someone as old as he was and as gorgeous as he was you could make him blush easily but then again not like the man had gotten a lot of chances to get compliments over the years, let alone anyone flirting with him.

 “So Sam said you like Halloween” he said as he followed you into the backdoor of the general store.  You nodded “I always have”  “We should um we should be here” he stammered and you cut your eyes at him “Wanna go with me, Sarah and the boys? There’s some stuff around town. Everyone is pretty chill for the most part and they’d give you breathing room if I back them off”

“You’d back off people you’ve known your entire life for me?” he asked in disbelief and you smiled “Of course. You’ve gone through a lot Bucky. You deserve to be comfortable” “Would I have to wear a costume?” he asked and you nodded “Oh yeah” he grimaced “I’m second guessing this” you laughed lightly “It would match me if that helps?” he stared at you for a minute then shrugged “Ok”

Sarah watched you with a smile. You were dressed in the yellow dress from beauty and the beast. You’d failed to mention to Bucky that the boys had picked your infamous costume from childhood for you to wear so he’d be as Beast or as a disneybound beast.

“Please tell me Sam isn’t gonna give him hell” you asked her and she shook her head “No because I told him I have a lumiere costume waiting in the wings for him if he wants to act up” you grinned “I love you” she laughed “Oh, I know you do” she helped you finished getting dressed. She was going as Megara from Hercules. The boys were going as Batman and Superman much to Sam’s horror.

You and Sarah walked out of the room where the guys were waiting. Sam had picked a genderbent disneybound costume, but the man rocked the Cruella Deville look. Bucky looked absolutely gorgeous. “Wow” he breathed and you felt your stomach flip “What ya think?” you asked, doing a little spin. A grin slipped onto his face “I’m thinking Belle suits you perfectly as a nickname” you felt your face warm “Well I must say you look amazing Mr Barnes”

He blushed slightly and Sam shook his head “You two are adorable but lets get going” you shot him a glare and he grinned before adding “Please” 

____________________

You were walking side by side with Bucky. Cass and Aj had run ahead with some friends from school, Sam and Sarah were talking with a couple guys that owned fishing boats as well. “Having fun or ready to clock out?” you asked and he shrugged “Actually it’s not too bad. The people here don’t judge” you nodded “I could’ve told you that”

Cass called you so without thinking you reached for Bucky’s left hand, your fingers lacing in with his metal ones. When he froze you realized what you’d done “Oh, I’m sorry” you went to pull your hand away and he shook his head “It’s fine Belle. Just surprised me, most people shy away from it”

You looked down where your hand was still holding his “It’s just your hand” you weren’t even pretending to be confused. You and him had talked a little. He mainly wanted to ensure you Wakanda had gotten the trigger words out of his brain. He wasn’t a danger. Why be afraid of a part of him? “It’s done a lot of damage” he reasoned and you shook your head “No, Bucky you’ve told me when you got this one. This one? Has only protected. This one is only you”

He smiled, tracing his metal thumb over the back of your hand and nodded slowly “You’re something else Belle” you smiled brightly “I try. Now, lets go see what Cass wanted” he grinned “I’ll follow you” and let you pull him behind you. 

____________________

When all of you got back to Sarah’s and you and her sat in the floor to go through the candy Bucky watched you two with a smile “I remember my ma doing that when we were kids” you laughed “Well I don’t have kids but I’ve been doing this for as long as Sarah has had her ankle biters”

“Aunt Belle!” they both called out and you laughed “But I love the ankle biters” they both shook their heads so Sarah told them to go change for bed. You tossed a reese's cup at Bucky and when he caught it, he raised an eyebrow so you explained “They were always one of my favorites so there's one for you”

Sam chuckled from the kitchen so you warned “I’ll hurt you” and that only made him laugh harder. Ok maybe you liked Bucky. Maybe he liked you too? Would either option hurt? You cut your eyes back up and when he smiled? God it was everything good in this world.

“Thanks Belle” he whispered and you nodded “Of course” and went back to sorting the candy in your lap.

@desimarie12

[sfmothdaddy]

Ghoap exchange!

Hello there friends, I had a lot of fun working on this little fluffy drabble... that sort of took on a life of its own. This gift is for @mortem-writes ! They had asked for something with freckle reverence. so please, enjoy (I did not beta this at all, honestly it kept getting longer and longer and work had me pulling doubles and 12hr shifts and... well, I decided to be an over achiever I suppose... *ahem* there is art.... but below the cut. Freckles Paring: Ghoap Rating: M Words:2025

Johnny was lounging back on the bed as Simon was in the shower. They had been together a while now, though what they had was so much softer than their work. Spending time together, cuddles, fumbles in the dark.. In all honesty, it felt a little like school age years all over again. 'Sept of course this time he was a grown man and so was his surprisingly shy partner. Ghost was forward and blunt about many things, but physical intimacy was not something that he had a lot of experience in, as well as relationships in general.

Like the word Boyfriend, it felt too juvenile for what they had and so Johnny just never used it. There was a strange almost unspoken rule that neither of them would use that word. Instead they opted for "mine" or "partner" as a much more... grown up version of the term. Something that Simon seemed to enjoy.

It had taken a while for Simon to open up to Johnny about some of the things he had survived, the things he had gone through... but even before he had ever spoken a word about it Johnny had told him that they would take whatever they wanted to call this at Simon's pace. Some of the things that he had learned made Soap want to commit murder, but Simon had assured him that there was no need for him to feel that way. If he happened to pop round Price's office to confirm that later was his business.

From the bits Simon had gifted him of his past, Johnny had learned that the lad had the bare minimum (if that) experience when it came to romance of any kind. Thus making it Johnny's personal mission to shower the man with as much romance as he had the opportunity to do so. Hence why he was sitting on the bed and waiting for the man himself to exit the bathroom so he could ask him how his little solo mission went. Currently Johnny was focused on the little sketch book in his hands, once more sketching the facade of a skull over a baklava.

So intensely he was focused on his art, that he had barely noticed when Simon had stepped up beside him, towel wrapped around his waist and another drying his hair. "What are you working on?" That manc accent he had become so accustomed to jolted him from his shading.

"Oh jus' some-" The words died in his throat as his eyes zeroed in on just how much skin Simon had exposed, though to be fair his eyes never left the man's chest. Most of their time together in close quarters was in the dark, neither one of them feeling up to turning on lights when they both were accustomed navigating the dark. However, now, there was so much skin on display it was like a feast for his eyes. The scars that dotted Simon's skin were a testament to the horrors he survived, the tattoos that speckled around giving vivid splashes to the pale flesh, but what really got him were the freckles. The man was littered with them, like a veritable milky way of adorable little spots across his skin.

"...Johnny?" There was a bit of something in Simon's tone that had the man quickly looking up and into those dazzling brown eyes Johnny liked so much.

"Ye- fucking bonnie bastard." There was awe in his tone as he carelessly tossed his little sketchbook onto the floor and stood to bring himself closer to the man in front of him. Simon blinked, clearly confused, the towel he had been drying his hair with limply falling to his side. "Ye dinnae tell me ye had spots! Ye see me drawin ye all the time! I'd imagined, I suppose, but... yer fucking breathtaking, ye ken?" His words ghosted over the man's skin and he could see gooseflesh appear on the mans arms. "Steaming Jesus, Simon ye have no idea what ye do to me...." Blue eyes traced across the skin of Simon's slightly crooked nose and down to his chest, all the wile noting freckle after countless freckle.

"Are you freaking out over... my freckles? All I did was spend too much time in the sun-" "Donnae do tha, no. Ye are bonnie, and braw and ye will take the compliment ye bawbag. Me mam used tae say tha freckles were angel kisses." Simon scoffed, but he seemed to relax a little. "Come on, let me look at ye a little more, no every day ye let me see this much skin all at once." "Maybe, you could return the favor?" Simon's eye brow raised as he turned and grabbed a pair of boxers and slid them on under the towel before running the towel once more across his chest and catching the few water drops that he had missed and sitting on the opposite side of the bed than Johnny had been sitting on.

Johnny thought his brain had rebooted there for a moment as he spotted the freckles across the mans back, he could not wait to pull out a fresh sketchbook later... "oh now ye've done it...."

[lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me]

hai bby! hru?

so idk if this is going to make sense but i've had this thought on my mind for a while and i wanted to request something if it's not too much to ask for.

so like, rich sunghoon who's very protective of y/n and is cold to everyone but y/n and their rich kid friend group. and rich y/n who even tho is rich, is still very kind and caring. they're both in school (college or high school) and they're like the "rich and popular" kids. so basically, y/n's super innocent and sweet and hoon is trynna figure out how to confess? can be angsty with fluff? and you can decide whether it's written or a smau.

i'm so sorry if this makes no sense 😓 and if you can't do it, that's totally fine too. hope you're well love!

-⭐

youre not for sale (request) ☘︎ park sunghoon

warnings: fluff, comfort, angst, mutual yearning, reader being a bit blind, i think thats all!! if there's anything else let me know!!

park sunghoon was in love with y/n l/n. that was a fact no one could deny. It was obvious to everyone. Well, everyone except one person. y/n. He was constantly buying them things, from flowers to expensive jewelry. but to y/n, he was just “being a really good friend”. to sunghoon, they were the kindest, sweetest, ad most attractive person he had ever met in his whole life. that brings us to now. sunghoon has been with jake all day, coming up with a speech to tell y/n he likes, scratch that, is in love with them. “what the actual fuck do i say to them man? ‘hey y/n i know were super close and all, oh by the way, i'm in love with you’? hell no. shes just- sweet, and, i dont wanna say fragile. but shes innocent. i dont wanna hurt her or confuse her.” so far, its going…not so great. “i really don't know what to tell you bro. you just need to grow a pair and tell her.” sunghoon gives him a glare, “easy for you to say, you got your girlfriend by just being pathetic and following her around like a puppy”. “OH FUCK YOU MAN” safe to say, jake didnt take too well to his jab. sunghoon felt like drowning in self-pity. his friends were no help, and with each passing day he fell for y/n more and more with no idea how he should confess to them. especially when everyone around them knew all of their business. y/n on the other hand, could not have been more oblivious. “i’m telling you noo, he does not like me like that”, they say. oh how wrong they were. sunoo looks at them as if they were insane, “are you serious right now y/n? that guy looks at you as if you created all things good in the world! i’m serious!”. in that moment, he thought they could never be more dense. 

a week went by of sunghoon helplessly wondering, crying for help to his friends, and buying flowers for y/n that reminded him of them. he sees y/n walking to their class and runs up to them. “y/n! Hey! um- do you wanna hang out later? Maybe like grab some lunch or get boba or something” he asks, desperately hoping that they say yes. “oh my god yes! i’ve been craving boba like crazy!” for a moment, sunghoon truly believed there was something in the universe on his side. he spent the next 3 hours trying to think up someway to confess. flowers? the ring they've been talking about wanting? unlimited trips to their favorite restaurant? he needed to come up with something, and fast.

the pair somehow end up back at y/n’s dorm, playing video games. sunghoon had just beat y/n at mario kart *again*, and y/n decided they needed a break. “god, how do you win every time?’ they grumble while walking to the kitchen. sunghoon replied before even giving a second

thought, “i’m just that good baby”. y/n had never turned around so fast in their life, “what?”. He froze, nothing coming out of his mouth, eventually, it all just started coming out before he could save himself. “i love you. you’re so amazing, and kind, and pretty. i don't even think i deserve you but i really hope you’ll give me a chance! i’ve been trying to figure out how to confess to you for so long and this really isn’t how i planned it but this is how its happening. you just make me so nervous but in a really good way and i just really hope you feel the same or you hear me out and at least let me take you out on one date.” he stops speaking abruptly as it all just happened so fast. silence filled the once loud room that was overflowing with their laughter. “sunghoon…” they trail off, “you really feel that way?” he doesn't respond and simply stares down at his feet in embarrassment and defeat. “i’m gonna go, i'll see you around.” he abruptly stands up and leaves with y/n protesting behind him and telling him to stay. he beat himself up the whole night, this isn't how he wanted it to go, not at all. he couldn't believe he let himself word vomit like that! he just blew it with the person of his dreams, he could never tell his friends about this. they’d definitely use it against him for life, and he can’t bear the thought of reliving his worst heartbreak.

y/n wasn’t completely sure what to do, or how to handle this. sunghoon liked them? there's no way. he’s handsome and kind, he's perfect. and he seriously likes them? as she runs through every possible scenario of how this situation ends in her head, she impulsively decides to go to his dorm. she hesitated before knocking on his door. sunghoon opened the door, to see, to his shock, y/n. “i really really like you too and i’ve never known how to tell you and when you just said everything to me i froze because i didn't know what to say! you're the most amazing guy sunghoon and i want this to work out. so please just tell me if you want to make this work too.” he stood in the doorway, his mouth parted in shock. he spoke quietly after a moment, “you really mean it?” y/n looks at him incredulously “are you kidding? of course i mean it!” sunghoon swore he felt his heart stop for a solid 5 seconds. “i thought i lost you for good, oh my god!” he sighs in relief. “you could never lose me don't be stupid.” he gives them a glare before wrapping his arms around them, not caring who in the hall saw. “does this mean i can take you on a date now?” he asked softly. “i mean obviously”

masterlist

luckys note!: guys lets pretend it didnt take me 6 months to write this... um anyways ENJOY!!!

© lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me, 2025. do not copy, translate or upload any of my works without my permission.

(📍) PERM TAGLIST IS OPEN!

@ivyannemarie @bluuepiphany @greentulip

(🎀) ANON/EMOJI LIST IS OPEN!

⭐️

dm me or send an ask to be added to either!

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: another deal. another oath

tw: grief

Marco got you sick. 

Building pressure throbs between your eyes, ravaging your sinuses with tightly packed snot. It moves to your throat until you’re constantly hacking up phlegm and the pressure in your ears swells so viciously that you can hardly hear anyone over the idle chatter in the restaurant. Of course, there is no evidence to prove that it was Marco himself who got you sick. There are countless people who flood through the doors of Sapori with empty stomachs and noses running from the bitter, humid cold of London. Anyone could have gotten you sick. 

Yet, over the last week, no one has gotten as close to you as he did. Fingers digging into your arm. Legs pinning yours to the bench. Gentle hand—the hand of a killer, his hand, that brutal fucking hand—caressing the side of your face, holding you hostage. Taking, and taking, and taking—tongue shoving past your teeth—

Blurry eyes glance away from the assaulting brightness of your phone screen. Sapori is quiet; it always is this early. Early for late night dining, anyway. Half past ten, you’ve spent most of the morning cleaning every single corner of that building. It’s how you rationalize spending more hours at work even without customers—you have to keep your hands busy and cash flowing. Except, after a while, you got too dizzy to continue, so you’ve taken refuge at a lonely table. The dust and carcinogens you’ve inhaled haven’t done anything to ease your symptoms, but you can’t afford to stay idle. There are numbers to be crunched, cash to be earned, and debts to be paid. 

Which brings you back to your phone. 

Having only graduated school without any sort of higher education, your options for jobs are limited, but working one job isn’t cutting it anymore. You can either pick up more hours like you have been doing this past work, or attempt to find a job that will pay slightly more to help cover the difference in what you now owe Marco every month. You’ve been staring at hourly wages for so long you feel your eyes begin to cross, and you don’t exactly like what you’re seeing. An early morning librarian job for £10.44, coffee shop barista for £9… nothing salary. Nothing that will save you. 

“Job hunting?” 

The ache and throbbing in your ears suffocates your senses so viciously that you didn’t hear Bruce’s footsteps approach. Jumping, you stare up at him like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Nothing like looking at other job postings with your boss staring over your shoulder. The embarrassment is enough to open up a black hole in your stomach where it consumes your organs bit by bit until you’re liquified. Your phone screen goes black, and you choke out a sheepish smile through the snot leaking into the back of your throat. 

“Just for a second job. Part-time,” you explain. Your voice sounds louder than his—ears too clogged to properly receive soundwaves. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving any time soon.” 

Bruce’s mellifluous laugh is the first thing that’s warmed your soul all week. It’s contagious. He’s always been a jovial man—you’ve heard a few of the cooks call him The Italian Santa Claus because of his rosy cheeks and round stomach. The smallest of smiles flitters across your lips as he carefully takes the seat across from you with a large bowl in his hands. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t be upset if you left. Sad, yes, but everyone finds their way out of here eventually,” Bruce assures. His accent is odd. Immigrating from Italy at a young age, his vernacular is a mash of proper English, Italian, and what you’re guessing is Italian-American slang. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been able to gather from the movies, anyway. “You’re a hard worker. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” 

A wave of tears build up behind your eyes at his words, and they’re held back by a flimsy, half formed dam. Your emotions have been strewn about in your brain all week—cluttered, sticking halfway out of folders and filing cabinets. It’s hard to shove them back when you can hardly shut the drawers. 

“Here,” he continues as he pushes the bowl toward you. The hard lines of his face soften as he watches you curiously peer at the contents. Tiny bits of pasta shaped like stars swirl around in some sort of thickened broth. “Pastina. Good for your health. You sound sick. Eat up and go home.” 

Your hand is hardly gripping the spoon when he says that, and it nearly slips out of your grasp to clatter back into the bowl. Mouth half open, you stare at Bruce with wide eyes. There’s not a single hint of maliciousness on his face—his eyes twinkle bright as he runs a hand over his balding head. Though he appears happy—proud of himself, even—you feel nothing of the sort. 

“I can’t go home,” you try to argue, but he quickly cuts you off with a wave of his hand. 

“You’re sick, and you’ve been working too much. You’ve worked more hours than I can legally give you this week, and though I don’t mind paying you under the table, it’s not exactly good for either of us. Rest, before you really make yourself sick,” he dismisses. 

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to fruitlessly hide the tremor in your voice. “But I… I really need the money.” 

It’s all you can think about. Money. Numbers This vicious counting game. How you’re going to cough up the extra cash for Marco and still have enough to feed yourself. To do anything. To live. Or worse—what happens to you if you can’t make enough? How many more times is he going to change your payments based on stupid mistakes that aren’t your fault?

Waving your words off again, Bruce stands to his feet, hands pressing flat against the swell of his stomach as he does so. “I’ll give you a raise, then.” 

Jarred, the side of your spoon taps against the edge of the bowl as you follow him with your eyes. “A raise?” 

“Sixteen,” he replies. “Should be enough. I’m tired of you working so many hours. You need to go out and be a kid before you get old and useless like me, yeah? Pick up a hobby. Hang out with that guy Bianca won’t stop talking about. He seems nice, hm? I just want you to be happy, kid. Now, eat up. You’ll feel better.” 

Bruce vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with a bowl of pastina and your thoughts. It’s good that he did, because if you tried to thank him for such a gracious gesture, you’d certainly crumble. Perhaps he knew that, too. 

In a poor attempt to save yourself from crying in public, you quickly turn your attention to the food Bruce lovingly whipped up for you. Steam wafts and twirls upwards, hitting your face in a fine mist. Its flavor is difficult to discern with how congested you are, but the rich texture is enough to satiate the hole in your stomach. It always seems ever growing these days. A barren cavern; a void that wants to swallow you from the inside out. Not ravenous, just gutting. 

Maybe one day it will fill itself up again. 

For now, it grows. Slowly. Insidiously. Taking bits of you and shredding them into ribbons. They trail behind you, fluttering in the wind as you walk up the steps to your flat where they then roll down the stairs. It would look beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that it was you. You, with quiescent feet trudging through the door. You, with the fatigued body that can hardly dress herself into pajamas. You, who curls into bed, a motherless child—a creature waiting to vanish. 

Too broke to afford cold medicine to aid you with your congestion, it takes time before you can finally fall asleep. When you do, it grips you like a vice, pinning you down, spoon feeding you dreams you haven’t been able to see with the hours you’ve been pulling at work. They’re heavy, holding your head under water, threatening to suffocate you; you can do nothing but watch. 

You dream of your mother. 

She’s folding your school uniform in the laundromat—the very same one you use as common ground to meet up with Marco. Washers swish water in their drums as dryer alarms chime the end of their cycle in terrible cacophony. Pristine white blouses become ruined with burgundy—her hands are soiled. Covered with blood. She folds, and you sit and watch her, hands tangled in string, fingers unable to move. Each fold is done with purpose. Crisp. Effortless. Blouses, skirts, and ties stack up taller than her on the table, threatening to scrape the ceiling above. 

“Throw them away,” you say, voice weak. 

She does not look at you. 

“They’re ruined. Throw them away,” you say. 

She does not look at you. 

“Did I ruin them?” she asks. 

You blink. The string around your fingers tightens. You feel them turn cold as ice. Lack of blood. Festering wounds. Irritated nail beds. An extension of the sins trapped inside of you. 

“It wasn’t you,” you murmur. 

Finally, she looks at you and you flinch. 

“Who was it?” 

Fibers snap, and the string falls free from your hands. Fluttering and dainty; it lays on the floor in generous spirals. There’s so much blood on her shirt. An artistic splatter of violence. You can’t look away. 

“You already know,” you choke out. 

She smiles. A toothy grin. Teeth perfect and whole, lips curling, but it’s not real. Her eyes are cloudy—her eyes are dead. Her smile is dead. Your mother is dead. Cold skin, colder gaze, coagulated blood on linoleum. Rotting. You still smell it: stale blood, cologne, and mint. It follows you everywhere. 

He follows you everywhere. 

Your phone is under your pillow, and someone is calling you. Vibrations rattle through the cotton filling, yanking you out of your dream like you’re being pulled out from under water. For a moment, you think you’re home. Really home. Yet, the room is too cold, and you are too alone. Blinking the sand from your eyes, you shove your hand between the comforter and mattress to yank your phone from underneath your head. The screen flashes. 

Incoming Call from Captain Jack Sparrow

You hit accept and bring the speaker up to your right ear. “Hello?”

“Chip!” Aelin’s voice purrs on the other end. “What are you up to?” 

“Uh…” You pause as you turn to lay on your back, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling. You forgot to turn the heat back on when you got home, and you swear you can almost see your breath. “...relaxing.” 

“That’s a first. Hey, I’m stuck at Terminus, and I’m bored. John wanted to have a quiet evening together but got caught up with some work stuff. Wanna get dinner or something?” she asks. 

You sniff, and the pressure behind your eyes and ears nearly doubles. “I… don’t think I’m feeling up to that tonight. Sorry.” 

“Oh wow,” Aelin gawks. Her voice drips with concern, and you hear shuffling on her end. “Are you sick? You sound very… congested.” 

“Yeah, I got sent home from work. Must’ve caught a bug from… somewhere.” 

Aelin says something in response, but you can’t hear it. There’s nothing but ringing as you force yourself to sit up and hack up snotty phlegm, trying not to choke on it as it comes up. Acidulous liquid coats your tongue, and you wince. Vile. Why can’t you ever have anything that tastes sweet? Something easier to stomach than an unwanted tongue or blood? 

“Chip?”

Her voice brings you back to the present—back to your cold apartment with frigid sheets and your pounding headache. There’s no reason for your tears, yet they plague you anyway. Maybe it’s from your cold. Maybe it’s because you dreamed of your mom. Or maybe it’s just because you’re sad, and you have been for a while. You’re just not able to hold it back anymore. 

“Do you wanna spend the night with John and I?’ Aelin finishes. 

Lips curling inward, you try your best to hold back a sob. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

“Lovely. Riley’s driving. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

An attempt is made at making yourself look somewhat presentable, but it’s hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling. Nothing can cure you of the red irritation plaguing your scleras, nor the constant sniffing from congestion. You make do with fresh clothes and a washed face before shoving a few necessities in an overnight bag. Simple. Small. Something that won’t take up much space. 

When Aelin arrives, it’s a very unceremonious occasion. There’s gentle greetings. A pitiful look. There is no mention of how cold it is, or how the place looks sparsely lived in. She’s beautiful in her peacoat with pristine curled hair and flawless makeup. Perfect for a quaint dinner with a friend. Her viridian eyes look at you with a pity that’s nearly palpable. You feel bad for being sick—she seemed so thrilled to eat with you. 

Simon waits for both of you in front of the building in a sleek, black car that you’re surprised he can fit into. It’s terribly appropriate for him; something that would look perfect hidden in Terminus’s car park. Yet now it’s being used to transport you—a pathetic, ill woman—to her friend’s house as if you’re nothing more than a child. 

It isn’t until you find your seat in the back that you realize just how long you slept for. Dusk pulls its cimmerian shadow over the sky, obscuring the streets in the pale yellow glow of streetlights as Simon pulls into traffic. You got home around noon. Nearly a whole day wasted with sleep. 

Little is said between the three of you as you struggle to stay conscious. The consistent gentle hum of the car’s engine is better than any lullaby that you can recall. A siren’s song. A loving hand on your back. Head bobbing and swaying with the turns of the road, you listen to whatever Simon has droning on the radio; some sort of rock station that plays so quietly you almost can’t hear it at all. Every now and then, you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at you like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep watch over you. 

It seems he’s still taking Aelin’s request to heart. 

As the car approaches the house, Aelin digs into her purse where she quickly shuffles through a small, periwinkle wallet. She fishes out some cash before handing it to Simon as he parks. 

“Here,” she whispers, quiet enough that your poor hearing can’t catch. “Get her some medicine, please.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters in reply. 

Before you know it, you’re tucked into a quiet guest room on the second floor of the house. Heat radiates from the baseboards, yet your muscles tense and ache in a shiver. To combat this, Aelin has found every spare blanket and duvet she can find and has tossed them on top of you until you are nothing more than a heaping pile of laundry. At first, she had recommended throwing them in the dryer to help warm them up further, but you rejected it. 

You hate making her go through so much unnecessary effort on your behalf. 

Still, she refuses to leave you as you curl into a ball, face pressed against her side as she sits on top of the covers next to you. Aelin always smells lovely. Fresh rosewater and lavender. You’re enveloped by her scent like it’s a warm hug as she rubs a hand along your back, but it’s muted. The considerable amount of blankets only allows you to feel the ghost of her touch. 

“How long has this been going on?” she asks tenderly. 

You shrug. “Day before yesterday, I think.” 

She pouts with a huff, hand ceasing its movement as she silently chastises you. “And you were still trying to work?”

“I have to,” you mumble against her. 

A terrible quiescence soaks the room. Everything hurts, and you want to rest, but you know that won’t come soon. Not when Aelin’s concern is eating her alive—a vicious plague ripping through her heart. You can hear the beasts feasting on her marrow even now. 

“Well, I brought an old friend to come visit,” Aelin grins. Before you can gather the strength to ask her what she’s talking about, she pulls something out from underneath the covers to set it in front of you. “Tada!” 

An old, well loved stuffed animal sits before you with lopsided eyes and a faded smile. Once vibrant, crimson fur has now faded into an off-tone auburn, but the resemblance of a fox is still unmistakable. 

“I thought I told you to get rid of that,” you mutter. 

“I can’t get rid of her! You used to love Pumpkin,” Aelin says as if offended. 

For a long moment, you stare at your old stuffed animal and relive the memories that soak it. It was a gift from your father when you were a child—something you used to hold close with you every night, even after his death. Even after you went to live with John and Aelin after graduation. You don’t know why, but one day you decided that you couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. You’re not sure if it’s because it was gifted to you by your father—the man you’ve tried so hard to continue loving despite his flaws—or because sweet Pumpkin had become so tainted with you that you figured you should take pity on the poor thing. 

When you don’t respond, Aelin sighs and sets the stuffed fox on the nightstand. “Alright, fine. She’ll sit right here for when you’re ready.” There’s a short pause that stretches between the two of you, but it doesn’t last long before Aelin decides that the silence is driving her mad. “I’ve heard you and Riley have been getting close,” she prompts like she’s about to spill the daily gossip. A change in subject. A way to ease you into what she really wants to talk about. “Visiting him at the club, then?”

The club. Andrei. Spilled pasta in an alleyway. Your unfortunate run in with Marco made you forget all about how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The blade of Andrei’s knife glints just as brightly in your mind now as it did that night, and you cover your urge to puke with a well timed cough. You wish she wouldn’t bring it up, but it’s a good sign. 

It means Simon was true to his word. 

“Just to deliver food. He kept fixing stuff at my apartment. Had to pay him back,” you explain like a broken record. 

Lips stretch over ivory teeth as Aelin shifts next to you. “Is that so? Sounds like he fancies you.” 

“Or maybe he’s just doing the job that you assigned him to do,” you reply bluntly. 

Aelin doesn’t tense at your insinuation, but she does sigh as she settles back against the headboard. “Thought he was better at keeping secrets than that.” 

“He didn’t tell me, I figured it out on my own,” you claim, stuffy voice unable to land the plosives of your consonants. 

She chuckles amicably as she looks down at you. Eyes closed, you’re nearly asleep, and you would have been if it weren’t for her conversation. 

“Well, you were always the smart one. Still, I won’t retract my statement. Riley’s had a lot of… partners, but he never lingers around anyone like he does with you,” she insists. “He’s a good man, really. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself.” 

“Can’t entertain that,” you say. There’s a sour stoicness to your tone; too tired to be annoyed yet yearning for silence. “I’ve got work.” 

Another stillness—a suffocating one. Aelin’s smile has long since vanished as her lips press together tartly. There you go, talking about work again. Like you can’t stand to do anything else. Like you’ll die without the money. 

“Chip… you know that if you need help, you can always ask, right?” she prods carefully. “Anything. I mean it. John and I… we’re here for you.” 

Help. you think of that word, and a sour cordolium rips through your chest. Asking for such a thing from someone is out of the question. You made that deal with yourself ages ago. 

“I don’t… I don’t need help. I just… miss my mum.” 

You feel the moment when the room freezes. It’s when Aelin looks down at you, doleness unleashed in her gaze. Bringing up your late mother was a mistake, but she’s all you can think about after that dream. You wonder if you’ll ever have a normal dream of her again—fresh, normal, and void of all blood. A dream where she smiles and it’s not dead. 

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say. 

“Me too.” 

When Simon returns, you’re fast asleep. Aelin can hear the sound of his boots on the floor from a mile away; purposefully making his existence known as he opens the door to the only room with the light on. His eyes are drawn to you, body curling into Aelin like you’ll fall through the bed without her. He approaches the bed and holds out the bag for her to take, and the very first thing she finds is every bit of cash she had given him to buy the items in the first place. 

Instead of chastising him, she rummages through the rest of the items. NyQuil, Sudafed, Vicks, various soups and electrolyte drinks. It’s a variable feast to fight off your cold. Aelin looks up to poke fun at the man—at this raging chink in his armor—but she loses all words when she sees the way his hand presses against your forehead. Careful fingers gently brush against a faint scar by your temple as he feels the heat radiating from your body. He watches you with gentle devotion as your shoulders rise and fall with your breaths, congestion causing you to quietly snore. You do not stir awake, but she witnesses the way your brows furrow when he pulls away. 

“She’s got a bad fever,” he concludes quietly. “She looks exhausted. Dehydrated.” 

“Yeah. She’s been overworking herself too much. Hasn’t been resting or healing like she should,” Aelin concurs. 

Fragile silence breaks as you breathe, airways too clogged for you to sleep peacefully. Simon and Aelin stare down at you for a moment, each of them considering the circumstance. Her lips press tightly together in thought before she carefully slides away from you, leaving your coiled form. She sets the bag of medicine and supplies on the foot of the bed before facing Simon with crossed arms. 

“Can I talk to you before you leave?” she requests. 

Simon answers her with a curt nod before they exit the room with the lights off and the door shutting tight behind them. Aelin’s heart pounds away in her chest as it fights against the tightness of her ribs. It’s an ever constricting cage. Relentless. Vile. She ensures that she’s not facing Simon as they traverse down the stairs. 

“Chip is… really scaring me,” Aelin breathes, and she feels her voice crack nearly as bad as her heart as her feet hit the landing. “I’m more than a little concerned or worried now she… she’s always been something of a workaholic, but this is different. It feels like she’s trying to run away from something and she’s just—I don’t know—keeping something buried inside of her. Pushing away any help anyone tries to offer her. I’m… scared she might hurt herself.” 

“Hurt herself?” Simon repeats in disbelief. “Has she done anythin’ like that before?” 

“No. Not that I know of. It’s just…” 

The words die as Aelin’s lips press tightly together once again, and she finally forces herself to look at Simon. He’s nothing but a stone—this immoveable being who won’t be swayed by anything physically or emotionally. She steadies her breath as she wills away the tears welling in her eyes. 

“I’m going to tell you this because I trust you,” she says, gaze attempting to harden. It’s a silent vow. A demand that he not repeat any of the words she’s about to speak. 

“Of course,” Simon nods. 

Aelin swallows the guilt in the back of her throat. 

“Chip’s parents are dead. They have been for a while. First it was her dad, and then her mum. My dad was the Chief Inspector working the cases of their deaths. It wasn’t… from natural causes. She holds a lot of guilt and she gets in a bad headspace over it, and I think that’s a bit of what’s happening and… it’s worse than I’ve ever seen it before. This time of year is always hard for her considering the anniversaries of their deaths, and I don’t know if it just seems worse because she’s sick right now but… fuck, Simon. The way she talked about her mum just earlier, I swear I nearly broke.” 

Crisp eyeliner marks the edges of her eyes, yet it smudges as Aelin banishes the tears from her vision with the tips of her fingers. Still as ever, Simon watches carefully and without judgement as she gathers herself in order to finish. 

“She needs to talk to someone about it, but I don’t think she wants it to be me. There are many things I think she would share, but there’s no way she’d give me the whole story,” she concludes. 

Confusion clouds Simon’s stern gaze, and he shifts on his feet. “What, you’re thinkin’ she’ll tell me and not you?” 

“Yes.” Her reply is speedy and sharp; a warning. No one knows you better than her. “She carries guilt for a lot of stuff. For… There’s just some things I know she won’t want to tell me. Things she can’t tell me because it’s… well, me.” 

Something is off—Simon can smell the stench of it from a mile away. He knows better than to question Aelin, and she seems very convinced that this is the true issue at hand, but there’s an uncomfortable trepidation that hangs somewhere in the balance of it all. A picture half developed. The brittle edge of a cliff. It’s the same feeling that afflicted him the night he fought Andrei in the alleyway—a deja vu that screams trouble if he even attempts to entertain it. 

“Please,” Aelin begs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy, I just don’t want her to be alone. Swear to me you won’t let her be alone through this. Simon, I’m not strong enough to cut through her walls but the thought of… the thought of her like this kills me.” 

Another deal. Another oath. Simon has always been a protector, in some way. A tool which one uses to bludgeon. He doesn’t know if he can be gentle. He knows he’s certainly not palatable. But he thinks of your sleeping form in the VIP room after the tussle with Andrei, and the heat of your fever against his hand, and he thinks he’d at least like to try. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her. 

Nodding, Aelin attempts to strengthen her resolve with a deep breath. Frayed nerves still poke out of her skin, completely wired with worry. It sparks and fizzles, yet she still glances back up the stairs, as if she can feel the aura of exhaustion seeping out of the bedroom. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper as she looks back at him. “Truly, I appreciate it.” 

“Can’t do everythin’ on your own,” he says. 

She scoffs playfully. “Tell that to Chip.” 

Once the front door locks shut behind Simon and the house is still and quiet, Aelin sneaks back upstairs. You’re hardly conscious when she gently urges you awake to press cough syrup to your lips, but you don’t complain. You never complain—not when there’s bitter liquid on your tongue; never when you should. Silent. Pliable. Once you’ve swallowed every last drop, you collapse back into bed, body weak and overheated; slick with sweat. 

She knows she should leave once your snoring starts back up again, but she can’t. There’s something to relish in how peaceful you are in this moment. Not working yourself to death. Not running from the grief that’s been strangling you since you were a child. For a moment, as you lay there in bed, Aelin gets to see you as you were when you were a kid. 

As she stands at the foot of the bed, she recalls the first time she ever met you—both clad in black and unable to look at one another without timid smiles and tear filled eyes. Aelin was the one who had to break the silence. To introduce herself as the daughter of Sean Gilroy; the man who sat in that coffin so adorned with flowers and love. You’ve grown so much since then. A fine woman who should be proud of herself. She wants to shake you awake. Yank you out of your sleep and scream at you that there’s nothing to be forgiven—nothing to punish yourself over. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, she turns around and leaves, ensuring that the electrolyte drink Simon bought is on the pillow next to your for when you wake up in the morning.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[umlewis]

How Lewis Hamilton Finally Got His Ferrari Red

On Valentine’s Day, Lewis Hamilton enters a sprawling studio space in northwest London and intently stares at the magnificent creature standing off in the distance.

“Sh-t,” says Hamilton to no one in particular. “I’m nervous.”

Soon enough, however, the seven-time Formula One world champion overcomes his anxiety and is standing face-to-face with a shiny black stallion named Aroma. He pets his nose, massages his neck, generally spreads his hands all over Aroma’s thick coat. He is doing his allergies, the source of his initial fear, no favors. But Hamilton, a literal knight, is enamored, peppering the horse master with questions. Where’s Aroma from? (Portugal.) Can he sleep lying down? (Yes.) How much does he weigh? (About 1,300 lb. Only a few hundred less than Hamilton’s race car.)

He’s throwing health caution to the wind in order to commemorate his much ballyhooed move from Mercedes, where he won six of his seven F1 driver titles, to the venerated Scuderia Ferrari HP race team: a photo of himself positioned in front of an actual black horse standing on his hind legs, mimicking the Italian automaker’s famous logo. Like Hamilton, Aroma—who is retired but still does the occasional photo shoot—has an impressive resume, including appearances in Robin Hood and Maleficent, ads for Hermès and Burberry, and a Dua Lipa video; he is joined by Theo, a stunt horse you might recognize from Bridgerton, among other things. “This is going to be such an iconic picture,” says Hamilton while trying on outfits for the shoot. “Super timeless.”

That depends, of course, on what comes after. At 40, Hamilton is aiming to not only win a record eighth F1 driver title—cementing his status as the greatest F1 driver to ever live and ending the longest-ever championship drought for the most storied race team on the planet—but also fulfill a lifelong dream. His move to Ferrari, announced before the 2024 season, was shocking worldwide front-page news: he had suited up for Mercedes for more than a decade, helped build a more diverse workforce there, and hoped to someday acquire an ownership stake in the team. It seemed he would ride into the sunset with the Silver Arrows.

Hamilton had other ideas. “You can’t stand still for too long,” Hamilton tells TIME, in his first in-depth interview about his decision to leave Mercedes for Ferrari. “I needed to throw myself into something uncomfortable again. Honestly, I thought all my firsts were done. Your first car, your first crash, your first date, first day of school. The excitement I got by the idea of, ‘This is my first time in the red suit, the first time in the Ferrari.’ Wow. Honestly, I’ve never been so excited.”

During the 2024 F1 season, Hamilton, out of respect for Mercedes—with whom he was still under contract and racing—didn’t talk much about the switch. The situation was awkward and unprecedented. (Picture LeBron James suiting up for the Los Angeles Lakers knowing he’d be playing the following year for a rival, like the Boston Celtics. Exactly. It would never happen.) All sides appear to have handled it as professionally as possible: Hamilton ended a 945-day losing streak by winning his hometown race, at Silverstone in Britain, in July before winning again in Belgium three weeks later. Meanwhile Carlos Sainz, the Ferrari driver whom Hamilton is replacing this year, helped Scuderia finish second in the constructor, or team, standings, just a few points behind 2024 champion McLaren.

Hamilton’s road to the title record won’t be easy. Some critics have questioned Ferrari’s strategy of signing an aging driver, whose best days could very well be in the rearview. They’ve wondered whether Ferrari’s more interested in marketing than winning—Hamilton is still F1’s most popular driver, by a mile, as well as an internationally known cultural figure with a hand in fashion, film, and business. (He’s co-chairing the Met Gala in May alongside Colman Domingo, Pharrell Williams, A$AP Rocky, and Anna Wintour; LeBron James is honorary chair.) Plus, a slew of younger drivers like reigning four-time champion Red Bull’s Max Verstappen, 27; McLaren’s Lando Norris, 25; and Hamilton’s new Ferrari teammate, Charles LeClerc, 27, could keep him off the top of the podium.

“The old man is a state of mind,” says Hamilton. “Of course your body ages. But I’m never going to be an old man.”

The 2025 F1 campaign, which kicks off in Australia on March 16, comes laced with intrigue. Hamilton sits at the epicenter. Ferrari is religion in Italy; when the team wins an F1 race, the bells of the Church of St. Blaise in Maranello, the small city near Bologna that houses Ferrari headquarters, ring in celebration. So Hamilton’s quest to end Ferrari’s agony, while breaking the individual title record set by Michael Schumacher—who won five straight titles with Ferrari from 2000 to 2004—will be appointment theater. Meanwhile, Hamilton is co-producing, along with Jerry Bruckheimer and others, an F1 movie, aptly called F1, that is almost literally a Brad Pitt vehicle. The film, which comes out in June, plus a competitive race for the championship, could deliver a jolt to the sport’s popularity, especially in the U.S., where F1 has boomed but flattened out a bit, given Verstappen’s predictable dominance.

A Hamilton championship in red, in the twilight of his racing life, would be nothing less than one of the greatest mic-drop moments in sports history. “I don’t know if I can find an adjective to describe that,” says American racing legend Mario Andretti, the 1978 F1 champion who raced for Ferrari in the early ’70s. “Nothing is missing in his career. But oh man, how better can you describe your career after that? Oh my God, he’d be the king of all kings.”

Two weeks before the stallion photo shoot, Hamilton is striking golf balls into a simulator at an indoor club on the banks of the Thames. (He has a pronounced slice.) He doesn’t golf much these days, but Hamilton being Hamilton—a man who has taken full advantage of this sport’s jet-setting ways to become one of the world’s most prominent collectors of influential people—he last played a round with actor Tom Holland, a.k.a. Spider-Man. His other golf partners have included Samuel L. Jackson and Kelly Slater, the surfing GOAT. He was once supposed to play with another GOAT, Michael Jordan, but when Hamilton got to the course, he says, Jordan “didn’t end up being there.”

As we’re taking swings, I ask Hamilton if he’s checked out TGL, the indoor golf competition founded by Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy that just launched its first season in the U.S. He hasn’t. I explain some of the particulars—it’s a team league, ESPN is showing it on weeknights—before it sounds familiar. But Hamilton is involved with so many projects—movies, art, fashion lines, the Denver Broncos, a pet-food company, a plant-based burger chain with Leonardo DiCaprio—that he can’t quite remember whether he poured some money into this new outfit. “I might have,” he says, with a laugh. (He did.)

Hamilton takes a break from golf, reclines on a couch, and orders a latte before sharing the story of how he arrived at this moment. It began a long time ago, when he was a kid growing up in public housing north of London. His first Ferrari memories have stuck with him. He would drive Schumacher’s car in racing video games. The Ferrari replica featured in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—the 1961 250 GT California Spyder—is still, to this day, Hamilton’s favorite. “That’s the ultimate retirement car,” he says. “I can just see myself with Roscoe, him with a scarf and goggles in the seat next to me, driving down the PCH.” (Roscoe, Hamilton’s pet bulldog—who, like his owner, is vegan—has an Instagram account with 1.1 million followers.)

McLaren signed Hamilton to a driver’s deal in 1998, when he was 13. In 2006, Hamilton won the championship in what is now known as Formula Two. “I did have the bit of red on my helmet,” he says. During that F2 season, and the one prior in F3, Hamilton raced for team principal Frédéric Vasseur, whose management style and ability to recruit top engineering talent to his lower-level operation impressed the young driver. Hamilton figured Vasseur would be a F1 leader one day.

Hamilton won his first F1 championship in 2008, his second season with McLaren. He competed there for four more seasons before jumping, in 2013, to Mercedes, a middling team that Hamilton lifted to championship heights. Through it all, Hamilton maintained cordial relations with Ferrari leadership. He’d walk past the Ferrari garage at races, say “ciao” to the mechanics, and hear them say “vieni Ferrari” (come to Ferrari). Around 2018, Hamilton met with Ferrari chairman John Elkann. Both sides expressed a desire to see Hamilton in red. But by the end of the 2020 season, Hamilton had four straight championships with Mercedes. He had no reason to jump ship. “If I’m really honest, I had accepted the fact that I’m probably not going to drive for Ferrari,” says Hamilton. “I was OK with that.”

After the 2021 season, Hamilton nearly walked away from racing. He—and millions of his fans—felt his record eighth driver title was stolen from him, when during the final race of the year, in Abu Dhabi, an official’s controversial decision allowed Verstappen to overtake Hamilton in the last lap and clinch his first title. Hamilton ultimately refused to quit without a fight, but he failed to win a single race as Verstappen cruised to another pair of championships. Hamilton signed a two-year extension with Mercedes in the summer of 2023, but the deal allowed him an option to leave after one year.

Meanwhile, true to Hamilton’s prediction, his de facto coach in the minors, Vasseur, took over an F1 team in 2016. Before the 2023 season, he was hired for a new team-principal gig—at Ferrari. Vasseur got wind of the loophole in Hamilton’s new deal—“He told me at one stage,” says Vasseur. “Good news”—and aimed to sign an agreement with Hamilton before the 2024 season. He wanted his drivers under contract last year, LeClerc and Sainz, to be free of whispers regarding their status. So while Hamilton was at his home in Colorado in December 2023, he got a call from Vasseur asking him to join Ferrari starting in 2025. “I remember getting off the phone and, like, almost shaking,” says Hamilton, who’s now almost shaking while recalling the moment. “I was like, Oh God!”

He told a friend who was with him about the call; they both sat in silence on a bathroom floor in shock. “I was like, Holy sh-t,” says Hamilton. “I literally just signed with Mercedes.” Breaking up with a team that felt like family was far from a no-brainer. And he didn’t have much time to decide. “It was a lot to take in, and my emotions were really high,” says Hamilton. “So I honestly had to go for a walk.” He left the house for an hour to decompress.

Hamilton then spent a few days meditating. He was leaning toward Ferrari. “My eyes felt really calm and present,” he says. “This is the right thing for me.” When he’d switched from McLaren to Mercedes all those years ago, he solicited too much advice. Here, he confided in just a few family members and trusted friends. “One cannot discount the Ferrari influence on the sport, especially through the eyes of a child,” says Mellody Hobson, co-CEO of Ariel Investments and the former chair of the Starbucks board, who’s very close to Hamilton. During negotiations, after every phone call with Ferrari, he’d jump around like a little kid.

“We’re in a time of reimagining the future, reimagining what really dreaming is about,” says Hamilton. “I’m going to Ferrari, man, and that’s the biggest dream.”

Not everyone is so thrilled. The day after he informed Mercedes team principal Toto Wolff of his decision was Hamilton’s annual paintball outing with his race-team mechanics. When he arrived, he was too nervous to get out of his car. “These are guys I’ve been with so many years,” says Hamilton. He eventually stood on top of a table to address his decision. His squad appeared understanding and supportive. But they let him have it in paintball. “They lit me up, hard,” says Hamilton. “It was so painful.” At one point, he was hiding behind a barrel shooting at the other team when he was struck from behind. A member of his own squadron had nailed him. “Freaking guy,” says Hamilton.

They laughed about it afterward and managed to get through the season. “There is no bad blood,” says Hamilton. “Absolutely not. We won so many championships.” (Mercedes declined to comment for this story.) Andrea Kimi Antonelli, an 18-year-old from Bologna, will take Hamilton’s place in the Mercedes lineup. “They have all the ingredients to win world championships, and they will win more world championships,” says Hamilton of Mercedes. “I have no doubt.”

In a book published in November—Inside Mercedes F1: Life in the Fast Lane—Wolff says Hamilton’s move “helps us because it avoids the moment where we need to tell the sport’s most iconic driver that we want to stop … We’re in a sport where cognitive sharpness is extremely important, and I believe everyone has a shelf life.” The comments caused a stir, and Wolff clarified that Hamilton is still “very sharp.”

Hamilton insists Wolff’s remark doesn’t bother him. He points to athletes like Tom Brady and LeBron James who’ve achieved success into their 40s. “Don’t ever compare me to anybody else,” says Hamilton. “I’m the first and only Black driver that’s ever been in this sport. I’m built different. I’ve been through a lot. I’ve had my own journey. You can’t compare me to another 40-year-old, past or present, Formula One driver in history. Because they are nothing like me. I’m hungry, driven, don’t have a wife and kids. I’m focused on one thing, and that’s winning. That’s my No. 1 priority.”

He also dismisses criticism from the broader racing community. Former F1 team owner Eddie Jordan said in a December podcast that it was ��absolutely suicidal” for Ferrari to drop Sainz from its roster, given the strong working relationship between him and LeClerc. (Sainz will now race for Williams.) “I’ve always welcomed the negativity,” says Hamilton. “I never, ever reply to any of the older, ultimately, white men who have commented on my career and what they think I should be doing. How you show up, how you present yourself, how you perform slowly dispels that.”

Others, including former Ferrari driver Jacky Ickx, have suggested that Ferrari has signed Hamilton primarily for his commercial value. “I think it’s really unfair to Lewis, some of the comments saying, ‘This is a marketing operation,’” says Elkann, the Ferrari chairman. “Truth said, Lewis doesn’t need that. Ferrari doesn’t need that. What we need to do is win championships and do great things on the track. If that happens, what we can do outside of the track, in some ways, takes care of itself. There’s unlimited possibilities.”

The pressure, internal and external, Hamilton faces is immense. No F1 team owns more constructor titles than Ferrari, but they last won in 2008. Ferrari also owns the driver record, with 15, but the last Ferrari driver to win an individual crown was Kimi Raikkonen, in 2007. Ferrari fans are so passionate that they go by their own name, the tifosi. At the Ferrari museum, not far from the team’s 9.3 million-sq.-ft. campus in Maranello, Italy, pilgrims often start crying, or propose marriage, in the Hall of Victories, which showcases the team’s championship cars and more than 100 trophies.

One night in early February, at the Ristorante Montana, which displays a trove of Ferrari memorabilia in its dining room, Andrea Puttini, a seller of building materials from Naples, is outside enjoying a smoke. “In Italy, we say it’s not important if you speak bad or speak good about something,” says Puttini. “The importance is that you are talking about this. And Hamilton, just for being here, he lets us talk all over the world about Ferrari.”

Hamilton connected with as many of his new co-workers as possible during his first visit to Maranello in January, shaking hands until his arm was pulsating. “The amount of ciaos and grazies and piaceres I was saying, aye aye aye,” he says. After his first test run, he went out to greet the supporters lining a bridge that overlooks Ferrari’s private racetrack. A few weeks later, a fan decked out in a red Ferrari shirt and cowboy hat cut down a tree to allow the tifosi a better look at a Hamilton practice.

Hamilton first spotted himself in a Ferrari suit while in, of all places, the loo; he was washing his hands and looked up into the mirror. “I’m in red, I’m like, Whoa!” he says. He paused for a moment to take in the reflection. He liked what he saw. “The suit looked so good on me,” says Hamilton, laughing. “I’m like, Damn.” When seated in a Ferrari race car for the first time, he closed his eyes when the engine started and smiled. “The vibrations are different,” he says. He let them course through his body. “You just wonder how that feels,” Hamilton says. Now he knows. “It’s a really, really special moment.”

Still, Hamilton is well aware that Italian sports fans have not always been so welcoming of Black athletes like himself. He competed in karting races there in his younger days, starting at around 12, and experienced racist abuse, just as he had in England. He prefers not to go into details. “I don’t want to dwell,” he says. But he’s heard the racist chants directed at Black soccer players in particular. “I’m not going to lie, it definitely crossed my mind when I was thinking about my decision,” he says. “Like in so many things, it’s often such a small group of people that set that trend for many. I don’t think that it’s going to be a problem.”

Ferrari’s diversity—or lack thereof—was Hamilton’s more pressing concern. In the wake of George Floyd’s 2020 murder, as part of the worldwide sports protest movement against racial injustice, Hamilton started the Hamilton Commission to offer recommendations for more Black representation in U.K. motorsports. Mercedes launched its own diversity initiative in the months that followed and began hiring personnel from underrepresented groups, including Black engineers. “I did think, Oh my God, I’ve finally got a more diverse working environment that we’ve built over time,” says Hamilton. “And now I’m going back to the beginning of my time with Mercedes, where it wasn’t diverse.”

Along with every other F1 team, Ferrari signed a Diversity and Inclusion charter in November. While the new Trump Administration has made a point of attacking diversity—the President has signed a series of executive orders targeting diversity, equity, and inclusion programs—Hamilton, for one, remains locked in. “I’m not going to change what he does, or the government does. All I can do is try to make sure that in my space, in my environment, I’m trying to elevate people,” he says. “There’s going to be forces along the way that don’t want that, for whatever reason I can’t fathom. That doesn’t stop me. It is a fight that we’ll just keep fighting.” Hamilton is confident that Ferrari is committed to inclusion.

Vasseur, Hamilton’s new boss, agrees that it’s important, though as he fiddles with a binder clip in an office at Ferrari headquarters, where trade secrets are so closely guarded visitors must place stickers over their mobile-phone cameras (red ones, of course), he suggests that it may not be his top goal. “It’s not politically correct, but first is performance,” he says. “I’m keen to go into the direction of diversity and so on. We are doing our best effort. We are trying to push in this direction, but I want to build up the best team.”

I show Vasseur, who hails from France, a photo I found online: it’s him and Hamilton some 20 years ago, celebrating a win. He shows me some photos on his own phone, of his children, who are now grown, with Hamilton. He’s enjoying the walk down memory lane. But, he says, “We can’t be sentimental.”

Switching teams is difficult for any driver. The steering wheel, the cockpit, the terminology, they’re all different. “I’m literally learning a completely new book,” says Hamilton. F1 regulations allow limited practice time in the new car. He’s made strides in his Italian, thanks to lessons, but he’s by no means fluent. It took Hamilton more than four months to win a race in his first season with Mercedes. What gives Vasseur confidence that Hamilton will accelerate that learning curve?

“I could reply like a book and give you something that you want to write,” Vasseur replies. “But at the end of the day, at this part of the season, the feeling, the first time, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, will be nothing compared to race one in Australia. You will forget about everything that happened before. It’s all about pure performance.”

While Hamilton swears his devotion to Ferrari, his schedule has remained plenty full. A Fashion Week and red-carpet regular, he has his own production company, a Dior line, and other enterprises. He says he’s in the preliminary stages of developing scripts for a comedy—it doesn’t involve racing—and a film pertaining to pets. (That’s all he’ll offer.) But the biggest thing on the horizon, besides of course the 24 Grand Prix races in the season, is the upcoming F1 movie.

Tom Cruise had first connected Hamilton with director Joseph Kosinski because Hamilton was interested in an acting role in Top Gun: Maverick. Kosinski was ready to bring him on board, but Hamilton was still fighting for championships with Mercedes and couldn’t afford the time commitment. Cruise screened the movie, which grossed $1.5 billion worldwide upon its 2022 release, for Hamilton in London. “I was crying a bit inside,” Hamilton says. “Ah, that could have been me!”

So when Kosinski called Hamilton about his F1 project, Hamilton jumped at the chance to be a producer. Early in the process, he took Pitt, who plays a veteran F1 driver in the film, for a drive around a track near Los Angeles. “He gave Brad the scare of a lifetime in a lap,” says Kosinski. “Brad was clawing at the windows, begging to get out.” Hamilton was also part of the casting process and offered instructive feedback. “The notes are so detailed,” says Bruckheimer. “‘When you’re going into that next turn, you have the car in second gear, it should be in third. I can hear it. I can hear the sound of it.’” He pushed for Hans Zimmer, composer of The Lion King, Gladiator, Dune, and other hits, to score it. His close relationship with F1 CEO Stefano Domenicali, a former Ferrari team principal, helped the filmmakers gain access to F1 tracks and races to shoot scenes. “He opened all those doors for us into that world,” says Kosinski. “We would not have been able to do this without him.”

Hamilton is predicting box-office success. “It’s going to blow away anything that’s ever been done in Formula One before,” Hamilton says. The Netflix behind-the-scenes docuseries, Formula 1: Drive to Survive, has been properly credited for expanding F1’s popularity, especially in the U.S. Hamilton believes this movie will compel viewers from all different backgrounds to become fans, or even pursue a career in F1. “Netflix has been huge,” he says. “This is going to be even bigger, on more of a global scale.” While F1 might not count as art-house fare—“I don’t think we set out for it to be, like, an Oscar-winning movie,” says Hamilton—he’s promising a memorable experience. “The goal is to make people feel good, to bring people in, to inspire people,” he says. “We want you to leave the cinema and be like, ‘Wow, that was freaking wicked.’”

But even with his creative juices flowing, he’s as energized as ever to drive. In other words, unlike Aroma, whose presence does not seem to have triggered Hamilton’s allergies at all, he has no plans to slow down. “What I can tell you is, retirement is nowhere on my radar,” says Hamilton. “I could be here until I’m 50, who knows.”

Hamilton believes that he and LeClerc are the strongest team pairing in the sport and that Verstappen is “absolutely” beatable. “I know exactly where the North Star is,” says Hamilton. “I know where I need to go. I know how to get there. It’s far, and it’s going to be tough to get there, but I know I’ve got all the ingredients, all the people, an amazing team around me. So it’s how much you want it. And I can’t express to you how much I want it.”

[rydoesartandstuff]

Quick question, if you were to do an ages reversed Au with the brothers (Branches as eldest, JD youngest, ect), what do you think would change about the story, just off the top of your head?

Ooooo this is tricky, ok uh… (Edit: I based this off of Great Decisions btw, I’m sorry, I didn’t read closely enough😖)

Branch - I think he would be a bit of an overbearing older brother. Not in JD’s perfectionistic way, but more like being in everyone’s business. He definitely has a schedule on each of them regarding their activities. He doesn’t want them to be perfect, but he expects them to listen, and is a bit self centered sometimes. Likely, Branch wouldn’t have left the tree. And unlike John Dory, he despises their father for what he did, and is similar to Grandma Rosiepuff in that sense where he refuses to talk about it. Also unlike JD, he did not drop out of school, Grandma Rosiepuff would be a lot more willing to help in this situation.

Floyd - It was Floyd’s idea to start BroZone to help his brother out (Branch was doing a bunch of jobs and wasn’t home too much). When the perfect family harmony fell apart, he was mortified, thinking he ruined everything, and ran. He had no idea Spruce followed after him.

Clay - His storyline’s about the same. He and Branch argued over many things, but more so life stuff vs band stuff, and when Floyd and Spruce disappeared, he left to live with King Peppy. He went missing in the tunnels running back to find his brothers…

Spruce - Spruce took the role of a mediator in this timeline. Floyd was really stressed all the time, so Spruce would typically step in and use his baby brother privilege to get Branch and Clay to stop arguing. He was always very good with baby JD. When he saw Floyd taking off, he followed him. But by the time he convince his brother to come back, it was too late, and they were lost.

JD - He had much more support growing up. Branch figured out he was dyslexic pretty quick, and helped him with learning to read. A bit of his perfectionism showed through, but it wasnt much till he got older. He was the one who Grandma Rosiepuff sacrificed herself to save, and after that happened, he took off. And Branch went after him. When they returned, they saw the decimated tree and collapsed tunnels, and despite his investigations, Branch figured the trolls were gone.

Instead of going to the Neverglade, they just lived in the woods, Branch just taking them as far as he could from Bergentown, his paranoia starting. They never found Rhonda. Because Branch is a bit more cautious, he did not gather that many injuries. And they likely found Troll Village sooner.

Branch was also able to pick up on the early warning signs of JD’s mental health problems.

AH! I hope that was ok! I tried, but gosh man, that is a tricky one!!!

[chocopink]

poster-style illustration of my favorite episode to celebrate season 2's release :D

please remember to tag your spoilers <3

[non-un-topo]

Applying for my Master's in gender studies kind of feels like shooting myself in the foot, but then again, it's not a useless discipline if it's being systematically censored and erased.

[pollen]

hi fellow neurodivergent people

i hate to jump on the "i think i might have adhd" bandwagon, but if i think i might have adhd, how do i bring it up to my care team as a 28-year-old cis woman who was a massive overachiever until i couldn't keep up the ruse anymore?

[apocalypticdemon]

I am so beyond ready to quit this job. Wednesday cannot come fast enough.

[thatone-churro]

chat. chat i have a question. i know ive always had guilt when it comes to getting things for myself, but like. would it be stupid to drop like $116 on the special editions of two games ive been wanting for a while (now because one of which is on sale)? i mean, ive been saving my money literally all summer to use for myself like i haven’t bought anything i didn’t need and i KNOW im not gonna blow through all of it in school because i don’t go anywhere & dont do shit and i know it’s my money and i can do what i want with it but. idk. it feels stupid. is it stupid or is my brain stupid??

(extra context in tags ig idk)

[biddy-biddy-biddy]

maybe i should talk/show more about my oc now that i’m thinking… idk! everyone is doing something for their ocs/self inserts idfkkkk…

like i just made her for funsies like haha what if i’m eltingville also everyone is eltingville/northwest why not do it…

[astrxealis]

hi guys please wish me luck for my college entrance exam tomorrow for one of my dream schools xoxo

[ghostorbz]

original prompt

Just a doodle for today, sorry

[as-dreamers-do]

they should invent a cold where you don't have to eat to keep yourself going